Amid the quiet, simple life, ordered by bell song and ethereal chants of monks, I found myself sneaking through old churches and wandering woods, sipping tea from a handmade ceramic bowl as I lived out of a backpack. The experience was the stuff of stories, and it was glorious.
In many ways, though, it also was not. Freezing, sub-zero temperatures swept through the forested retreat without respite. Each time I washed, the cold water cracked my hands until they bled around the knuckles; by mid-trip I had forgone the sinks all together in favor of water-less soap. Showering meant dashing through the cold with wet hair I was sure would give me pneumonia. A rat chewed through one of my feminine hygiene products. Still, there were few complaints. Perhaps it was the pride I felt in finally proving myself a hardy Midwesterner. I’m almost certain, though, it was because of the photographs.
For somewhere mid-trip, I found myself meandering down a curving path armed only with my scarf and an old SLR. Determined to make the most of things, I took artsy, forgetful photos of the sloping trail and kept walking, hoping to find a nice enough composition to make my run-in with rodents more worthwhile. Then I saw it. The path opened up and flattened into what was for me a holy grail of nature photography—a pristine lake with an icy waterfall. It was beautiful. There was a bridge. The sun was low. Birds swam undisturbed and posed amid frozen bubbles. The dusting of snow hadn’t been touched by shoes. I was standing in a painting, completely alone.
To this day the photographs touch me, and I mean not in the emotional sense; I mean they physically reach out and slap me with all the tangible sensations of that week in the forest, of biting cold that still stings my arms and chills my head under a tangle of damp hair.
Of raw, raw earth warmed only by the lens of an old SLR.