Edges of Approach

Between Intent and Terrain.

What happens to a plan when the landscape resists it? When control loses its meaning and conditions begin to shape decisions? When distance cannot be overcome but instead becomes part of the experience?

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It was the meteorological start of spring.

I sat in our accommodation in Dombås, a cup of coffee in my hand, while a heavy snowstorm swept through the birch trees outside. Their branches bent under the weight of ice – no green, no spring. Overnight, the temperature had risen from -13 °C to -1 °C. At the same time, fresh snow was falling.

A plan had brought us here: to photograph musk oxen in the snow-covered Dovrefjell National Park.

I had already encountered them the previous autumn on a high plateau.

The mountains there do not rise. They lie flat, old and massive, as if they had never had any desire to make an impression. Frozen seas of stone and lichen, green and gray interwoven. A place where the earth seems to breathe slowly.

Even the musk oxen move calmly, almost stoically, through this landscape.

Their dense coats protect them from temperatures below -40 °C. With their archaic appearance, they are more than a subject. They are an example of how life functions under extreme conditions and how much survival depends on adaptation.

While mammoths disappeared, they survived in the Arctic regions of Canada and Greenland and were later reintroduced to Dovrefjell. Between fjell and valley, one of Europe’s last populations has lived there ever since.

Our guide had scouted several of the roughly 250 animals on skis days earlier. The herd was deep within the protected area, one of the largest on the Norwegian mainland.

In this alpine terrain, avalanche risk was high. Getting close seemed unlikely. We knew that – and still set out.

Against Resistance. We covered the first kilometers with sled dogs.When we reached the meeting point, there was energy in the air. The dogs, full of anticipation and drive, reacted instantly. They greeted us with a sense of familiarity.

These Alaskan huskies are working animals, bred for performance. Over several days, they can cover up to 200 kilometres a day – adapted precisely to these conditions.

The ascent was not a romanticised winter scene. The sleds sank into deep snow. We pushed, pulled, supported. Snow crystals drifted through the wind like projectiles; the sky became a participant. First lead-grey, then white, then pale blue. Visibility cleared and faded again.

And then, at some point, there was a moment when effort did not disappear, but stopped being resistance. I accepted that on this day I would not have full control over image composition.

The higher we climbed, the more the landscape opened. The surroundings became clearer, the snow more uniform, the air thinner. Strain turned into rhythm, uncertainty into orientation. A quiet understanding emerged between human, dog, and terrain.

At the edge of the reindeer protection area, we stopped and switched to snowshoes. The dogs stayed behind. Not as a rupture, but by local regulation.

After another hour, the plateau lay before us. The herd was visible, yet unreachable, on the other side of a valley. Eight musk oxen scattered along the slope.

Some were feeding, others resting. No classic wildlife scenario. No planned proximity. No spectacular shot. Instead: distance.

I worked at the limit of what even 600 mm could reveal.

The air shimmered slightly, yet contrasts remained clear. It was less about the detail than the context:

living beings as part of a vast, primordial landscape.

Afterwards, I deliberately put the camera down. I simply stood still and let the surroundings sink in. Somewhere in that vastness lay an ancient sense of closeness. I felt small, but not lost.

Acceptance. The following morning, our guide fell ill and was unable to join us. The likelihood of getting closer to the musk oxen decreased. Surprisingly, there was still inner calm. Success had taken on a different meaning.

A replacement guide took over – an experienced expedition leader with a finely tuned sense for the terrain. He read tracks before others could see them.

We changed our strategy and set out on foot from a different starting point.

The sun held, and the weather remained stable. Even at higher elevations, the snow began to soften, making walking unstable and exhausting. Snowshoes on, snowshoes off. The ground changed almost every minute.

Some male musk oxen live outside the herds.

Older bulls in particular withdraw to avoid competition and conserve energy. They live at a distance from the group.

We were looking for exactly such an animal.

Once at the top, we moved slowly across the hill. For hours, nothing happened. And it was precisely this nothing that turned expectation into attention.

Only one Minute. The moment had announced itself. Still, it arrived suddenly and with physical intensity.

We rounded a rock formation and stood directly in front of him.

No sound, no drama – only mass, fur, breath, presence. The body of the bull seemed poured into the landscape.

I had exactly one minute.

Adrenaline, focus, and uncertainty at once.

No tripod. An unstable stance. A partly hidden animal. Complex lighting conditions from the reflective snow.

I deliberately did not choose a perfect composition and prioritized speed.

Then something happened I could not control: I lowered the viewfinder and looked directly at the musk ox.

His gaze was calm, steady, as if he were not judging me.

For a moment, there was no photography.

Only encounter.

Afterwards, we stepped backwards into distance.

For four more hours, we waited – perhaps he would emerge from the rock formation.

But the encounter did not happen again. It did not need to.

The image had been made, the day was complete – not because of a photograph, but because of the path that led there, along which something had shifted.

Adaptation. Between intention and possibility lies a space that only reveals itself in the field.

Clouds move in, light disappears, distances remain. Control is an illusion, adaptation is reality.

Sometimes a single step to the side is enough to shift everything. Sometimes that step is impossible.

A subject is never isolated. It always emerges from place, conditions, and decisions made in the moment.

Working with nature means letting go of expectations. Perhaps that is why I keep returning to it.