Issue #99 A Walk Without a Camera

An unintentional photography free wander, finding lost worlds and choosing the slow path

Not far from the car, three red squirrels scamper in the woods by the track. It is not that unusual to see them here, but it is unusual to see them up so close - a blur of russet fur or a flick of a tail is the norm. I watch for a while and reach for my camera which as always is clipped to my rucksack strap. I get a shot lined up but something flashing catches my eye in the viewfinder: NO CARD. I’ve left the memory card in my laptop. Never mind - I ask Emma for her camera and lift it to my eye. NO CARD is flashing jauntily at the top of the display. As if the squirrels know they are in no danger of being photographed, they come within feet of us, posing adorably, taunting. Two cameras and no memory cards? I have to take a deep breath; I’m annoyed about the memory cards, but more annoyed that life has felt too chaotic lately, leading to an increased likelihood of forgetting things or making poor decisions.

I think about heading back home to get the memory cards but stop myself from saying it out loud because I know it’s ridiculous. Maybe walking without the camera will be a good thing? I’ve always thought that photography helps me to see things more clearly when hiking, but maybe it’s actually a distraction? Only one way to find out. We leave the squirrels to their scampering and head off down the trail towards a suspension bridge that bounces and sways as we cross the river. The light is flat, the sky pale grey as low cloud drags across the tops of the fells, which after a solid month of bright sun and blue skies is something of a gift. It’s warm despite the gloom, and it’s not long before we stop to take off jackets after a short but steep climb through a wood of oak and birch.

We have no particular destination in mind with this hike, no summit or swimming spot, just a desire to be outside all day, exploring and enjoying the freedom found in walking a long way. Studying the map beforehand, we found a way of linking up a couple of valleys, turning short walks we had done before into one long one with the addition of a new stretch that looked interesting topographically. I wonder how many people plot routes like this; a quest to find something that looks interesting on the map. What with All Trails and other map apps my guess is most people are following routes from A to B without thinking much about what lies in between. That’s a sweeping statement I know, but it fits with something I’ve been thinking about lately.

We are so quick to adopt new technology without stopping to consider whether we really need it, or whether the benefits promised come at a cost greater than we can imagine. In this case I can’t help but think our sense of wonder is being eroded, along with our capacity to connect with the landscape as we follow tiny arrows on glowing screens without looking at the broader picture. A steady hollowing out of the human experience in exchange for speed and efficiency - but efficiency for whose sake? Where are we going so fast and why? Often what tech promises to strip away is the processes that lead up to something; it offers the chance to have the end result without putting in the work, or without acquiring knowledge. But the process is where the magic is - it is in trying and failing only to succeed again at a later date, it is discovering something new by chance, it’s in the quiet moments in-between. We are promised the summit without having to make the long journey to get there, but the journey is what makes the summit worthwhile. I for one will always take the slow path, and gladly suffer the discomforts that make success all the sweeter.

I’m not sure if it’s the lingering annoyance at forgetting the memory cards that is affecting my mood, but I find it hard to enjoy the early part of the hike. It is good to be out and walking, but my eyes are attuned to the human influence on the land: the dense stands of conifer plantations in the valley below, the introduced rhododendron and azalea that creep into fragile fragments of old oak woodlands, the miles of stock fencing, overgrazing and litter stuffed in cracks in dry stone walls. What an ill chance of fate that the sheep that strip the hillsides of native trees and wildflowers do not have a taste for spruce and rhododendron.

Heading down into the valley to follow the river, a farm comes into view. We have heard stories about this farm before and specifically planned our route to avoid having to go through the yard which teems with barking hounds and feels distinctly unfriendly, littered with broken machinery and general farming detritus. The path skirts along the edge of the farm, through a couple of fields before we join a gravel track. Hounds are barking and we walk uneasily until we are a good distance away. Even now tattered sheets of black plastic are embedded in the mud, rolls of fencing wire and broken posts lay abandoned on the banks of the river and deep ruts scar the earth where machinery has gouged and scraped.

Finally, we are in a low valley with smooth undulating sides, away from obvious affronts on the land, following the river as it snakes along and stopping now and then to study small carnivorous plants - the red sticky hairs of sundews that wait to curl around unsuspecting flies and the purple flowers on slender stalks of butterwort whose leaves look like green starfish also poised to roll tightly around their prey. Lots of lousewort too, a little semi-parasitic flower with pinkish petals formed into a tube, like those in the mint family and a few patches of wild thyme here and there. The predicted rain doesn’t come but a cold wind funnels through the valley and we walk briskly until we are stopped in our tracks by the sight of steep cliffs rising abruptly at the head of the valley, their rocky faces clothed in willows, birches and rowans with two white waterfalls plunging down into the shallow bowl below. The scene is rich, luxuriant and surprising - a lost world. The Jurassic Park theme music plays in my head and for the first time I lament the forgetting of memory cards, but perhaps the memory is richer in my mind than I could hope to capture on camera.

Leaving behind our discovery, our route takes us out onto open moorland surrounded by high peaks, their summits shrouded in cloud. A large tarn is ruffled by the wind and patches of white cotton grass sway back and forwards. After recent heavy rain the ground is saturated, boggy and hard to walk on. Benji’s boots are completely waterlogged. We still have 8km to go and we’re worried about his feet but he hobbles on happily enough. From here we are in familiar territory, having walked this section of the route many times before in both directions. Once we found a juvenile adder here, coiled on a rock by the water’s edge and we passed through this way on the Fjällräven Classic last year and will do so again this year. Peat cutter’s huts, steep sided ravines, waterfalls and fragrant patches of bog myrtle are familiar way markers; soon we descend towards the valley bottom and stop for ice cream at the small village shop.

The last section of our route follows the river closely. We consider stopping for a swim in one of the pools, but storm clouds are building ahead of us and we hasten towards the car - we make it just in time before the clouds burst and rain hammers on the windscreen. Benji is elated to take off his wet shoes and socks and wriggles his wrinkled toes.

In the end, walking without the camera in hand wasn't as liberating as I thought it might have been. I missed the opportunities to be creative on the trail, and the way taking photos forces you to interact with the landscape in unusual ways: kneeling down in bogs to photograph tiny flowers, or laying in patches of cottongrass for interesting viewpoints. I often wonder what I’m taking photos for - is it just for content? Sometimes. But mostly, I take photos for myself, to frame the small moments of joy and beauty encountered as I drift through the universe. It is a way of seeing, of thinking even. And who knows, maybe by sharing these small moments, I can inspire others to take a closer look at the infinite wonders so often overlooked on the quest for adventure.

One thing I do know, I’ll definitely be double checking the memory card slot next time…

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Well, that’s all for this week! It feels weird to share a post without ANY photos, but there we go, I hope I’ve been able to describe the scene adequately enough. It’s been interesting writing this without photos to refer back to, but it’s been nice to have to try harder to relive the hike in my mind.

What do other photographers think? Is it a good thing to walk without the camera sometimes?

Until next time,

Andrew, Emma and Benji

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