It’s late spring, but you wouldn’t know it
Pockets of fog drift through the forest. It’s five degrees out, supposedly. It’s damp and the leaf litter squelches underfoot.
It’s been six months since I’ve seen my family. My mother and stepfather drove down the Hume last week and he’s joined me for this morning hike out at the Yarra Ranges.
If my fair warning of the 4:30am alarm threw him off, he doesn’t show it. He’s as eager to venture out as I am.
Backpacks ready, we set off up the firetrail.
I make it three steps before sliding my camera around to peer through the viewfinder: a giant tree fern set against columns of mountain ash fading into the far fog. Click.
It’s good to be back.
Space to explore
Like many photographers these past two years, I’ve spent more time delving through old hard drives to rediscover images—and scouring Google Maps for promising locations—than I have taking photos.
But now, I’ve returned to the real thing. And it’s everything I knew it would be.
Well, that’s not quite the right choice of words. Because when I’m out in nature, I don’t know what will be. Not with any certainty, anyway.
I can delve through satellite images and topographic maps. (Like I did for this hike, setting off on a firetrail I had yet to explore.)
I can study the seasons. In late spring, tree ferns gain an arching canopy of new growth before last season’s fronds wither away.
I can track the rainfall and cloud cover.
But despite the best-made plans, nature still has a few tricks up its sleeve.
This morning I had intended to lead us down into new gullies in search of old growth myrtle beech trees.
But the tracks to get there were strewn with fallen mountain ash. I bounded over and under the limbs like an art thief would through museum lasers. (Admittedly, less gracefully, stradling over trunks a few feet wide.)
Then, when we reached the gulley, I found the beech trees, but no compelling photos. They were either too hidden within the scrub of the bush or I couldn’t reach the right vantage point to frame them.
The alternating routine of limbo followed by high jump to reach the gully proved fruitless in terms of photos. But that memory of the two of us wandering down the gully remains my most vivid from the hike.
And my photo of the day was an unexpected one.
Over the past few years I’ve steered clear of human elements in my photos. But then a patch of fog rolled through down the firetrail. The clouds parted and the sun pierced through to ignite the trees, framing the path ahead.
The photo wasn’t one I had planned, but it’s the one that captures our experience that morning.
Out there, we can’t always predict what we’ll stumble upon—but that rush of discovery is half the fun.
Space to lose track of time
In the article In Praise of Wild Spaces, I wrote:
My life, as far as I recall, began outside. In seaside rockpools, under the shade of trees and camping in the Australian bush.
It’s in these interactions with natural spaces that we discover not only ourselves, but the interwoven threads of existence around us.
For those three hours out on the firetrail, the forest became the entirety of my world.
Camera in hand, I enter a rarefied flow state. It’s an experience that can’t be replicated elsewhere. Out there, any notion of time or everyday tensions simply fade into the background.
In these moments we gain perspective into the immense forces swirling around us.
Standing under towering mountain ash. Gazing up at a burning sky of clouds. Or feeling crisp seaspray after crashing waves.
And while it can (and sometimes might) feel overwhelming, these experiences help to ground my thoughts and worldview. It’s a reminder that many of the challenges we’re concerned with are fleeting.
Out there, free from distraction, we can connect with forces and beauty on a scale far beyond our daily dealings and quibbles.
Space to create
Unfurling tree ferns. Drifting fog. Towering trunks. Shifting sunbeams.
As we make our way further down the firetrail, the entire forest becomes my personal photographic playground.
It doesn’t matter if I’m visiting a stretch of forest for the tenth time or for the first. I’m in my element—where I feel inspired to capture the scenes of beauty around me.
To chase the light as it passes through the trees. To wander down side paths not entirely sure what awaits. To clamber up the side of a gully to explore new angles.
And sometimes I’m too late for the fleeting light. Or the path becomes a dead end. Or the view was better from where I was.
But that doesn’t matter.
There’s a fundamental joy in the simple act of creation.
The process doesn’t always result in a product of value. And that’s a good thing. It prepares us to embrace a certain freedom to fail. To experiment and test ideas, simply for the fun of it.
Because sometimes, in one moment in a hundred, all the elements align for a sublime scene to behold and capture. (But we have to first try those other ninety-nine times.)
Out there, we can create something special. Something that had never existed before—and likely won’t be replicated with full fidelity again.
Space to live
I treasure time with those closest to me. I take delight in creature comforts, like watching epic shows or playing around with the latest gadgets.
But for me, the essence of life is being out there. Exploring and creating.
When I’m out there—by the coast, climbing a peak or pushing through the undergrowth—that’s where I feel truly content.
My element is being out in the elements. It can be freezing cold or baking hot. Relentless rain or driving wind. It doesn’t phase me.
Those raw encounters with nature enrich the full experience. They turn moments into memories.
So after two years of false starts, it’s good to be back, out there, again.