If a Tree Falls in the Forest

I read an article recently about GoPro, the video camera that can capture images from your point of view—ideally if you’re skiing off a rock face or jumping from an airplane. The article recounts one man’s adventure while biking in Idaho of being surrounded by a running herd of elk. But far from being a magical wildlife moment,  it was a disappointing experience, he told the reporter, because didn’t have his GoPro; if he couldn’t capture it and post the video for others to see, the experience didn’t mean anything.

I was appalled when I read that, and yet I realize I do the same thing—albeit on a much tamer level. Shortly after I read that article, I was hiking around Lily Lake, and the sight of golden grasses around the pond (bottom), reflected in the still pond, stopped me. But then I remembered that I had left my camera at the cabin, and started to move on until I realized what I was doing.

I wonder why it’s so difficult to enjoy the view without the urge to document it. These days, when we tell someone we just saw something amazing—a beautiful sunset, a squirrel hanging from your feeder—the first question is: “Did you get a picture?”

But a picture is never the same. Taking a photo of the Grand Canyon is different from being there. Standing on the edge of canyon, you feel the immensity and yourself as a small part of this vast landscape. You smell the pinyon pines, feel the air uplifting from the canyon, and hear the voices of other sightseers, the chatter of the chipmunks, the call of the raven soaring over the canyon. It’s a total experience, and you feel something that you’ll never get from a photo or even from a movie.

A few weeks ago, at the exhibit of Chihuly glass sculptures at the Denver Botanic Gardens (above), I saw people approach each sculpture, whip out their cameras or smart phones, snap a photo, and then move on. I was doing the same thing, until I forced myself to slow down and relax.  Maybe it takes too much work to concentrate on what’s in front of us; maybe we’re afraid to let ourselves feel things, and it’s easier to record the experience, maybe to be looked at later. Or is it just that all our minds are running as fast as possible? That we live in a world where speed counts—doing as much as possible in as short amount of time as possible? We don’t have time to ponder.

On my hike at Lily Lake, I climbed up above the lake and stopped to catch my breath. Across the valley snow was blowing off the ridges below Longs Peak, its jagged summit forming a V with Mount Meeker. Below me was the lake, a startling blue, the wind brushing its surface. The smaller ponds on the south side were azure eyes fringed by grasses caught in the sunlight. The longer I stood there, the more I saw, and I felt that this was the first time I was really seeing this landscape, even though I’ve hiked up here dozens of times. If I had my camera with me, I would likely have snapped the photo and then rushed on up the hill, eager to see more views.

If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one to hear it, does it make a sound? If we’re surrounded by a herd of elk and can’t record it, is it worth anything?

 

Comments

[shoneysien]

I read that article on GoPro too. Thank you for writing this, it reminds me to let go of my camera and slow down and absorb it all. Last week at Georgia O'Keefe's home and studio in Abiqui I was so disappointed to learn we couldn't take our cameras...but while there I felt such an intense connection to her, to her home and land. Would I have felt it if I had a camera in front of my face? Having said that, I still love your photo of the botanic gardens.

[Brent Zeinert]

I get what you're saying here, but for me having my camera along on my hikes, biking travels and kayak adventures IS therapy. It's those reflection moments when I slow down, that's where I see something special. And that moment can change in an instant. I'm sure you've heard of those "photo a day" journals. I'm shocked with these kinds of journals, because the world around us is so vast. That would be like asking a writer to tell a story in one sentence. You kind of miss out on the beginning, middle and/or end. The same can be said for people that talk too much. They need to slow down. I'm talking too much here too. This was a good journal post, thanks Kathy.

[Kathy Kaiser]

I hear what you're saying, Brent. For someone like you--a really good photographer--your work is your creativity. You're showing us something that most of us don't see, and to me that's art. I think most people don't stop to see what you do.

[Sally Hanson]

I think this is so true and I loved this post. It really is what we do these days. I still buy film and get my slides developed and since I'm usually traveling with a photographer like Brent I see that so much is seen threw the lens for him but for me, especially since I am not digital and can delete my pics and take ten million of them, I am just standing there waiting and being and looking and smelling and listening and sometimes I'm not sure if I should even lug all that equipment around anymore. I feels good to be free to just experience it all! That was very insightful of you Kathy. Thanks!