Zen and the Art of Wildflower Hunting 2

Field Notes III.XXVII: Backpacking and photographing wildflowers in the Great Smoky Mountains in June, part 2 of 4

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Read Part 1 here-

Zen and the Art of Wildflower Hunting 1

* Where images appear in square gallery format, try clicking each photo to see the non-cropped version

Rain thrashes the walls of my tent in the night. It stands strong and does not give, but the trees above are twisting in the wind and offer little protection from the downpour.

This is no brief pop up storm. The rain continues on and on and the problem comes from below. Water begins to pool around and under the tent floor. The ground is level but the popularity of this backcountry campsite in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park has left the earth compacted from frequent use. Is moisture seeping through the tent floor or is it splashing through the mesh above it? I scrape my forearm across the floor in regular intervals, trying to push the puddle out from underneath me.

After a certain point I resign myself to whatever may come. All of the gear is protected to the best extent possible. I close my eyes with the hope of sleeping through the storm and dealing with its aftermath in the morning.

Aches turn me and push me towards the surface of sleep. I gain some vague awareness that the worst of the torrent has ended. 05:30 am. My alarm pulls me from the depths of darkness and I am awake.

Fat water drops splat intermittently on the tent, just leftover wet blown from the tree tops by a gusty wind above. It is chilly and I peek outside. The ground is saturated, but the pooling water is gone. Mist is visible in the beam of my headlamp and the light can only cut through several feet before the fog obscures all. Another morning engulfed inside of clouds.

Moving through the opaque darkness is disorienting. Finding my food bag hoisted on a bear cable 25 yards away is more challenging than it ought to be. The movement helps stretch muscles tight from yesterday’s climb, though, and hot coffee in the tent vestibule is heartening in the damp chill.

The world has gained some dim bit of definition by the time I’ve packed. Its time to move up trail to that grassy bald mountain top and see what it has to offer.

Walking uphill again is tough, but slow and steady steps carry me steadily on. The mist remains thick and the wind picks up strength the higher I go. Florid orange blooms of flame azalea slowly materialize in the distance.

I emerge from the forest onto the wide fields at the top. Unobstructed by trees, the tempestuous clouds rake the landscape in fits and gusts. The familiar bent evergreen provides a semblance of shelter.

Brewing another coffee gives me time to consider the various flame azalea bushes I photographed yesterday. There are no mountainous backgrounds to incorporate this morning. No variable light due to the puffy clouds racing in front of the sun. This is a morning for azalea portraits. These photos will be all about the subject standing juxtaposed before the indistinct, atmospheric framework of the mist.

I take my time amidst the fields in the drizzle and the wind of the mountaintop. Photographing the shifting shrubbery is a blended exercise of technical and artistic considerations. I recall words written by the 17th century Zen monk Takuan Soho, as they become highly relevant to me now-

When this No-Mind has been well developed, the mind does not stop with one thing nor does it lack any one thing. It appears appropriately when facing a time of need.

-Takuan Soho

Apertures. Framing. Shutter speeds fast enough to freeze the wind’s motion. Color and contrasts. Backgrounds and angles. Clarity and fog. Tripod stability and remaining battery life. Takuan’s abiding mind attaches to any one of these and becomes stuck. They all must work in concert. Therefore, I must try for No-Mind, to make appropriate choices and actions when called for while still maintaining a broad awareness.

There is a similarity here with what the Stoics call impressions. Things happen and draw our attention and cause a reaction. We have the choice though, to assent and go along with these impressions, or not. Could learning to not automatically assent to impressions, just observing them and letting them go, be akin to No-Mind?

Only one thing is certain. I won’t fully know if I have achieved my vision before returning home to view the images on a larger screen.

The day is still early, but I must begin the return trek. It’s all downhill, but ahead there are more than seven miles of hiking, a three hour drive, and preparations to go back to work tomorrow.

The trail soon re-enters the forest, now only occasionally adorned with azalea blooms. It quickly becomes a steep, narrow, rocky descent. The fog is even thicker on this side of the mountain and the tree canopy dims the light. Beyond 15 ft only nebulous shapes linger.

Progress down the trail is slow and wary. Wind still blows the tree tops. Water drops splat on leaves all around. Clouds thicken and the landscape darkens even more, yet somewhere nearby a lone bird sings. It’s all so eerie.

I think of the bear I saw yesterday. On this lesser traveled trail an encounter is a very real possibility, and a surprise encounter in these conditions could be bad. So, I stay hyper-focused on each bend in the path ahead. At intervals I strike my trekking poles together- clack, clack…. clack, clack. Perhaps the artificial noise will give any lurking bear a warning.

Time meanders in this surreal world. No bears materialize and I am hypnotized by the rhythmic crunching of my own footsteps on dirt. The woods are lush. Foliage glistens in the wet. Galax spreads in patches of prostrate waxy green and emits its familiar musty aroma. Small flowers and tiny mushrooms lay scattered across the forest floor like gems.

Miles fall away as the sound of rushing water grows. Trickles seep from the mountainside to connect with rivulets, rivulets merge into streams, and soon the trail follows a lively creek gaining momentum in its descent. Bridges appear to cross the creek and I reach a familiar spot where I saw a crouched bobcat several autumns past.

The path becomes wide and flat. Other hikers appear; a family with children speaking of a salamander they saw. Rounding a bend is a sign and a final bridge. This is the end of the trail.

What is the allure of this wildflower hunting? Is the possibility of a photograph worth the effort and unpredictability? I say yes.

To hunt is to pursue with focus something wild and elusive. So, hunting wildflowers shares many similarities with hunting game. Success or failure may depend on skills built over time, but still there are no guarantees. Many factors are beyond control. There is always the possibility of returning empty handed.

While taking a buck or photographing an azalea may be the culmination of the hunt, the endeavor involves so much more. This is ultimately about finding, understanding, and aligning with a rhythm of life in the wild. It is to immerse oneself in the changing seasons, to fathom dynamic movements of the weather, to discern patterns of life of the flora and fauna. Embracing the effort and challenges of uncertainty reveals to us that we and the land are one. We become allied with Nature herself and live in accordance with her.

And for me, very soon, the hunt continues.

Day 2. Done. Quite a change of atmosphere from the day before, right? I’d love to hear your thoughts. For me, the obvious biggest down side to the fog is the lack of views, but I do like moody photos. Do you prefer the bright and sunny or the moody and foggy?

This was my first trip hunting wildflowers in the Smokies in June. Stay tuned, parts 3 and 4 are the second trip, just a few days after this one!

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