My routine was minimal, almost ceremonial in its simplicity: a thermos of hot water, coffee grounds that had traveled from a friend’s kitchen to this exact patch of forest, a compact kettle that sang as it found a boil, and a mug that tasted somehow better when the story of the day hadn’t yet begun. On a wind-scraped ridge last fall, we pitched a new inflatable tent after a long drive through rain-darkened forests. The air beams purred quietly as the gusts grew more insistent, like sails c...