That day, the sky was overcast, but the snow shone brighter than the sun. It didn't just shine — it muffled the murmur of the river, broken only by the snap of branches, and creaked underfoot.
I found myself here for the first time in late January, at the height of the snowy season.
I found myself here for the first time in late January, at the height of the snowy season.
The forest stood calm and austere. Tall trunks rose into the grey sky and dissolved into the height above. The space around felt both flat and infinite. And it was monochrome.
Yet humans here are merely guests. Usually polite, but always persistent. We lay bridges across ravines, fix railings to the rocks, and descend to the river by steps, trying to make the wild feel safe. There is something quietly ironic in this search for footing, and in the urge to impose order on something that has been taking shape for millions of years without us.
We didn't leave the rocks in peace either. The famous Holey Stone, also known as the Drinking Horse's Head, is a vivid example of our need to name what does not belong to us. For nature, it is simply a form, but we sleep a little better knowing that even a rock has a name.
We hang labels on eternity, pretending we understand what we are looking at.
We hang labels on eternity, pretending we understand what we are looking at.
In the end, these winter sketches are not about the forest or a walk. They are simply an attempt to claim a small piece of that bright white noise.
Thank you for stopping by!
