There’s something uniquely depressing about a forest that’s been weaponized for spiritual tourism.
At The Wailing Woods Retreat Center, nestled in the least scenic corner of the state park system, you’re invited to “reconnect with the wisdom of nature” and “attune to the whispering spirits of the ancient woods.”
What you’re actually reconnecting with is a mosquito population so aggressive it should qualify for military service and a handful of suspiciously overpriced “healing journeys” that mostly involve wandering in circles while trying not to step on patchouli-scented yoga mats.
Upon arrival, guests are issued a “sacred guide map,” a canvas tote bag with a pinecone logo, and a stern warning not to “disrespect the natural energies.” Translation: don’t complain when the port-a-potties run out of hand sanitizer by noon.
Scheduled activities included “Sound Bath in the Grove” (some guy hitting a gong badly), “Soul Foraging for Personal Growth” (picking up sticks while a woman named Luminous describes her dreams about elk), and “Spirit Tree Meditations” where attendees are encouraged to choose a tree “that calls to you” and “merge your energy fields.”
I chose a half-dead oak covered in warning tape. It felt appropriate.
The highlight — if you can call it that — was the midnight “Whispering Circle,” where participants sit in absolute silence, waiting for the forest to speak.
After an hour of damp silence, someone’s phone buzzed with an Amber Alert, a raccoon knocked over a recycling bin, and one woman burst into tears because she “felt the ancient sorrow of the soil.”
Personally, I felt the ancient sorrow of wasting sixty bucks and a Saturday.
The so-called “spirit voices” the center promises? Wind through dying pines, the faint creak of branches, and the occasional distant whoop from teenagers trying to summon the courage to jump into the stagnant pond.
Ultimately, the only thing the Wailing Woods whispered to me was “get out” — a sentiment I returned with enthusiasm.
If you want to commune with nature, go to an actual forest.
If you want to be sold recycled air and existential despair for $699 a weekend, congratulations: you’ve found your people.
Bring bug spray.