It’s obvious that walking through the forest in summer is infinitely more pleasant than in winter.
Not just because in my part of the world — where minus thirty Celsius is perfectly normal in winter — you can easily turn into a snow statue after half an hour in the cold. In winter, you walk along a narrow path as if on a tightrope: one step left, plop into a snowdrift; one step right, plop into another. Your clothes feel like a spacesuit, and by evening your fingers — the ones holding the camera — have long forgotten why they exist at all. The forest itself is quiet and stern, as if it’s clocked in for work, and the stream is barely audible under its coat of ice.
But in summer, the forest is like an old friend calling you over for no reason at all. The forest stops being an obstacle and becomes open space. A path? You can go wherever you like — through grass, over stones, straight through the bushes. The air is warm but not stifling, especially near the water. The camera sits lightly in your hand, your fingers are alive, and your eyes aren’t watering. And the mountain stream — it murmurs, flowing along, playing with sunlight, reflecting branches and stones, chatting with anyone willing to stand beside it for ten minutes. It’s simply happy to be flowing. And you’re happy too — for this stream, this forest, this sunny day.
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