The mountain laurel was at the end of its blooming season, white and pink star-shaped clusters that came apart in filmy layers, covering the ground like spent confetti. Through a dense grove of them, we dipped into a small valley where the vegetation shifted to the ferns and vines of riparian meadow, and gave off a boggy scent. Heading south along the meadow’s green rim, we walked for another half mile or so until we came to a thick tangle of alder and then a wide, still redwood grove. At the center was a towering giant that made my neck pinch as I looked up to see how high it reached.

“Some will tell you this is the tallest tree in the world,” Hap said. He was in his weekend uniform, blue flannel shirt and jeans and a brown felt Stetson. His sweeping, silver-tinged mustache moved when his mouth did. “There’s another one up in Humboldt could be taller.”

“How tall is it?” I asked.

He glanced up along the surface of the trunk, which was lightly furred where the fibers pushed out like tufts of hair, red and brown and almost human. Half to himself he said, “Is knowing so important? If something makes it this far, through everything the universe has thrown at it, maybe we should just say thank you.”

As usual, he had a point. I followed the arrow of the trunk to the distant scrap of sky, a mandala of pale blue and deep green and rust.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked quietly.

“Montgomery Woods?”

“What do you hear?” That’s when I knew we’d begun one of his survival tests, just for fun but also completely serious.

I strained, then stilled. “The trees sound like they’re whispering.”

“Can they tell you how to get back to the car? Have you been paying attention as we walked?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s say you’re lost, and I’m not here.”

“But you are.”

He smiled. “I’m not. What do you do?”

“Look for the trail again,” I offered. “Look for water.”

“Which?”

“The trail.”

He didn’t say yes or no. Growing up in strangers’ houses, I was adept at reading faces and guessing feelings, projecting myself into others, but this never worked with Hap. He was too deep and too quiet, too inside himself. What was that song about people being rocks and islands? Hap was neither. He was his own wilderness.

“What time is it?” he asked.

I looked up through the canopy to fix the angle of the sun. We’d left the car around three, I guessed, and had walked for an hour or a little more. “Four-fifteen. We have plenty of time before dark.”

A rare smile. “Maybe we do.”