I’ve never considered myself an environmentalist. I mean I do my part. I recycle my Amazon boxes and use a reusable water bottle. I don’t care about my carbon footprint. I’m not a cargo ship, there’s only so much one person can do to help air or water. Then I met Juniper.

Twice a year l attempt to become an “outdoorsy person” by traveling to Vermont from my New York City apartment. I have actual hiking boots that cost the same as a used car. I took my Osprey backpack out of storage. The bright green one with forty-five pockets, forty-three of which have gone unused. All I needed was a map I barely understood, a smartphone with no service, snacks from Trader Joe’s, and my reusable water bottle.

I set out to conquer the Green Mountain National Forest of Vermont. When I say conquer, it’s more like hike until my feet hurt, and head back to the Airbnb for my reward – the hoppiest IPA around. I’m pretty hardcore.

Three hours later in my hike, I was hopelessly lost, my water bottle was empty, and I was not on the trail. I couldn’t even tell where the sun was. It was overcast and the forest was dark. The thought that I may die here occurred to me but then I saw her.

It was so out of place, that I thought I was hallucinating. A woman, looking like Mother Nature’s eccentric aunt, stood in a tiny clearing. Her gray hair was twisted into dreadlocks that complimented her old burlap dress and a necklace made of acorns.

Her appearance was unique but I focused on the sign she held, a weathered piece of wood with carefully painted letters that read: “I Like My Forrest How I Like My Coffee: Green and Full of Life”.

There was no hiding my reaction. WTF?

“Hello?” I called out, my voice cracking from dehydration. “Am I having a granola-induced fever dream?”

The woman turned, her eyes widening. She was surprised to see me but looked pleased with a warm smile.

“Oh my goodness,” she said in a hoarse voice. “Are you lost? Or are you here for the protest?”

I looked around expecting more protestors. Then I remembered how far off-trail I was. “What protest?”

She gestured to her sign with pride. ”This protest. I’ve been here  for  seven years, raising awareness about the importance of preserving our forests.”

I’m sure I looked odd my face frozen trying to process this information. “You’ve been standing in this clearing… for seven years… holding that sign?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right! I’m Juniper, Juniper Greenleaf and I’m dedicated to saving this planet, one day at a time.”

“But,” I said, looking around at the distinct lack of audience, “who are you protesting to? There’s no one here.”

Juniper’s smile faded but only for a moment. “Just because you can’t see any impact doesn’t there isn’t any. The trees hear me. The birds spread my message. The squirrels drop nuts on me, but I’m sure they mean well.”

I wanted to point out the flaws in her logic when my stomach growled like a black bear. Juniper’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, you poor thing! You must be starving. Come, let me show you my camp.”

I was nervous. She led me through a thicket to a clearing where a tent that had seen better days was hidden behind a cluster of trees. Hanging from a nearby tree was a macrame bag.

“That’s my food storage,” Juniper explained, noticing my attention. “It keeps the bears out. Mostly.”

She rummaged through the bag and pulled out a thermos. “Would you like some coffee? It’s my own special blend. I call it ‘Forest Floor Roast’.”

I eyed the thermos warily. “Is it green?”

She looked at me blankly for a moment. “No, it’s black. It’s coffee.”

I reread the sign once more. It definitely” says she’s green coffee, but I let it pass. Instead, I dare ask, “What’s in it?”

“Everything is from this forest. Got some dandelion root, a little chicory, and crushed acorn.  Oh, and a hint of mushroom to give it some earthiness.”

My stomach growled silently in protest. “I’ll pass, thanks. But listen, Juniper, I’m a bit lost. Could you point me in the direction of the nearest town? Or maybe a vending machine?”

Juniper’s face fell. “Leaving already?”

That’s the part in horror movies you run.

She continued, “But I haven’t even told you about my petition to replace all lawn grass with moss!”

I felt a pang of guilt. This woman had been alone in the woods for seven years, and here I was, ready to bolt at the first mention of mushroom coffee. I wonder what an IPA is made of.

“Tell you what,” I said, surprising myself. “Why don’t you tell me more about your… cause while you show me the way out? I’m a writer, you know. Maybe I could help spread your message. I’ll sign the petition.”

Juniper’s eyes lit up. “Oh, would you? That would be wonderful! Let me just grab my sign.”

And so began my unlikely friendship with the Green Mountain Protester. As we made our way through the forest, Juniper charmed me with tales of her solo crusade to save the planet, mostly they were about animals invading her space. Pretty sure she ate them. Juniper did help a family of beavers become more environmentally friendly. She did the same by protesting (and living) where people never go.

I signed her petition and after her, I was number two. She’d like to get to a thousand she said. Quick math in my head. That’s 7,000 years.

