About Coronaviking

Call me Coronaviking. Now, I am a wanderer of wild places, a seeker of solitary peaks and hidden valleys, venturing to corners of the earth where the rhythms of nature pulse in undisturbed cadence. In these remote realms, I capture glimpses of untouched beauty, carrying back memories of grandeur, frost, and wind to translate onto the page. Between expeditions, I find solace in writing, crafting memoirs of landscapes that have shaped me, of moments in vast wildernesses where the soul can breathe freely. My preferred companions on these journeys are my own two feet, for only they can lead me into regions that remain untouched by roads or human plans. I arrive at a chosen location and settle for a month or two, finding a quiet refuge away from cities, where I can slowly explore each hidden ridge and untraveled forest, sinking into the wilderness without the haste of modern life.

But this was not always my world. Ten years ago, I was merely a squirrel, one among countless others, racing with unquestioning zeal in a cage of my own making. That was my life as far back as memory serves—a dutiful wheel-spinner, accustomed to the inertia of ceaseless labor, unaware that life could be anything else. Everyone around me spun their wheels just as I did; the world was structured that way, after all, and so I followed the same path. Since childhood, I’d been taught that I had a multitude of rights, and yet I bore more duties still. Among these, my most sacred right—or so I was told—was the "pursuit of happiness". Happiness lay ahead on that path, I believed, dangling on the thread of “my dream”. It was a mirage that glittered just beyond reach, always urging me to spin a bit faster, to work a bit harder.

And this dream? It was some distant tropical paradise I’d seen in advertisements as a child—a place of pink sunsets and golden sands, where I could recline beneath swaying palms, drink from coconuts, and snack on chocolate. In my youth, this image had slipped into my mind and lodged itself deeply, an illusion I accepted as my own vision of happiness. Only later would I understand that this dream wasn’t mine at all. It was merely a shallow imprint, a piece of marketing designed to appeal to a restless, unformed mind. Yet, I took it up unquestioningly, my spirit dimmed by routines I neither challenged nor examined.

For years, I threw myself into work with unyielding fervor, convinced that each sleepless night and each skipped meal brought me a step closer to my “dream”. I sacrificed rest, health, and time—spinning my wheel faster and faster, as though sheer speed would propel me past every obstacle in my path. Yet, with each new milestone reached, two more challenges arose, and the harder I pushed, the more elusive my goal became. Looking back now, I see how life itself was trying to reach me, whispering, “Slow down, pause, look around”. But in those years, I couldn’t heed that gentle call. Advisors and colleagues, people whose opinions I had trusted, urged me on, saying I couldn’t afford to hesitate—that if I didn’t seize my “prize”, someone else surely would. And so, I pressed on, moving ever faster, even as my vision narrowed to a tunnel with only that distant paradise in view.

Then, in middle age, it seemed I had finally accumulated enough—resources, respect, accomplishments—to make my “dream” a reality. I sold my possessions and moved halfway across the globe, settling on the sandy shores of a tropical paradise. I imagined the peaceful mornings I’d spend in my own secluded sanctuary, lulled by the rhythm of waves. I imagined freedom. But what I found was an unexpected truth: all I had done was swap one cage for another. I was still spinning the wheel, only now under a scorching sun that drained rather than replenished. What had once been routine back home now became even more relentless in the unyielding tropical heat, which burned away my energy and left me feeling like an exhausted shell.

Slowly, weariness set in, a kind I hadn’t known before—one that gnawed at my bones. My body, in revolt against years of self-neglect, began to break down, delivering small punishments for each compromise I’d made. I was perpetually fatigued, irritable, short-tempered. Minor illnesses came and went, each one compounding the strain of my daily grind, and soon I began to feel much older than my years. Yet the machine had to keep turning; to sustain this “dream” demanded resources, and I found myself working harder than ever to keep pace.

The years that followed were a blur—a waking nightmare as I cycled through doctors, lawyers, and a litany of medication that numbed the pain but dulled my spirit. My evenings dissolved into a haze of pills and alcohol, my body craving rest, my mind desperate for relief. But there was no respite; each day I woke to the same treadmill, driven forward by forces that now seemed more consuming than any promise of happiness.

Eventually, I reached a breaking point. One evening, a deep revulsion welled up inside me, an uncontainable sense of disgust. It was as though my whole being rebelled in a wave of Sartrean nausea. A wrenching sickness took hold, and with it came uncontrollable vomiting. My body seemed to purge itself of years of accumulated grime and pretense, while my mind expelled every worry, every anxiety, every false aspiration and borrowed opinion. It all came surging out—my tightly held hopes and goals, the so-called wisdom of advisors, the weight of societal expectations, and the exhausting web of obligations and protocols.

