Still, Life

During my last research trip into the Olympic National Forest, I decided to sit tight by an unnamed lake while Robert proceeded to a nearby marten survey station. We’d already slogged nearly a kilometer off-trail, tumbling downhill through a lot of woody debris that tweaked my sprained ankle and tested my mood. When Robert and our dog, Alder, scared up a nest of ground hornets—prompting me to scream “No! No! No! No!” as we all scrambled to outrun an angry mob—I knew it was time for Alder and me to take a little break.

At first I felt antsy, knowing that 90 minutes waiting in the wilderness can seem like much more. I didn’t have my field notebook, which I’d left back at camp, nor did I bring along anything to read. I glanced at my cell phone—thankfully, no connection. Aha, but I did have my camera! I figured I might as well seize the chance to snap a few photos.

I began with two plants I spotted growing near my boots. After reaching to their base and gently clasping their fragile stems between my fingers, I carefully slid my way up until a pair of tiny pink flowers sat like rubies in my hand.

Next, I noticed a scat in the moss just off to my left. The scat looked (and smelled) like that of a large cat. When we later scanned through the camera trap images Robert collected at our station, one of our visitors was a breathtaking cougar.

Within minutes, it was as though I’d changed my depth of field and could now see colors, patterns, textures, shapes, and indeed, entire worlds, within a meter of where I rested. Wildness was all around me—vibrant, alive, anything but dull. I was able to observe and savor miraculous yet everyday happenings, all because I was sitting still.