By the time we reached the edge of the forest, I had enough material for a book or at least a moderately successful new story. I promised Juniper I’d write about her, partly out of genuine interest and partly because I feared she might follow me home if I didn’t.

Little did I know that my article for the magazine I work for would go viral. “Vermont’s Lonely Protest,” would go viral. Suddenly, everyone wanted to meet the woman who had dedicated seven years of her life to holding up a badly worded sign in an empty forest.

At first, it was just a trickle of curious hikers and amateur environmentalists. They’d bring Juniper small gifts – organic snacks, hand-knitted scarves, and of course, coffee. Oh, the coffee. It seemed everyone thought it clever to bring the woman green coffee.

Juniper, for her part, was thrilled. After seven years of talking to trees and squirrels, she finally had a captive human audience. She amused her visitors with passionate speeches about the importance of moss and the untapped potential of acorns as a sustainable food source.

But as word spread, the trickle became a flood. Soon, dozens of people were making the trek to Juniper’s clearing every day. They came armed with cameras, notepads, and an insatiable appetite for quirky environmental wisdom. It didn’t take long for a trail to develop leading right to her.

One enterprising fellow set up a small coffee cart “Green Coffee” at the edge of the clearing, selling overpriced lattes with names like “Juniper’s Java” and “Protest This” the latter made with five shots of espresso. The beans, he assured everyone, were ethically sourced and roasted over a fire fueled by fallen branches and the Juniper’s burning passion.

As Juniper’s fame grew, so did the crowd. Her small quiet clearing was started to resemble a festival. People pitched tents, strung up hammocks, and created a port-a-pot out of fallen branches down the hill. Juniper’s squirrel friends fed well by tourists quickly grew fat and lazy.

I watched this transformation with a mix of amusement and horror. On one hand, Juniper was finally getting the attention she had craved for seven years, and her petition quickly totaled a thousand. On the other hand, the forest she had been protecting was being trampled by well-meaning tourists.

About a month after my initial encounter with Juniper, I decided to pay her another visit. I had heard the stories but wondered if I would be able to find her again. After driving up from the city, I had to park my car in a makeshift parking lot (a repurposed meadow and found there were dozens of signs.

Approaching, I could hear the buzz of conversation and laughter, grinding espresso machines, and what I believe was a didgeridoo? I dodged frisbees and tripped over meditation cushions until I reached the familiar space.

There stood Juniper, looking elated and overwhelmed. Her sign had faded from all the folks handling it for selfies and portraits. She had an audience of eager listeners, all clutching compostable coffee cups and nodding enthusiastically as she spoke.

“…and that’s why we need to start communicating with trees on a deeper level,” she was saying. “Has anyone here tried tree-hugging while reciting poetry? No? Well, let me tell you…”

I caught her eye and waved. Her face lit up and excused herself from her admirers.

“You’re back!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug that smelled of patchouli with a hint of fair-trade coffee. “Can you believe all this? It’s amazing!”

I looked around. “It’s certainly… something. Are you happy with the way this turned this turned out?”

Juniper’s smile faltered for a moment. “Of course, it’s wonderful. Well, mostly wonderful to finally have people listening to my message. But…”

She trailed off, her gaze moved to a group of tourists who were attempting to take selfies with her sign.

“But?” I prompted.

She sighed. “But sometimes I miss the quiet. And I worry about the impact all these people are having on the forest. Just yesterday, I had to stop someone from carving ‘I love nature’ into a tree trunk. You “know that can starve a tree.”

I nodded sympathetically. “What are you going to do?”

Juniper straightened her shoulders, a determined look crossing her face. “I’m going to educate them. Starting with the leave-no-trace principles.”

Just then, a young man with a man bun approached us. “Excuse me, Juniper? We were wondering if you could lead us in a group tree meditation? We brought our own organic blindfolds.”

Juniper looked at me. I shrugged. “Go on, oh great forest guru. Your public awaits.”

I watched Juniper lead a group of twenty people in what appeared to be a combination of tai chi and interpretive dance around an old oak tree.

Juniper had wanted to bring attention to the forest, by not going to where the people were, but waiting for the people to come to her. I never listened to the rumors that Juniper Greenleaf was actually a woman named Nancy Dennis and the whole woodsy persona was made up to sucker me in for publicity.

I made my way back to my car, stepping over discarded coffee cups (compostable, of course) and dodging the Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Truck.

I made a mental note to bring a trash bag on my next visit. And maybe some earplugs. I’ve learned from this experience, it’s that no good deed goes unmonetized.

I may not be ready to give up my creature comforts for a life in the woods, but I did start carrying a reusable coffee cup. Baby steps, right? There are moments when my New York City lifestyle gets me wishing for a life more connected to nature. According to some people around me, I am the most nature-loving person they know as a result I’m determined to raise it to three visits to Vermont next year.