November the grey

November the grey There comes a moment after the fall of the colors when the subjects become dull. The immaculate gray of November is a stage that triggers the capsizing of life towards sleep. The plants fall asleep according to the length and coldness of the short days. What a few months ago screamed of life is now mute. The hot days come to bruise the first snows having started their migration too hastily. There is a struggle between winter and the persistence of the Indian summer. In the manner of the first peoples of our territory, in accordance with these first snows, the nomads left their summer residence near the St. Lawrence. Following the habits of the boreal fauna, they headed inland, well into the depths of the forest, a place for hunting and winter protection. The occasional warm spell sometimes allowed them to stay a little longer on the banks. In those times, the woodland caribou roamed abundantly in the mountains of Charlevoix. I like to let myself be carried away by the thoughts of those times. At that precise time, we humans lived in perfect harmony with the beings that surrounded us. I sometimes walked on lines and trails that were perfectly maintained by these same caribou. These paths, clearly visible from the air, are the book that tells the story of the caribou's life. Their thousands of hooves, walking heavily on the sparse and green carpet of lichen. A silent writing that draws the slowness and peace of those faraway times. With my feet in their hooves, I always try to get in touch with this story that disappears before our eyes. At the vision of these two caribou, time, which had already slowed down considerably, continued its sinking. The falling snow looked like the grains of an hourglass. It froze in the air in a final effort to strip me of the landmarks of my troubled time. Between me and their eyes, there was this space-time where humanity had not yet ransacked everything. I was there with my friends, the three of us living in the same kilometer, breathing the same air. The same little snowflakes were hovering, swinging from left to right to lie on our heads and rest there. The love that emanated from this couple was not a love from our modern and human spectrum. By their glances and positions, the two watched over the other's blind spot. Both breathed in unison the innocence of their lives. The contact between these two cervids was pure, but above all simple. By consulting each other with the big, bulging eyes of my presence, I was able to learn what harmony, true harmony, is. On the way back, my head saturated with these moments that I would have liked to last forever, I felt a serene joy. As I got closer to my vehicle, this joy was transformed into bitterness. Perhaps such intense encounters end up making me bitter from fights that are not won. I am immensely fortunate and grateful for what I have been able to see since exploring our territory. This luck comes, I believe, with a price to pay. Often in photography, I have to deal with sets and subjects that require me to find a particular angle. An angle that does not include human structures, garbage and any other intruders from our world in theirs. In these moments that I live in the company of animals, I see a much larger human intruder, yet invisible in my sensor. Something that I hide from my mind by showing it only one angle so as not to break the beauty of the encounters. This view that I can no longer help but look at is the awareness of the beauty that has disappeared. Of this harmony between men and nature that is no longer there. Of those species which, once extinct, are forever extinct. How beautiful it is to see one of the last caribou of the Charlevoix herd. How sad to see one of the last caribou of the Charlevoix herd. So how do I keep my head high? I enjoy and comfort myself in the little fights that people do every day to protect the last wild spaces of our territory. It's not a question of protecting everything, nor of recreating what has been ransacked. We just need to at least preserve what remains. The last remnants of that time when we, humans and animals lived the transition to winter together surrounded by the greyness of November.