The Path Begins: A Photo Essay from Fort Mountain State Park
There are days when the forest speaks in silence.
Days when a walk becomes a reckoning.
This was one of those days.
Armed with my Nikon, a brand new walking stick, and a playlist that opened with Max Richter’s “On the Nature of Daylight,” I stepped onto the West Loop trail at Fort Mountain State Park with a challenge in mind:
Capture 10 meaningful images.
Let each photo tell a story.
Let the journey lead the narrative.
The Path Begins.The trailhead waited like the first blank page of a journal. My walking stick cast its shadow across the dirt as I paused to breathe in the stillness. This was the beginning of more than a hike. This was a promise to myself — to pay attention.
I looked up, for once. The trees arched overhead like ancient beams in a forgotten chapel. The sunlight broke through the branches like stained glass. I don’t know what religion I am anymore… but I know that this is where I feel closest to something divine.
At the overlook, my new walking stick leaned against a deck carved by time and travelers. Fresh wood and old words met in a quiet moment of reverence. I had made it this far. There was farther still to go.
While prepping for a long exposure, I found this patch of moss clinging to a jagged rock. I swapped lenses, crouched low, and let the macro lens pull me closer. The small things always matter more than we think.
This was my favorite shot of the day. A long exposure, black and white edit, shot on a windy overlook that tested my tripod’s resolve. But the result? A vast and textured breath of space and silence. A reminder of how small we are — and how big the world can feel.
Turning from the overlook, I saw the stone steps leading to the fire tower. I framed it intentionally — a relic of watchfulness and history, lit by the sun and flanked by trees. A lens flare caught a faint rainbow, like nature’s signature on the shot.
On the back end of the lake trail, I found a still green pool reflecting sky and branch. I had hoped for wildflowers. I found calm instead. If I had used my wider lens, I might have captured the treetops too… but sometimes a frame is enough to remember a feeling.
At the fork in the trail, I stood still. No birds, no breeze — just breath. I centered the path and the twin trees on instinct, not symmetry. It felt right. There’s a power in silence. There’s peace in being uncertain but moving forward anyway.
This one’s a riddle — shadows of the bridge railing and a towering tree cast over a brook below. It’s structure and wilderness layered together. A quiet metaphor: that even the things we build leave ghostly fingerprints on the wild.
I took this shot just before returning to the car. The mossy stones, the rooted steps, the gentle decline back to the beginning — it all felt like closure. A final page. A bow on the morning’s quiet ritual.
🌿 Final Thoughts
This photo challenge wasn’t just about getting great shots. It was about being present. About seeing the forest not just as scenery, but as story. I walked the West Loop and Lake Trails with intention, and in return, the woods offered me a stillness I didn’t know I needed.
If this is your first time reading Of Ink and Earth — welcome. I hope this post gave you a moment of peace, a bit of beauty, and a sense of shared solitude. Whether you hike trails, turn pages, or capture the light through your own lens, I’m glad you’re here.
Until the next wander,
Steven Bennett
Of Ink and Earth
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Steven Benett: Of Ink & Earth 