How often have you heard someone say that the forest is good for you?
That walking among trees lowers stress, quiets the mind, lowers blood pressure, and reminds us to breathe in our increasingly frantic lives.
I've heard it countless times.
But I've often wondered if there was another reason I kept going back.
Everyone understands the grandeur of the California Redwoods. Their immense size leaves you feeling wonderfully small.
But what about an ordinary old-growth forest?
Not the famous one.
Not the one with the viewpoint.
Not the one with the waterfall.
Not the one with the perfect alpine lake reflecting a perfect mountain.
Lately, I've found myself spending more time in these forests than anywhere else. They're some of the least visited places I photograph.
And I think I know why.
They don't demand your attention.
They don't ask to be admired.
In fact, they can seem almost disappointing if you're looking for immediate spectacle.
They are dark.
The canopy is bright.
The forest floor is tangled and cluttered.
Photographing them honestly is incredibly difficult.
And yet, I love them.
I used to chase mountains. Miles hiked. Elevation gained. Summits reached. I still enjoy those things.
But something changed when I began slowing down in old-growth forests.
I stopped asking anything of them.
I simply began to be there.
These aren't places that check social media boxes or collect bucket-list accolades.
Yet I would argue they are among the most extraordinary places in our wilderness.
They ask something different of us.
They ask us to slow down.
To hear.
To see.
To touch the rough bark of an ancient cedar, feeling its immense presence beneath your fingers.
To observe a decaying nurse log quietly giving new life to the forest.
To realize that beauty doesn't always announce itself.
Sometimes it waits patiently for someone willing to notice.
Perhaps that's what the forest left me with.
Not just a photograph.
A different way of seeing.