In that moment, I felt myself suspended between two worlds, on the edge of a personal hell, and I resigned myself to the worst.

At some point, I stopped resisting and let go. A strange peace settled over me as everything faded into darkness. I felt myself dissolving, drifting in an abyss where time lost all meaning. I don’t know how long I stayed in that void, only that it felt both endless and fleeting. When I finally came to, it was as if I had awakened from a long, fevered dream—a dream so surreal that the details dissolved like mist in the light of day.

I went outside, and for the first time in years, I looked at the world as if seeing it anew. It was dawn, the soft light just beginning to filter through the trees, touching each leaf with a golden hue. My mind was strangely empty, yet my senses were alive, every detail etched with extraordinary clarity. I noticed sounds I’d long ignored—the chirping of distant birds, the gentle rustling of the wind through the branches. Dew glistened on the grass, each drop a perfect bead reflecting the light. I had no sense of urgency, no need to check the time or plan the day. I didn’t even fully know where I was, and yet, it didn’t matter. The only certainty I felt was that I was no longer a “squirrel,” and perhaps never truly had been.

The realization filled me with a lightness, a freedom I hadn’t felt in years. I pulled out my phone—a device that had once dictated my every move—and turned it off without hesitation. In that single act, I cut the cord to a world I no longer felt tethered to. For the next few days, I wandered, letting curiosity guide me, discovering beauty and intrigue in the smallest things—a wildflower growing beside a weathered stone, the play of sunlight on a small pond, the intricate patterns in the bark of a tree. The mundane had become remarkable, full of a quiet, patient wonder I’d never noticed before.

In the distance, I could see mountains, or perhaps they were large hills. For years, I’d talked idly about exploring them someday, but that someday had always been postponed for more “urgent” matters. Now, with no obligations pulling me back, I felt a simple urge to go to them. I walked to the foot of the hills, feeling the earth beneath my feet, the firmness of it, the connection between myself and the ground. I began to climb, taking each step slowly, savoring the rhythm that my body seemed to find on its own. My breathing deepened, and my heart found an even, steady beat. I hadn’t climbed far—only a hundred meters or so—but that small ascent felt monumental, the start of a journey that had no end.

And yet, as I stood there on that hillside, I felt no bitterness for those who still spun in their wheels below. Oddly, I felt an odd, detached sympathy—a kind of quiet respect. They were not of my tribe, nor was I of theirs, but I did not resent them. If anything, I appreciated their devotion, their ability to find meaning in that restless striving. For them, it might indeed be a virtue, something that gave them purpose. But I saw now that their world was not mine, nor mine theirs. Our paths had diverged, and I felt no desire to return to their ranks.

All I wanted was to keep a respectful distance from that world, to live apart without bitterness or disdain. I understood that we shared this space, and that they would always remain a part of the landscape, just as I had once been part of theirs. And that was enough—to coexist peacefully, observing without interference, wandering without judgment.

Over the years, I have wandered through many parts of this vast and varied world—New Zealand, Patagonia, Norway, the Alps, and the Pyrenees. Each place has revealed itself to me in ways I could never have imagined. I have walked under skies painted in unfamiliar hues, seen mountain ranges that seem to touch the heavens, and traced rivers whose names I cannot pronounce but whose voices I remember. And in each of these places, I have encountered people whose lives flow in their own rich currents, bound to their lands by traditions as old as the hills themselves. I have learned to listen quietly, to accept and respect their ways without presuming to become one of them.

I am content with the modest role of an observer, a traveler passing through, taking nothing but memories and leaving only the faintest trace of a footprint behind. I have found that there is a beauty in remaining slightly apart, in not seeking to be a part of every world I step into. If someone along the way requires help, I offer it, as they, without hesitation, offer help to me. There is a quiet exchange in this, an unspoken acknowledgment that though we may tread different paths, we are all part of the same great journey. And strangely enough, since I began living this way, I seem to encounter mostly kind and untroubled souls, people who walk their own paths peacefully. Perhaps this is the way of the world—one attracts that which resonates with one’s own nature.

Freed from the weight of obligations, I find myself able to give back to the world in simple ways that are close to my heart. Through photographs and words, I share glimpses of the places I have walked, places few may ever see but perhaps might dream of. In these humble ways—through a film reel, a story shared, a new line drawn on the map—I hope to kindle that quiet fire in others, the desire to seek out the unknown, to feel the earth beneath their feet, and to discover something timeless within themselves.

And so, my journey continues, not driven by a search for anything in particular but by a gentle gratitude for the life that allows me to wander freely, to look deeply, and to breathe fully. It is enough, I have found, to simply be here, moving one step at a time through landscapes that ask nothing of me except to bear witness to their beauty and to be grateful for the gift of each passing moment.