Across the street from my house on Seapit Road was a path that led to a clearing, and in the back of the clearing was the entrance to a footpath that went through all the trees to the street where a buddy of mine lived. About half way through this footpath, in the middle of the woods, was a pine tree with a thick carpet of brown pine needles. The scent was always very appealing, and if you were bare foot, Tom Sawyerish, the thick pine needles felt very comfortable. I’d climb that tree, which was very tall, all the way to the top, and suddenly, at the very top, you poked your head out above all the surrounding trees and could see for miles — above it all.
Once I lost my grip on a branch while climbing up the tree and fell all the way to the ground, snapping branches on the way down. I landed squarely on my back on the thickest part of those wonderful pine needles, which saved me, along with those snapping branches which broke the fall.
The scent of pine is still one of my favorites.