Feel the Wild Read online

  Gliding around the edge of the rock formation, my first glimpse of the hidden beauty behind it comes at the very last moment when the tip of my kayak reaches the beach. The back side of the rock reveals itself to be a remnant of a sea cave, a sort of half-shell amphitheatre that faces the beach and shelters a tiny lagoon filled with water that flows in from the sea through a small porthole in the back of the cave. At the centre of the lagoon, where the half-cave’s roof gives way to the sky, is a boulder surrounded by water at high tide. The boulder acts as a focal point, collecting the energy that seems to bounce from every angle of the cave’s walls. The force is seriously strong in this place; no wonder it has called me, pulling me away from my trajectory. This cave is like a magical little planet with its own gravity, perhaps a portal to another world? My stay here will lead me to believe that, yes, indeed it is.

  After setting up camp on the beach, I put on my wetsuit, fins and snorkel and grab my spear gun and go fishing. Stepping into the water, I walk knee-deep into the lagoon toward the porthole. I take a deep breath, dive, swim out into the sea and enter a world of enchantment, full of fish and wonders. An hour later, I’m back with my meal and a large smile on my face. I am at peace.

  At day’s end, the wind is nowhere to be seen or heard. Everything is quiet; even the birds that have so far chirped without a break. The gulls stand in silence, each balancing on one leg on the rock and one on the beach. A deep stillness permeates the air, as if time has slowed down. It is like the anticipation before something grand happens, in that precise moment before the show starts, before the curtain rises, when everybody stops and directs their attention to the stage, waiting for the magic to appear. I feel my attention drawn to the middle of the cave, onto that boulder surrounded by water. I walk to a rock near the beach, face the cave and sit. Taking a deep breath, I feel my energy spreading outward. Interestingly, it doesn’t feel like my energy is escaping but instead stretching far and connecting with every other molecule that surrounds me – the rocks, the animals, the water, the wind. Closing my eyes, I can see the giant web that is being formed. It reminds me of the neural patterns in the brain, the filaments that stretch in all directions, connecting, transmitting, unifying and constantly evolving.

  As if on cue, two things happen in synchronicity. The small cave entrance that squeezes between the water and the rocks lights up with a burning glow like a mini-sun, radiating with such intensity that for a second I have to cover my eyes. The sunbeam is in perfect alignment with the arched porthole, and the water acts as a giant reflector, focusing the light into one small opening and blasting it to the other side. It is as if I am witnessing the birth of a star.

  The tide has reached a height where even a little ripple, the tiniest of movements on the surface of the water, pushes enough air through the cave’s hollows to create a gurgling sound that feels like an ancient language. The spirit of the cave is talking. This Elder of ancient times has awakened and is sharing its wisdom. It is a privilege being here among the birds, the rocks, the water and the wind. But, unlike the powerful things that surround me, I am only a guest, a passerby, someone whose species has disconnected from the magic thousands of years ago and has since stopped seeing what is now unseeable.

  At this moment, in this place, I am the one who feels primitive, simple, lacking depth and unable to understand the grandeur and connectivity of the universe, of life. Staring at the water, listening to the cave, feeling the silence around and in me, I realize it is our species that needs saving, not the other way around. My eyes are not seeing a world where humans are the chosen ones and stewards of this planet, but rather that we are the ones who need to be brought back home, from the darkness, returned to a world of love, compassion and humility.

  The serenity of this place convinces me to extend my stay – certainly not one of my hardest decisions. For another day I fish, read, relax, listen and soak in the energy that is offered to me. The following morning, after packing and tucking myself into the kayak, I take one last moment to reflect. Dipping my hands in the water and closing my eyes, I thank the cave and promise to return – but this next time I will bring others, so they too can experience its marvels and listen to its wisdom.

  Baja California, Sea of Cortez, Mexico

  ISO 500, 18.5mm, ƒ/7.1, 1/500s

  Self Portrait, Baja California, Mexico

  ISO 250, 20.1mm, ƒ/5, 1/800s

  Rivers

  There is no better imagery to epitomize our life’s journey than the river. It starts at one point and ends at another. No matter how wild the river is, or how unruly it wants to be, it still has a direction, a purpose: to reach the ocean. It flows blindingly to a place where it will cease to exist. It will merge with something bigger and become one with other waters.

  Young rivers are straight. They put more importance on the destination than the journey, often missing much of the world in which they flow. With their banks offering no protection, water rushes rapidly.

  Old rivers meander, understanding that the journey is important. They turn right and left, they explore and wander. Their curves offer refuge to others and soon their banks and waters are bursting with life.

