Experience

Sometimes I’ve worked from fixed hides. Hours spent inside a wooden structure, waiting for the right moment to take a photograph. I’ve never really liked that kind of situation—I’m someone who needs open space. I’ve always used those hours inside the hide to study a species. But the photos that came out of it never satisfied me. In fact, I can say that easy photos don’t feel like mine. I don’t keep them in the archive of things I truly value. I’ve always wanted to go through effort to achieve something. That’s how I was raised. The years spent riding countless kilometers on a bike to reach a good physical condition have turned into worn-out mountain boots, walking up and down the mountains. Photographing in the mountains is not easy. The dark side of wildlife photography—something few people talk about—is made of empty days and things that don’t work. Especially if you choose to do it honestly. This past summer I went through a deep crisis. So much so that I wanted to quit. Sell my lenses and cameras and dedicate myself to something less frustrating. But frustration is always there when our expectations go beyond what luck, providence, or fate have in store for us. And besides—what is a life without a passion? One of those passions that makes you wake up at 3 a.m. on your day off. Is that really the right way to play the only token we’ve been given? I don’t have that answer for others. But I know I’m lucky to have a partner by my side who understands and contains my frustrations, and pushes me not to give up. Frustration gives way to gratitude. Gratitude for having a body that still carries me forward, despite the weight of the backpack. Gratitude for living in a place so beautiful that it doesn’t need Photoshop. And from that comes a sense of duty: to tell this world. To protect it. To make people aware of the life that exists among the trees—and higher up, across alpine meadows and rocky slopes. And so, here I am.

Around 5 a.m. My mouth still tastes like coffee. My eyes are heavy with lack of sleep. The headlights illuminate the fields of my small village. I catch a glimpse of a fox hunting—or maybe just the reflection of trash bins. On the radio, a song by Pearl Jam plays: Given to Fly. The chorus says: sometimes you see a strange dot in the sky—a man who is allowed to fly. That’s how I feel. When I go up there, I’m granted—just for a short time—the freedom of wild animals. So much so that it feels like flying. The road flows under the wheels of my Dacia. Even though the legal deadline is still a few days away, I’ve already mounted winter tires. I’ve “smelled” the air, like an old female chamois would. I could feel the cold coming, and caution made me prepare in advance. In the mountains, just a few meters without traction are enough to cause damage. I gain altitude. On a bend, the headlights reveal a group of deer—two males with females. It’s a shame it’s still dark, because they are truly beautiful animals. The first light of day welcomes me as I climb the switchbacks of the mountain pass where the trail begins. Last night it rained, then snowed, and then the clouds disappeared, leaving behind a sky that is incredibly beautiful—and cold. The wet snow on the ground has frozen. Despite the snowplow and winter tires, I get stuck halfway through a bend. I back down and try again. Nothing. I descend to a small clearing where a truck is parked. I start thinking about my options: carry on foot, or use chains. I choose chains. I mount them quickly and, just as quickly, reach the top of the pass. 2000 meters. Wind. Cold. The forecast said temperatures between -8°C and -10°C. Judging by the cold on my cheeks, they weren’t far off. I continue upward, toward the place where I once found ptarmigans. I love this species. Almost an obsession. I dreamed of them for a long time—sometimes as nightmares—until I first saw them on the Stelvio. A situation both beautiful and simple, which trained my eye. Later, I found them again in my own mountains, in a much more difficult—but equally beautiful—context. Then, for a couple of years, I didn’t encounter them again. And I won’t hide it—it bothered me a lot. Even here, where I am now, my searches have often ended in failure, as hard as the rock that shapes this magnificent environment. But passion demands this: to keep going, even when discouragement takes over. To keep searching even when your eyes mistake rocks for animals. To search, to fail, and to learn. Because if there’s one sentence that truly belongs to wildlife photography, it’s this: it is never a failure—always a lesson. By moving through the landscape, you begin to sense where a species might live. And when you find tracks—well, the game is on.