Out there

I have always loved being outdoors. In the winter, we would go skiing, and from spring through fall, we would follow the scent of mushrooms; my parents, my brother and I. Strolls along the shores of lake Thun. Nothing spectacular, a little swimming here, building a fire there. Sometimes we would catch fish, sometimes not. 

Later on, the pull of the great outdoors grew even stronger. That was when I was in my mid-twenties, making money from the dying profession of signwriting, living on a remote plateau in the Bernese mountains. Whenever I could, I would go sauntering through the woods, stumbling down the canyon to the Sense river with its ice-cold water. 

Some people wonder what I am actually looking for out there – my response is always the same: Nothing in particular, except for the mushrooms. I ramble around, I feel the need to explore places physically, to become one with my environment. I love to sleep under open skies. I’m more balanced out there, more focused. Everything feels more intense in the bush. It doesn’t matter where, whether it’s Switzerland, Iceland or Canada. I’ve visited the Yukon time and time again in the past ten years. Footprints in the snow, mist on the beach, the deep, red blood of an eviscerated moose. Something archaic happens to me in these places where everything is raw. Nobody can contact me, no headlines from wars will reach me, no stock market crashes or child-soldiers.