  Self Portrait, Squamish river, Whistler

  ISO 200, 64mm, ƒ/10, 1/1000s

  Seek

  the

  Unknown

  Kayaker, Admiralty Island, Alaska

  ISO 250, 300mm, ƒ/8, 1/2000s

  Chukar, Antelope Island, Utah

  ISO 320, 300mm, ƒ/5.6, 1/2000s

  Childhood Memory

  The air was fresh and clean. The forest was beautiful – different shades of red, orange and yellow on the ground, as well as in the trees. Fall in the northeast is spectacular. Leaves transform the woods into an enchanted mosaic of colours. Even as they fall, they retain their vivid pigments and create a thick carpet that crunches under every footstep. My uncle and I had been walking for a couple of hours, our eyes and ears carefully tuned to the sounds of Nature, hoping to perhaps see deer or partridge. My uncle decided to stop, and, as we sat on a log, he whispered to me that animals are always there. We might not see them, but they see us. Curiosity is something that animals also possess. If you stay still for a moment without making a noise, you reverse the dynamic and become the pursued one. The animals were tracking our movements, vigilant as to our whereabouts, wondering why we stopped and were now closing in.

  Shortly after he spoke, two partridges peeked from behind a tree, looking at us. Overcoming their curiosity, they slowly walked out from their previously perfectly camouflaged spot, their heads moving up and down, right to left, trying to size us up and wondering who we were. I was amazed and fascinated. I was still a little boy.

  I don’t know why I can remember this story as if it happened yesterday, this simple walk in the forest 25 years ago. But I do, and I have applied the lesson learned that day every time I am in Nature, whether scuba diving, mountain biking or simply walking. Stop and they will come to you.

  Stripped

  It happens every time. Independent of whether I want it to or not, I find myself pulled into it. Parked at the Big Sur Station, I am getting my equipment ready. My plan is to hike to Sykes Camp, spend a couple of nights there, enjoy one night on the beach and finally hike a 1000-metre peak nearby. I should be excited, thrilled and relaxed, but instead I am anxious and worried. I try to focus on making sure I don’t forget anything. I would really hate to find out I forgot a lens or camera five hours into the hike and have to return.

  Despite all the stories I have written and all the photos I have taken, and despite the fact that deep down I know things always work out, I can’t stop stressing on the uncertainty about whether I will be able to find something to write about or find a nice landscape to photograph. Will I be inspired, and if so, by what? Will the light be good, will there be animals? Will the weather cooperate? And what if I don’t
have anything to show by the end of the week? I wrote my last story many months ago in Hawaii. Since then, I have twice travelled to Alaska, kayaking and hiking a glacier. Even though both were incredible expeditions, I failed to come back with new words. Knowing the reasons why the page remains blank doesn’t help either.

  The creative process is one of the hardest things to define and connect with. Even more challenging is protecting that process as the world around us changes. Inspiration is complicated, and some artists are more famous for their bizarre rituals than for their art.

  I love being on expedition – having a set target, a destination, a goal – but it is not what I live and work for. The content I produce during these adventures is more descriptive: narrating the days, the progression, the ups and downs, the struggles encountered and the moments witnessed. It is premeditated. Inspiration is not really the most important aspect of the creative process; it’s the ability to deliver the story, to capture the local flavours and to transport the reader to faraway lands through words.

  Deep inside what I long for as an artist is much different than being a guest, a witness or a reporter. I am fulfilled by the sensation that inspiration has come to me rather than me seeking it; that I am connected to something else, something bigger.

  As alone as one can be when creating, knowing you are only a channel through which your environment expresses itself, inspiration brings a totally different perspective. The loneliness disappears and a deep, rewarding connectedness arrives, along with a sense of purpose.

  I am two hours into the hike and my mind is still stuck in the parking lot. I walk the trail much like I would walk the sidewalks of New York, focused on the destination and shutting myself off to everything else along the way. This is a sort of self-defense mechanism we have developed to protect ourselves from the constant and relentless assault on our senses from the modern lifestyle. Instead of enjoying the moment, I feel heavy and distracted. Layers of anxiety rooted in from our civilized, moral and intellectual culture weigh on me. My ears are open but don’t hear anything. My eyes are open but can’t see anything. My body is tense, preoccupied with every uphill step I have to make. The Ventana Wilderness is full of wonders, including majestic redwoods and beautiful Pacific madrones. Yet my head is down, like a man walking purgatory. After five hours, I arrive at my destination tired but wired and awake. “Where are the hot springs? Where to camp? Quick, let’s get to work – what can I photograph? I can’t rest. This is work and I must produce!”

  It is 6 p.m., the tent is up, backpack emptied and the hot springs located and already “enjoyed.” The kettle is on the stove. I am camped on this tiny “island” in the middle of the Big Sur River. It is an ideal set-up, yet I am totally oblivious to my surroundings. I am pacing frantically. The kettle is boiling, but I am slow to realize the water is ready. So much for someone who is supposed to be “one” with Nature.

  I take my cup of maté tea and sit on a log that is resting slightly over the river, bridging my campsite to the north shore. My feet hang with my toes dipping in the frigid running water. I take a sip. Then a deep breath. Another sip. Another breath. Finally, the moment I am unconsciously waiting for starts to manifest itself.

