I was hiking and photographing spring runoffs on the slopes of Katahdin for a few days when I realized I was in trouble. I had developed deep heel blisters after a hike. 

Then it got worse. I tripped and fell bruising my arm, I sprained my knee climbing down a hillside, and I fell through a moss-covered crust into a three-foot-deep hole beside a large erratic. All in the first 3 days. The movie 127 Hours flashed briefly before me until I forcefully pulled my leg out without injury. I was doubting that my struggle with nature would be rewarded anytime soon.

But periodic moments of joy and pure equanimity ensued. I found streaks of red in the midst of a stream that gave the valley a tropical glow. An early morning outing under clouds and fog allowed me to find a mother and calf moose grazing on pond grasses not twenty yards from me. I was offered by friends to overnight at their camp on a lakeshore where I saw a sunset over the forests and mountains nearby, in surreal orange and blue hues. Nature had beckoned me.

Some of my most memorable photos came at the end of the trip. I’ve been thinking about why. I certainly felt more woven into nature by my last day. The quiet, the birdsong, the rustling of leaves stirred by a breeze, the sun casting dappled light through the forest, all led to a quiet centeredness, gratefulness, and joy that awakened my creative spirit.

Most of all, I felt the gentle stillness of the trees. They didn’t really talk to me. If they did, it would have been a very loud and noisy time. Instead, it felt like an acknowledgment by the forest of my presence. I simply observed. I felt reciprocated, recognized simply for who I am. I think about how sensitivity and connection need to be nurtured and intentionally sought out in nature. We can create  and participate in our world that connects humans with the earth, but it needs resolve, courage and persistence.

For a little while, I simply belonged there, another living presence among many.