January, Evening Textures . . . | buy this photo |
On the road in the American Northwest.
January, Evening Textures . . . | buy this photo |
On the road in the American Northwest.
Walking the World: Look at the
Mountain!
Having physically touched and lifted countless rocks,
my eyes sense effortlessly the mountain’s rough, cold
texture, its immensity, its great weight.
But this image, while certainly as real as it is beautiful,
is still just an image, strangely ungrounded, distant.
Looking through my glass, I notice how the sight of
two climbers slowly crossing a steep snowfield
instantly provides not only proportion, but also a
feeling for absolute size—a kind of kindred presence,
bringing that which is far away closer to home.
And yet, to actually cross the snowfield oneself—step
by step, breath by breath—is in some profound sense
truly to make the mountain your own. And that’s the
wonder of walking: it threads the world and oneself
together into one, inseparable weave. I say the world
is not just seen, but made—made with the soles of
my feet.
