Of Wings and Walks

The snow could hardly silence the quiet crush of fall leaves upon my path. First snow, tentative and timid. Yet it was all new in the woods where I have searched for what I had missed, very often. The snow fills the cracks of aging trees and wrinkled hillsides. It gives me the right to be a voyeur thru my camera and capture what I see rather than what is there.

As I entered the forest, I took my snowshoes off and tied them on my backpack giving the appearance of wings. When the sun peeped out of cotton clouds, I saw my shadow extend like that of an albatross to which my camera gave the shape of an august beak. The wind was calm and my cheeks were already warm from the walk and the anticipation of what I might see.

Northern evergreens gave the denuded pine trees a kindness and context. A crow flew by looking down for a midday snack, and well fed squirrels climbed the pine trees watching me with the tilt of their heads. I was not an intruder, but a curious man who looked for what he had not seen before. A man who had wings yet happy to walk upon the first snow of the season.

The sun was at its zenith, yet it was dark and whispery. The shortest day of the year was upon me and the forest seemed already drooping an eye for the long torpor to come. I cradled my camera while cutting through a brushy area as snow fell from the lower branches of spruce trees, covering me in the ambient shapes of camouflage. I stopped to be one with myself and listen.

There were deer and wild turkey tracks. They seemed to have traversed the open space between two meadows without hurry as the imprints were deep, well defined, and equidistant. A quiet walk, perhaps around sunrise when the snow had stopped. I rearranged my snowshoes by tying them tighter and wondered if I could see a black bear. Or perhaps a fox on my way back as I had before.

I had walked for a few hours with occasional stops to chew on a granola bar. I had not taken any pictures yet but that did not bother me. I often carry my camera for hours without tripping the shutter. In part because I enjoy the walk, and in part because I still use film in a digital-everything world. I have only 12 frames on a roll of film and have to take in what really matters. Medium format film cameras teach patience and planning.

Sunset was two hours away but it was dark already as I headed back. It was the time when foxes would come out in search of mice, and deer would look for mossy rocks to lick for their salty taste. I was now warm and my knees already feeling my weight. Still, I walked quietly as I entered the last stretch of the woods.

And there, atop a small boulder, was the red fox. It looked like the fox I had seen around before, but all foxes look alike when atop a boulder before crepuscule. It was looking at me with the chiseled silhouette of his pointed ears. I stopped, took my right hand glove off, and pointed my waist-level camera toward the boulder. As I focused, I could not see the fox on the ground glass finder. 

Looked up, and the fox was gone.

I put my glove back on, and walked toward the boulder. At the bottom, there were fresh tracks. The fox was there, it was not my imagination. And then I felt uncomfortable that I had checked for the tracks. Why verify if what I saw was really there? Had I not taken the walk to discover what I see and not really what is there? Is it not what a photographer does?

So, I reposed my twin-lens camera upon a rock, put my snowshoes on and took a picture of myself realizing that I had uncovered what matters to me during long walks before the winter solstice. Indeed, I had secretively taken with me what I wanted to discover. Then, I whispered a quiet promise: I will not again wear my snowshoes upon my back as an albatross.

December 20, 2012

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013