At an exhibit of my work, a man approached, excitedly, about something he had discovered in one of the pictures.
“I see a horse,” he said. I have photographed horses, but this was not one of those images. It was of a waterfall plunging a thousand feet down a sheer cliff — a drop so steep even mountain goats couldn’t traverse it.
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.
The basalt columns on Reynisfjara beach in southern Iceland have stood there for at least a few thousand years. A black sand beach has put the towering hexagons within easy reach for as long as anyone can remember. But in a flash, or rather a winter storm, the columns, a product of an ancient volcanic eruption, are now out at sea, the beach cleared away.
Some of our most spectacular national parks are the result of exploration. Once they’ve become a dot on a map, however, we stop looking further even though there’s so much more we could discover.
The teenage philosopher Ferris Bueller once said: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” In the nearly 40 years that have passed since Ferris took a day off to appreciate the fleeting innocence of high school, life has only moved faster. And we look around less.
The great irony is that we’re supposed to have more free time than ever. Each technological advance promises to make our lives easier and give us the freedom to enjoy life. But we don’t gain freedom. We’re expected to be even more productive.
In art, religious works glorify the Creator. Portraits convey personality and status. Still lifes showcase technique. But landscapes, up until relatively recently, were, well, just landscapes.
We now know landscapes can be just as expressive as any other form of art. That doesn’t mean that every picture of the environment is a creative masterpiece. Over the course of a year, a million people may take turns taking a quick picture of Half Dome at Yosemite’s famous Tunnel Overlook. Is every one of them a work of art? Probably not. But then not every snapshot selfie holding a wheel of cheese at a farmers’ market is a deep exploration of what it means to be alive.
It was the squishiest place I had ever hiked. As I took a step, I felt the ground compress slightly, accompanied by a sound that was part hiss and gurgle. As I stepped again, the ground where I had been snapped back into place.
Walking on the lowland tundra of Katmai National Park and Preserve in Alaska is like walking on the world’s largest wet sponge. It’s a place where even when you can’t see water you can feel its impact.
