The wild is a sanctuary

Bend, Oregon sits at the edge of the state’s high desert, where Ponderosa pine forests meet volcanic buttes, ancient lava flows, and the vast, open spaces of the Great Basin. The elevation shifts quickly here. One moment you’re walking through sagebrush and basalt, the next you’re standing in alpine meadows beneath snow-dusted peaks. It’s a landscape of contrasts and one I keep returning to when I need to reconnect with nature, with creativity, and with stillness.

There’s a moment that happens when I’m deep in the wild, far from pavement, phone signals, and human noise when everything inside me exhales. The static in my mind fades, and that endless to-do list finally loosens its grip. In those moments, the wild doesn’t just surround me, it steadies me. It reminds me who I am when the world isn’t watching.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve chased solitude and raw beauty to the furthest corners of the world. I’ve train hopped across the Sahara, paraglided above the Himalayas, lived on a sailboat circumnavigating the remote areas of the globe for over a decade, and ridden motorcycles through the jagged peaks and backroads of the Indian subcontinent. And through it all, the wild has been more than a backdrop for adventure, it has been my sanctuary.

This time, it was central Oregon’s wild terrain that called me back. I loaded up my Toyota 4Runner with everything I needed for a few days of backcountry exploration; camera gear, maps, hiking boots, and enough curiosity to follow whatever the land was ready to reveal. My focus was simple: hike, observe, and visit the waterfalls that breathe life into this arid landscape.

My first serendipitous stop was at Steelhead Falls. I followed the trail along the canyon rim until the sound of rushing water drowned out everything but my breath. The Deschutes River cut powerfully through the rock, carving silence into something deeper. The air was cool, the trail dusty, the sun casting shadows across the canyon walls. I sat for a long time with my feet hanging over the edge, letting the sound of the falls replace the noise in my head.

From there I drove South toward Fort Rock. The landscape shifted the further I went. Pine gave way to dry flats, the trees thinning into low brush. By the time I arrived, clouds were rolling overhead, turning the light soft and somber. A steady wind swept through the stone amphitheater, carrying with it the feeling of time layered in dust and shadow. I hiked slowly, letting the wind push against me, leaning into it. It wasn’t the golden hour scene I’d hoped for, but it had its own gravity. A quiet austerity. An always welcomed reminder that beauty doesn’t always come wrapped in perfect conditions.

These places don’t just offer escape, they invite transformation. And with the 4Runner as my mobile basecamp, I was able to fully immerse myself in that process. Its quiet strength and rugged reliability let me push farther down dirt roads, find trailheads few ever see, and wake up in places where most people never fall asleep.

Evenings were often spent quietly, cooking over a small stove, flipping through my notebook, reviewing the light and movement of the day. Sometimes I made a fire, sometimes I didn’t. It depended more on mood than on temperature. I’ve learned that the most memorable parts of a trip aren’t planned. They’re felt. 

After a full week of playing outdoors I make one last stop of serenity at Tumalo Falls. It was midday and the light was hard, but there was still something magnetic about the place. The falls thundered into a pool of mist, the spray catching sunlight in unpredictable ways. The trail curved through a dense patch of forest, the scent of damp pine and earth grounding me with every step. I didn’t get the photograph I imagined, but that didn’t matter. The moment itself was the reward.

Out here, where everything is stripped down, I reconnect with the version of myself that isn’t performing, producing, or posting. I’m just present. The wild becomes my sanctuary and I try to treat it with reverence. And more than anything, I’m reminded of how small I am in the face of it all. Not insignificant, but part of something vast. It’s humbling in the best way. 

And when I return home, the sanctuary travels with me. It lives in the photographs, in the stories, in the stillness I carry back into a world that often moves too fast. This is what sanctuary means to me. Not escape. Not silence. But a deeper kind of listening. A way of being more fully here, in a world that too often asks us to be elsewhere.