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“I wanted to stay in this spot and drift away.”

–Eric Zamora, Wildlife Photographer

Among the vast diversity in which nature takes its form, I think what we unconsciously seek is familiarity. If the web of life consists of systems of networks, where everything is intertwined and dependent upon each other, then we as humans look for which threads we belong to. We seek out friendly landscapes, perhaps the mountains of your childhood or the cognizance of the same sandy shore you could trace by heart. When we come across these rare topographical treasures, a protective emotion overwhelms us. We want these regions to be preserved, as if all the warm affection we hold could distill that distinct area with the sharp, pristine memories in our mind. Those are the feelings that surged through me after looking at Eric Zamora’s photographs of North Cascades National Park in the Pacific Northwest.

The fact that Zamora went on the 14-day trek all by himself may seem daunting, but in some way it makes sense to me. Growing up in Portland, Oregon, I learned about the nurturing element of the wilderness from a young age. Field trips to places like Multnomah Falls in the Columbia River Gorge and the Sandy River taught me to listen to and observe every facet of nature I could take in. Summer camp was an evaluation of the senses; every hike turned into a game as to who could tread more stealthily through the soft paths of the woods. Extra points were awarded to those who didn’t disturb a single plant with their hiking boots. I distinctly remember practicing how to move deftly through the forest like a deer, only to come across a doe and her mother a few yards ahead. I discovered that being alone in nature actually leaves you in quite the opposite state. It is when you feel most vulnerable and infinitesimal that nature steps in as a counterbalance to your bewilderment. Our environment can sustain and support us, if we only let it.

Sun-dappled grassy slopes, blushing red blueberry leaves, deep emerald foliage, towering snow-tinged mountains, tree canopies, rocky cliff faces, acres of old growth—all these set against a sheer veil of cloudless blue sky simply ravishes me. Zamora’s photography enchants its viewers, leaving them wondering what mysteries lay between the fabric of the forest’s evergreen carpet. There’s a sort of lushness that draws you in, a fable-like quality in the silence of the cavernous valleys and misty hill peaks. If anything, staring at these breathtaking landscapes make me question our environmental questions.

Once while I was on the Oregon coast, I ventured to climb Neahkahnie Mountain. I’d always been in awe of the 1600 ft. mass of rock that looms above Manzanita beach which plunges into the ocean and often leaves the small town encompassed in a thick fog. Taking a trail that forks off of Highway 101, I was suddenly submerged in a realm that was cosmically other. Weaving through switchbacks, I became aware of the subtle rustlings of creatures, the flapping of bird wings, the whisper of the swaying branches. Each step seemed to invigorate me with a spiritual absolve. As for the view when I reached the top, I couldn’t tell you. Descriptions like “stunning” or “majestic” don’t do the feeling justice. Only through subjective experience can one begin to understand the intangible nature of the forest’s emotions, balance, magic.

In Zamora’s account of his trek, he notes that only a fraction of the Pacific Northwest’s original old growth remains. While on the drive back through the forests of the Oregon Coast Range, I was jolted by the acres of trees now lost to clearcutting. I wonder if those companies and loggers who practice this harvesting process had ever taken a deep breath from the top of Neahkahnie Mountain; whether they had ever really gotten lost in the forest and let the wilderness embrace them. I wonder what would change if they did.

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