A window seat on life

It’s been a while since I’ve been on a flight where the pilot encouraged us to look out the window. When it happens, it’s a rare event. It usually requires passing over something with the magnitude of the Grand Canyon. I never once heard the captain suggest looking out at the rugged landscape of Greenland or a spectacular view of the northern lights, even though it’s not like any of us passengers have anything better to do.

I don’t fault the pilots. Their job is to get us safely to our destination, not to be a five-mile-high tour guide. Further, while I would like to think most people are like me and would appreciate the unique view of amazing scenery, I know they aren’t. Some are on the wrong side of the plane; others see no reason ever to look up from their novel or game of Candy Crush.

Rather, I think we need to change. We shouldn’t need someone to tell us it’s time to look. We need to stop relying on others to curate our experiences.

I’ve been carrying my camera with me on flights for 25 years now and there is almost always something to see—jagged mountains, deep blue lakes, towering clouds.

From the air, drainage patterns on some of the hills in Tennessee resemble spider webs. The twisting shoreline of a reservoir in northern Arkansas has a shimmering golden glow at sunset. Clouds rise and spill over sharp mountain ridges in the province of Alberta.

A few weeks ago I was traveling home to Seattle and I was prepared to photograph Mount Rainier. A little better than half the time the iconic volcano is visible as the plane begins its descent into the airport.

This time, the view of the mountain was blocked by clouds, but there was still plenty to see. As the plane banked over Auburn, Washington, to enter the queue for landing, I caught a view of the White River. I couldn’t see the river. It was covered in fog. But the fog was mostly only over the river. It provided dramatic contrast, emphasizing the sweeping curves of the river that stretched all the way to the horizon.

I worked fast to capture the view. The plane was still traveling about 300 miles per hour at this point. Seeing me pressed up against the window, the person in the seat behind me also began looking out hers.

Should the captain have made an announcement about the glorious river fog? Should she have told us to pay attention to the trees on the river’s banks that were casting shadows on the pillows of white?

Of course, not. She had a plane to land. We need to stop expecting that if there’s something worthwhile to see, someone will let us know. Living with that expectation is how life passes you by.

This is one of the themes of my exhibit, Seeing Slowly, on view at Gallery Belltown in Seattle through April 14. Contact me for a private viewing.

(Kevin’s book, Five Minutes in Nature, collects images and stories about his experiences in the wilderness, curated to help you have deeper encounters of your own. Preview and order it here. Prints of his images are available through LivingWilderness.com. Learn about new work by joining his mailing list.)