To make the wood you're orienteering map and compass. A torch if it is night, like when you release your first time in the Swedish forest. And noise. There is a breathing noise that swells and becomes breathless and panting breath, and there are the legs of others, which crossings in the forest shadows, colored shadows as orienteerers or other small and hairy like rabbits and squirrels. Big, hairy and clawed wonder if I still have happened, fortunately, even as the boos because you are lost and injured, even without battery and night.
Then other noises, crack trampling because broken branches and roots, cut through the forest because they hold the leadership becomes more challenging than controlling the intersections along the path, and then it's much more fun, especially if it rains and everything is slippery and Your face is streaked with sweat and rain and mud. Then there's swash-Ciack-chac swamps and groans for the thorns that stick in my legs, maybe pull away only much later, maybe hours later, by train to Brussels, when you look in the legs and it seems that you have tortured and smile.
And then there's the sound of laughter of the girl red and Italian when it finds the first control on the mound, and I enjoy it so much.