The internal combustion engine may have conquered the world, but it hasn’t yet conquered the soul of a true forester. In my years within the forest department, I have learned that the most vital piece of skill is the grit to walk long distances inside a forest. Every recruit, from the lowest ranks to the silver-haired senior, must face the legendary 25-kilometer walking test before induction. It is four hours of brisk, sweat-soaked reality designed to weed out those who belong in the wild from those who belong behind a desk. A good forest officer will have mud on his boots!
On foot, you are forced to be patient and resilient. You begin to develop an instinctive alertness; your hearing sharpens to the snap of a dry twig, and your sense of smell becomes twice as acute, picking up the musk of wildlife or geosmin of damp earth. You are not an observer of nature, but a fundamental part of it. Like the animals moving silently around you, you begin to rely on the same primal instincts for survival and navigation. It is only on foot that you can truly coexist within the jungle’s rhythm, reaching those pristine, untrammeled terrains that remain forever beyond the reach of the motorized world.
My own hodophilic nature has often pushed me toward the deepest corners of our protected areas. Let the tourists have their safaris. I prefer the long walk every time.I have distinct memories of reaching locations so remote and silent that I felt as though the earth itself had forgotten the weight of a human footprint.
In this photo you can see the reality of this life, wading through the waters of a forest river, where the only path forward for me was the one I had made for myself. Just like in our lives.