Jonathon Delacour wrote a wonderful essay about walking based, in part, on earlier writings by Dave Rogers and Ethan Johnson, as well as his reading a book on Werner Herzog: Herzog on Herzog.
In the post, Jonathon tells of a series of photos taken by transcribing circles on a map of Sydney neighborhoods, walking the circles, and taking pictures of whatever happens to be lying on the ground at specific points. He attributes the quality of the photos less to the mechanics of the camera and approach, and more to the walking that took him from spot to spot:
That my (imagined) motivation for walking differs from Dave’s or Ethan’s matters little. Walking the dog, walking to lose weight, walking to make pictures… ultimately, our walking is a means of — as Herzog puts it — moving through [our] own inner landscapes.
This seems to be echoed at Whisky River, who quotes John Muir describing walking through the woods as moving not from the indoors, out, but from the outside, in:
I went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.
I've put my camera away for the summer, focusing, for a time, on walking for health and contemplation rather than always on the constant search for the next great picture.
With the advent of the summer heat I walk in the early mornings, in paths around town because to go out into the country is to court more bug bites. Each year I react more strongly to these, and take longer to heal, and I wanted one summer without such. I walk primarily during the work week, when I am more or less alone. On the weekends, even early in the morning, paths are packed and contemplation does not co-exist well with overheard cellphone conversations.
I listen to music turned down very low; an eclectic mix of songs pulled together into my "walking soft" and "walking hard" playlists. The music helps me keep a steady pace, but the low volume doesn't distract; I remain equally aware of interesting thought and movement in the bushes or trees.
I've noticed on my recent walks so many different insects and birds and other critters–more so than when I was taking pictures. I think by looking for static images to share, I was disregarding the moving diorama of which I am an integral part. I became observer, then reporter, rather than participant. Struggling with camera, bag, and lens; peering at the light, staring intently for this bird or that–I would have missed my chance to see sphodros rufipes–red legged purseweb spider–which is both rare and endangered.
I would have also missed the tiny chipmunks, scurrying about under last year's leaves, foraging for food. Or the bunny carefully eying me while partially hidden by bush, leaf steadily disappearing into mouth. Like magic. Like bunny appetite.
My camera with the big lens attracts no end of dragonflies–I think I look sexy to the bugs with that big gawping thing in place of my eyes–but tends to scare the birds away. Especially while out on walks, when I whip it around to take a photo. Missouri is full of dense woodland, where it's easy for birds to hide and because of this, they are typically shy. Sudden movements startle them, and you lose opportunity to take photos. More than that, though, you lose the opportunity to just stand still and enjoy their color, song, and beauty. Or their behavior.
A bird is most beautiful when you experience it as a whole: song, flight, color, movement, and interaction with the world. This morning two stellar jays, who have claimed the woods and have followed me closely, all week, like the intruder I am, had another target for their dives: a red-tailed hawk that landed not 20 feet away from me. I watched as it settled on a branch that dipped beneath its weight, dappled light picking out cream, rust, and gold on feathers that looked remarkably soft. "If only I had a camera", I thought to myself. But then would I have captured or missed the moment when one of the jays dive bombed the larger bird, grabbing at the hawk's tail feathers? Or the expression on the hawk's face of perplexed bemusement at these aggressive, smaller, pain in the butt birds? The swoosh of its takeoff, as it unfolded wings in a graceful arc and swirl that reminded me of the old movies and the dresses of chiffon that would billow out gracefully behind the dancers? I swear, I could feel the movement of air pushed away at the downbeat of wings. Imagination? Errant puff of spring wind? Blue jay flying past, seeking yet another target to threaten?
Sometimes during the walks, I don't see anything at all but the path stretching out in front of me. I'm lost in a day dream of what ifs, what could have beens, what will bes: Jonathon's inner landscape. Dozens, both mighty and meek, have danced to my whim in these waking dreams–perhaps even some of you. I once composed an entire play about weblogging over a winter's set of walks.
Of course, with the end of the walk, when one is sweaty, tired, and thirsty, one is forced to put away such malleable images and contemplate mundane reality: everyone around me refuses to be pushed and prodded into the characters of my internal plays. Instead I must bounce against each stubborn independence, like a pinball against bumpers: bounce, bounce, bounce, triple score!, and hoping life throws the flipper at just the right moment.
