Nature, Slowly and Quietly

I spent some time at the end of winter quietly sitting in nature with a new friend, Kent. Both of us like to “crush” as rock climbers say, which to me means push ourselves really hard ice climbing or rock climbing, or skinning up steep things, or long tiresome things or waking up really early (well, Kent wakes up early, not me… unless it’s for surfing). We each have big adventure plans and trip ideas separately, but when we are together we cut each other more slack, I think. We go easy on each other, accept the limitations of each others’ aches and pains and expect nothing like pushing ourselves ridiculously hard. We enjoy slower mornings, slow starts overall, and long hours appreciating a view, eating snacks and chatting instead of pushing for more and more pitches of climbing. I can always count on Kent for a long impromptu bike ride or just a simple walk in the woods as much as I can count on him for a day of scrambling up icy rock for the first, cold ass trad multi-pitch of the season. My favorite things that I’ve learned through time enjoyed with Kent aren’t from hard days outdoors like skinning through blizzards, even though in our short time together we had days like this as well. My favorite things are all about taking my time in nature. Moving slowly, sitting quietly, and simply noticing all the little details and really, gifts. I learned that when you sit quietly in nature for a long time, you become part of the landscape and it sort of becomes part of you. You are just a fixture to the birds and squirrels, like a tree or fallen log. Butterflies land on you, ants crawl over you, and you experience all the little goings-ons that you’d never otherwise be a part of. 

A fish hunting a dragon fly... who's also hunting. This photo was taken from many nights standing quietly knee deep in an unnamed lake in northern Saskatchewan learning how to use the settings on my camera.

I think I’ve always wanted to experience nature in this way. Slowly and quietly, observing, becoming a part of the scenery, but I could never get myself out the door to do these things alone, always feeling like I needed to be producing, progressing, or building on something. Kent and his company allowed me the opportunity to experience nature in this ‘quieter’ way, disguised as the building of a friendship. I got to spend wordless hours biking to look for fossils on a beach and sitting, drawing light and shadows while he took photos somewhere nearby. Or sitting on a log writing as he sat at the other end meditating when a ski tour turned into a melted out, muddy, take-our-ski-gear-and-two-dogs-for-a-hike. The outdoors became an intimate place for me to experience the world around me instead of one that I was always testing myself to see if I was strong enough to endure. 

I met Kent in March when I was living in Bozeman, Montana, but I left about a month later for work in the arctic. Although our time together was short, I was grateful that this new perspective followed me up north, allowing me to see shadow and colours in the snowy landscape in great detail. I noticed and found delight in animal tracks, and observed the changes in ice crystals frozen to the small plants each morning. This summer, the same job has brought me up to northern Saskatchewan to a series of remote fly camps, from which I am currently writing. I work most days walking through the woods with my new friend who I refer to as ‘Sweet Dan’ and I feel lucky to have him, as both of us appreciate the simple beauty of the natural world and can exchange curiosities about what we’ve seen.

Spending this extended period of time in nature, far away from the distractions of the internet and social obligations, I have had the privilege of profound joy and groundedness in just quietly noticing the minute and simple changes in each passing day. I’ve gotten to watch the wild blueberries flower, turn to fruit and even ripen. I’ve gotten to know which environments they like better and which environments cause them stress. I’ve revelled in all the ways mother birds defend their nests and how ants run around hiding their larvae when I accidentally move their wood or rock cover. I’ve seen the pink swamp flowers fall off their stems into the muskeg, the lady slippers change colour, how the ‘swamp floofs’ look when wet and how they puff back up as they dry. I’ve marvelled at the hunting behaviours of dragonflies night after night and quietly watched mud-dauber wasps pull dead caterpillars twice their size into their ground holes. I can differentiate between the distinct hum of a mosquito, versus a horse fly, versus a wasp and the ‘clip clip’ sound of dragonfly wings. I know now how a bear behaves when it has not met enough humans to need fear and how a moose stands tall and mighty in the greatness of a river. Nothing has ever made me feel more a part of the natural world than really getting to know all its details and quirks, almost the way we get to know a new friend. All of this time spent paying attention and noticing has given way to understanding, familiarity, respect and unconditional love. I am able to feel into the way wind directions change and clouds roll in. I know all the different shapes the clouds use to fill the skies, all the different patterns of wind on the water and lighting on the young pine trees and fireweed flowers. I find comfort in the power of wind through the trees, the sparkle of the sun on the water, the nighttime sounds of caribou and loons calling boldly into the empty space. I feel myself becoming a part of the environment, following game trails, ‘showering’ in the lake, drinking from the river.

My dirty work hands enjoying the masterful imperfections of a purple flower.

Until now, I have interacted with it mostly through adventure sports, tree planting, or through-hiking, activities where you are constantly moving or trying to cover ground. Games, where you are trying to achieve an outcome and the natural world is an obstacle course, or a tool. With the ability to slow down, I find my intention has changed to quiet observation and with it, a new relationship and appreciation for the natural world has grown roots within me. I hope these roots, this attunement, this new skill of slowing dawn can hold strong when I return to “society” and to the adventure sports in which I participate. I fall in love with the world around me more and more each day and I am grateful for this new perspective of nature. Even the rapid weather changes, the angry storms, punishingly hot sun and shadeless stretches of land that I must walk through for hours a day. The small, simple gifts I’ve gained have not come without their challenges and I wonder sometimes if nature notices me the way I notice her. Or maybe I am just another one of her many children finally leaving big city distractions and finding my way home.

A misty sun-risey morning in northern Saskatchewan after a massive night time thunder storm.