Wild Paths, Wilder Encounters

How Unexpected Encounters with Nature Leave a Lasting Mark

The first week back in my cabin in Guatemala, I spotted a scorpion disappearing under my bed frame. I lost sight of it, and hours later, having forgotten about the moment, I saw it again. Without thinking, I lashed out with the book in my hand and killed it. Immediately, I regretted my action. It was an irrational reflex, entirely unnecessary. That was the first one I killed.

The second time was accidental. A scorpion dropped near my foot as I stepped outside, and I instinctively flicked it away with my shoe. In doing so, I tore its tail off, dooming it to a slow and painful death. This time, I felt true remorse. I don’t believe in killing creatures, even ones as menacing as scorpions. And yet, I had done it twice.

Somewhere deep down, I knew there would be payback for my actions. I’d been coming to Guatemala for five years and had never been stung by a scorpion. But I sensed my time had come.

It did, a few weeks later.

I was lying down in a relaxed pose, practicing slow, even breaths, when a searing pain pierced my right bicep. Adrenaline surged through my body before my thoughts could catch up. Then came a second searing pain as the scorpion stung me again, craning its tail around and plunging it into my muscle. My arm shot up instinctively, flinging the scorpion in a perfect arc over my body. It landed squarely on my left palm—where it stung me a third time.

This all happened in the span of three seconds, before I even fully understood what was going on. I stood up, my mind racing but my body already certain: it was a scorpion. Shaking out the clothes around me, I spotted it—a small, motionless figure on the rug, its stinger poised as if waiting. What I absolutely did not do was kill it. I placed it in a jar and took it outside. Meanwhile, over the next few hours the venom coursed through my blood stream and started to affect my nervous system. Disclaimer: This was not one of the highly dangerous species of scorpion, I knew I wasn’t in danger and the symphmns I started to feel were normal and manageable. I became woozy and slightly disorientated, I could feel a thirst come on and made sure to stay hydrated, I washed the sting areas and applied an ice pack to lower the swelling. A host of tingling sensations took over my pallete and tongue. And apart fom that all I needed to do was rest and be patient. All the the sympthmns had subsided by the following morning.

There’s something about the sting of a scorpion that sharpens your awareness of the wild—its unpredictability, its suddenness, its raw power. It was my first encounter with a scorpion, and the pain was electric, primal, as though the creature had left more than just venom behind. It felt as if it had etched a deeper mark on my psyche.

So here I am, on the third Sunday of the month, fulfilling my promise to write about travel encounters. The scorpion’s sting got me reflecting on other moments when the wild intruded into my life.

The Forest in Sweden

The first memory takes me to a dense evergreen forest in Sweden.

I turned to my friend and pointed at a large pit dug into the ground.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“Wolves,” she replied.

“Wolves?” I repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, but don’t worry. We don’t get too many around here. They try to take the sheep, and the farmers can’t stand them. They’ll shoot them if they can.”

Later that day, I ventured back into the forest as the evening light faded. Everything was quiet except for the crunch of my footsteps pressing into the leaf litter. Then, the silence shattered. A distant pounding echoed through the trees, growing louder and louder.

I froze, holding my breath, straining to see through the darkness. My imagination conjured the vivid image of a wolf charging toward me.

Suddenly, a herd of deer burst through the trees, their hooves a thunderous drumbeat against the earth. They were so close I could feel the rush of air as they passed.

When they were gone, the stillness returned—but I was changed. My pulse raced, my senses heightened, my connection to the wild more vivid than ever.

The French Alps

The next memory comes from a mountain path above the village of Chamonix in the French Alps.

The trail was quiet, the air thin and sharp. I was hiking alone toward the Blue Lake, a stunning glacial body of water nestled below towering, snowy peaks. My thoughts wandered as I rounded a bend—then I stopped short, my breath catching in my throat.

A lynx had stepped onto the path ahead of me. Its coat was a mesmerizing blend of frost and shadow, and its movements were impossibly graceful. Slowly, it turned its head, locking its amber eyes onto mine.

We stood there, motionless, for what felt like an eternity.

The lynx turned to take a slow, meditative drink from the stream that ran alongside the path. Then, just as silently as it had appeared, it melted back into the forest.

I carried the weight of that gaze with me for days.

When I returned to my hostel, the Red Mountain Lodge, I told the owner what I had seen. His reaction was a mix of astonishment and envy.

“I’ve been living here for 12 years and have never seen one,” he said.

The Ravens of Ireland

And then there were the ravens in Ireland. Three separate encounters, each uncanny in its timing, each leaving an indelible mark on my psyche.

The first encounter happened on a quiet walk to Leixlip village. I was on my way to attend my first-ever workshop in shamanic journeying. My thoughts were restless, filled with anticipation and uncertainty about what lay ahead. Suddenly, a rook swooped down, drawing a deliberate circle around me before flying off into the distance. The experience was startling, almost ceremonial, as if the bird had marked me in some unseen way.

The second moment unfolded on a warm afternoon above Dingle town. I had climbed a hill and lay down in the golden sunlight, intending to close my eyes just for a moment. Sleep rarely comes to me so freely, yet that day, I drifted off. I awoke to the cry of a raven high in the sky. Its call was sharp, insistent, pulling me from my dreamlike state. When I opened my eyes, I saw it circling above me, its dark shape stark against the brightness of the sky. It felt as though it was watching over me, both a guardian and a reminder of something I couldn’t quite name.

For the third encounter I had found my way to a stone circle in West Cork, its weathered stones standing silent and timeless against the Irish landscape. I leaned my back against one of the cold, upright stones, feeling its grounding presence. As I sat in stillness, two ravens flew in and perched directly in front of me. They didn’t move, didn’t make a sound—just observed me with an intensity that felt almost otherworldly.

Each of these encounters carried a weight I couldn’t ignore, as though the ravens were messengers from a hidden world. Their presence seemed to break through the veil between the mundane and the sacred, guiding me toward a deeper understanding of the natural world and its strange, subtle ways of communicating.

Looking back, I see these moments as part of a larger pattern—a quiet initiation into the shamanic path I was just beginning to explore. Scattered across landscapes and years, they were not isolated events but threads woven into the fabric of my understanding. The scorpion, the wolves, the lynx, and the ravens all became markers of thresholds, moments of change where my path shifted. Together, they taught me to pay attention to the signs the world offers.

I am grateful for the lessons those encounters imparted, especially the scorpion’s sting. From past experiences, I had learned to read the signs the world offers, to understand that every moment, even one of pain, carries meaning. When the scorpion finally stung me, I was at peace with it, knowing that my karma had brought me to that moment. In fact, I felt a quiet sense of happiness—a strange but profound acceptance of the natural order. The sting wasn’t something to fear but something to honor, a reminder that the natural world operates in ways far beyond our control.

Stand still.
The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you."

                                                   "Lost" by David Wagoner

Until next time,

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