The Trail is the Thing

Standing on a trail in one of America's magnificent national parks, I caught myself doing it again—reaching for my phone to capture another photo, another video. Even though I know better, the urge to document every vista, every moment, is almost reflexive.

My finger hovered over the shutter button when a gust of wind moved through the pine forest. The sound washed over me. A gentle susurration rising to a crescendo, like distant ocean waves breaking on shore. The tall trees swayed slightly, their needles combing the breeze into a whispered symphony. In that suspended moment, my phone felt absurdly inadequate. No camera could capture the way my breath caught, how time seemed to pause, how the entire forest sang with invisible currents of air.

Later, scrolling through my photos, I found dozens of spectacular vistas. Each one a poor substitute for what I'd actually experienced. The screen couldn't convey how the wind had carried the sharp scent of pine and dirt, how my muscles had burned sweetly on the steep switchbacks, how the silence had settled into my bones like a meditation.