A few weeks ago, I hiked a short stretch of the Appalachian Trail—not the whole thing, just a few miles, but enough to feel something shift. I didn’t go with a plan, really. I just packed my water, a small sketchbook, and hit the trail early in the morning, hoping to clear my head. What I didn’t expect was how much that walk would quietly reshape the way I paint.
There’s a rhythm to walking through the woods. Footstep after footstep, heartbeat steady, breath syncing with the rise and fall of the trail. I found myself noticing things I usually pass by—a single red leaf clinging to a branch, the soft decay of mossy logs, the shimmer of morning light through mist. Each detail felt like its own painting.
When I got home, I couldn’t shake that feeling. Instead of rushing to paint something “impressive,” I started working slower, letting my brush follow the same kind of quiet pace I had on the trail. The work became more about atmosphere and feeling than precision. My colors shifted—more earth tones, more soft transitions. I wanted the viewer to feel what I felt out there: stillness, awe, and a gentle sense of presence.
That short hike reminded me that art doesn’t always come from pushing harder. Sometimes it’s about stepping back, getting quiet, and letting the world come to you. The trail gave me that. And now, every time I paint, I try to carry a little piece of that forest with me. Just a few miles—but they went a long way.
