The road is empty. After a few hours, when you are suddenly overcome with the scent of wet asphalt and conifer needles from surrounding woods, you start to feel the real world around you once again. You begin to feel your true instincts, you hear the call of the wild, usually suppressed by gaudy billboards and never-ending office fights. You have left all the haste behind. You turn off the radio so as nothing disturbs the silence and balance you were looking for.
You have packed only a few essential items. You have escaped the Internet and the hustle of civilization. With your phone pushed deep into a pocket, you let your instinct guide you. You follow a hardly visible forest trail used only by foresters and wild animals. There are no bridges over the river. Instead, a single hewn beam was placed over the rushing stream. To cross it, you need strength and peace. You wonder who put it there, who outlines the tracks through the woods. Who are the people to first attach these chains to mountainside rocks only to help others to overcome their limitations? What determines the rhythm of this quiet world following its own rules right there, not far from us? Where can we find its call?