In my last post, I described some of the definitions used by land managers and conservationists to define wilderness.
Most of these definitions focus on the designation and protection of land to support ecological and conservation outcomes. They provide a framework (often legislative) to empower the land manager to manage the land consistent with its designation.
I also described a definition that puts more emphasis on the experience of being in the wilderness1. Not coincidentally, the paper referenced was written by three Tasmanian photographers very experienced at exploring the wilderness of southwest Tasmania. It is their summary that resonates best for me.
Wilderness is land which is natural, remote and primitive.
In this post, I explore the importance of wilderness, and how being in remote wilderness impacts my photography.
Before going further, it is important to highlight the ecological value of wilderness. There is increasing recognition of the importance of maintaining large tracts of relatively untouched land, particularly intact forest landscapes.
Larger and more untouched ecosystems are generally better able to support their natural biological diversity and ecological processes. These benefits are increasingly important in the face of a rapidly changing climate. Intact forests store considerably more carbon than a degraded forest. For example, intact forest landscapes hold 40 percent of tropical forest carbon in just 20 percent of the tropical forest area.
These landscapes have lower costs to manage and protect and are more able to absorb and recover from the increasing rates of disturbances due to a changing climate such as fire, floods and drought.
There is also something to be said for wilderness being valuable for its own sake. I appreciate knowing that it’s there, and there is something intrinsically good, in my view, about a world that has areas untamed and largely untouched by people.
The experience of being in nature can vary greatly, depending on a number of factors including the wild character of the place2, the level of solitude, the weather and the degree of connection with the particular environment.
I live near Yarra Bend Park, a large area of 260 hectares less than 5 kilometres from the centre of Melbourne. It is filled with green space, sporting fields and bush land with the Yarra River flowing through the centre. I love visiting this place, especially the trees (see Returning to a familiar place), but it is highly domesticated.
The purpose of the park is entirely to serve people – walkers and their dogs, joggers, bike riders, footballers and cricketers, golfers, families and picnickers. Much of the ground cover is bitumen or introduced turf and weed species, with only the areas of steep and rocky ground along the river where a native mid-story survives. It is only the native trees, the eucalypts and wattles, that stop the area being completely unnatural.
This is an inevitable consequence of being in the middle of a city of over 5.3 million people. I am fortunate to live near this park and having green space in cities should be a critical element of urban design.
My most common photography trips are somewhere with more wild character. I spend a lot of time in the forests of Victoria’s central highlands. These forests are protected by a number of national parks and state forest3 as well as considerable areas inaccessible to the public as closed catchments for Melbourne’s drinking water.
The access, amenities and opportunities for solitude vary greatly across these forests. Away from the popular picnic areas and accessible sights, it doesn’t take long to be away from the crowds and immersed in the bush. This is particularly true when I head off-track. Within metres, the forest closes in and human noises become muffled. Invasive species such as blackberries become less common, unable to compete with intact natural ecosystems.
This feels like exploration. You never know what you will find – especially in thick bush, every step reveals new scenes large or small. These trips can be incredibly difficult and frustrating. Often covering a kilometre an hour is good going. Footing is treacherous, there is soaking wet scrub and stifling heat, leaches, snakes and slippery rocks. And after hours of bush bashing, you can’t find a composition because there are too many trees in the way!
In truth, I often alternate between hugging a tree and cursing the bush.
But then you stumble across an opening in the forest or a view up a stream of the most sublime beauty that it takes your breath away. You walk around the base a huge old tree covered in moss and lichen and the scars of a hundred years of life. You sit and observe the light, the water, the plants, birds and animals. You are completely surrounded by life, you can feel it embrace you.
And the best thing, all that life is completely indifferent to my existence. I pay my respects and move on. It continues. This is what I try to reflect in much of my photography.
The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.
John Muir
For many people, the bush is a foreign and intimidating place. We are taught to be fearful through the many stories of disaster. I have had my moments of rational anxiety and caution and other moments of totally irrational fear. But over time risk assessment improves and mental challenges overcome through familiarity and competence.
It is only in overnight bushwalks that I begin to enter true wilderness. For me, being alone in the bush, under the power of my own two legs, is when I really begin to feel immersed in nature. Having the occasional cattleman’s or bushwalking club hut, or well-developed trail infrastructure does not take away from my experience. Coming across trail bike riders or four-wheel drivers certainly does.
Many of the world’s most famous walks no longer provide a wilderness experience. Their popularity requires extensive infrastructure (board walks, bridges, walkers’ huts, toilets, helipads, guided tour accommodation). There is much camaraderie amongst the walkers, but solitude is fleeting. While the walking can be very challenging and the landscape magnificent, it is a fundamentally different experience to being alone in the wilderness. This is the difference between landscape photography and wilderness photography.
Wilderness photography requires being in the wilderness. Being alone, deep in a natural, remote and primitive landscape creates different conditions for making images. Not only is my mind alone with its thoughts, in wilderness my body is also alone. Survival becomes the primary focus – shelter, water, food. I am in a wilderness area when I know that getting out in an emergency will be difficult – that I probably would not survive waiting for help after a fall or snake bite. There are no rules (apart from leave no trace). There is only the wilderness and me.
The practice of taking photographs in the wilderness is challenging. I am often physically and mentally tired, there are limitations on gear and constant managing of power supply. Moisture, dust. Fieldcraft and camera craft are put to the test.
Most importantly, time in the wilderness is inevitably limited. We can only ever be a visitor to the wilderness (by definition). To really get to know an area requires familiarity through repeat visits.
Hopefully, sometimes, this immersion in the wilderness is reflected in the viewer’s reaction to seeing a photo.
Is there a difference between a photograph taken after days of walking into a remote wilderness and one taken a few metres off the side of the road? I have to believe that the creation of art is impacted by the person making it. And I am a different person in the wilderness.
I would not call myself a wilderness photographer – I only get into true wilderness areas a couple of times a year and do not think I have spent the time necessary to have these experiences reflected in my images. So I will continue to go back whenever I can, to disconnect from the modern world and interact with the raw beauty of the wilderness.
Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.
Henry David Thoreau
See Martin Hawes, Grant Dixon and Chris Bell (2018) Refining the Definition of Wilderness https://tnpa.org.au/refining-wilderness/
Wild character is dependent upon linear remoteness from infrastructure and landscape disturbances, time-remoteness from points of mechanised access, and other evidence of modern technological society (Hawes et al)
Native timber harvesting in Victoria’s state forests ended on 1 January 2024. This presents the opportunity to add 355,000 hectares of forests to the existing 170,000 hectares of parks and protected areas in the Central Highlands of Victoria through the creation of the Great Forest National Park.
Great post! I love your perspective!