  Like the afternoon wind pushing away the morning fog, my comatose state begins to fade with each new sip and every new breath. Free of their societal constraints, my senses awaken from their lethargy. My back arches up, my chest opens up, my ears start tingling from the sound of water swirling around the rocks. My eyes start seeing for the first time an American dipper bird just a few feet away, diving for a few seconds and then reappearing with a nymph in its beak.

  My lungs begin to feel lighter, my mind clears up, my heartbeat slows down, yet I remain extremely sharp. By the time my tea is finished, everything feels new, fresh and alive.

  It is me who has changed. I had been closed and sequestered. Now I am freed and attuned. I finally found the state of mind I came here for, and with it came my inspiration. Thought by thought, sentence by sentence, words came back. Stripped from the confinement of technology and cultural expectations, I am finally at peace with one simple thing: being.

  As much as we want to categorize, compartmentalize, judge, humanize and beautify Nature, for me the “wild” is only one thing: real. Everything is what it is; there is no right or wrong, no bad or good, no judgment. Nothing is pretty. Nothing is ugly. A dead tree has as much value as a living one. A fire will benefit some while it will kill others. The prey does everything it can to survive, as does the predator. There are no winners, no losers. No one has greater importance than anyone else. Yet everything is connected and interdependent.

  Nothing is perfect. Evolution is this endless, chaotic yet harmonious dance where each adjusts to the other over long periods of time. Species adapt or disappear, while continents shift or sink. Still, every morning the sun rises and brings life. Even if the sun stops shining, another one elsewhere in this huge universe will illuminate another world.

  Independently, even if we believe and speak about it as a separate entity, we are no different than Nature. Quite the opposite, we are Nature. Intricately, we are part of it yet have come to believe that everything revolves around us. Our view of the world is not much different than when people thought the earth was the centre of the galaxy. Now we see ourselves as the centre of life, of the universe.

  In our desire to conquer, not only territorially but also intellectually and morally, we have lost our profound connection to the world around us, to the planet and to life. We have lost our ability to observe our environment and learn from it. We no longer look at Nature and use it to understand life. Instead, we see Nature and life as flawed systems that need to be corrected and re-engineered based on our own perception of what they should be.

  Short-sightedness makes the big picture difficult to see. We focus on details, obsessing about single events, while losing perspective on our surroundings. Our expertise at extracting data from pretty much anything is transforming our world into an intellectual landfill. Buried under so much information, and incapable of managing it, we look to technology to organize our thoughts. We start to feel lost and powerless, so we find refuge in numbers, equations, statistics and graphs. We put our fate in machines and their ability to process and analyze. Many no longer value common sense unless it can be measured and quantified.

  Sitting on that log, with my empty cup of tea, nothing feels out of place. I don’t feel out of place. I find myself surrounded by simplicity, and the humility it brings feels relaxing and refreshing.

  Real and honest is what Nature is to me. It is a constant reminder of the true essence of what life is about. It is my source of inspiration, my elixir for meditation and my most profound teacher.

  Self Portrait, Big Sur, California

  ISO 640, 14mm, ƒ/3.5, 1/750s

  Self Portrait, Big Sur, California

  ISO 800, 17mm, ƒ/2.8, 1/750s

  Bliss

  I slip into my kayak and push myself off the beach. The sun is setting soon and the sky is already turning into a deep shade of blue. The dark, shiny water has a mystic look. Thousands of shadows and reflections on the surface are creating a metallic mosaic. A thick orange line on the horizon separates two worlds – a contrast of realities. Some friends and I paddle out, almost with a feeling of never wanting to come back, each stroke pulling us closer to the unknown. The world around us is alive, changing with every second. Cliffs and rocks ahead of us appear black from the absence of reflected light. The land behind us burns bright from the sun, enhanced by deep, dark shades on every edge. In the distance, I see several pointy noses popping out and flippers splashing the water – a group of sea lions. Unable to see under the surface, their whereabouts remain secret, revealed only when their shiny fur appears or their heads surface like a submarine periscope. As we get closer to the colony, their numbers grow. On the shore, legions of little cub
s, intrigued by us but not yet old enough to venture into the water, show their curiosity by sniffing at us, whiskers aloft.

  Almost with regret, we decide to go back. Looking behind us every few minutes, we wonder if that door with a view to another cosmos will ever close. I am in my head, contemplative; my arms move the paddle without any awareness. Nothing can ever be more perfect than this moment. How fortunate I am. How grateful I am. The sea lions stay with us, swimming alongside my kayak for what seems like an eternity. Companions sharing this moment, escorting me out after being their guest, privileged by their hospitality.

  I pass the last bay and turn once more. I am not prepared for the beauty I see. At the top of the cliff, behind the lighthouse, are incandescent clouds with vibrant shades and colours. I alert the others and we face this unbelievable sight together. No one finds the will to interrupt this moment with words.

  We stay here. Cradled by the waves, we are surrounded and we surrender. Basking in this magical Eden, we are silent. Time and space come together to create a moment of bliss.