By Sam Rippon
The sky was still indigo when I caught my first glimpse of the monastery in Northern Thailand, its teakwood eaves barely visible through the breath of morning mist. It clung to the mountainside like something half-remembered from a dream, weather-worn, silent, half-swallowed by jungle vines and drifting cloud. Below, the valley exhaled slowly under a blanket of white, as if the earth
itself were meditating. The air smelled of damp moss, woodsmoke, and the sharp green of crushed leaves.
I had spent three days trekking to reach this place, hacking through bamboo, slipping on mossslick stones, prying leeches from my ankles with muddy fingers. My legs ached; my throat still tasted of iron, and my shoulders were bruised from my pack. But I barely noticed. My guide, Phra Anand, a former forest renunciant who had once lived off tree bark and silence, moved with the grace of someone fluent in both terrain and stillness. With each step, the noise of the world faded, replaced by the hush of leaves and the rhythm of our breath. We were entering a place where the sacred and the wild no longer lived apart.
This wasn’t a press trip or commission. It was personal. My long-term project, Stillness in the Wild, explored the meeting points between wilderness survival and Buddhist asceticism. I wanted to understand how the spiritual and the elemental coexisted, especially in those who had renounced the world.
The monastery was barely a monastery. No electricity. No golden statues. Just four monks, a silent cook, and the forest. My intention was to observe quietly and write later. I carried a small camera, more notebook than lens.
On the second morning, I followed Phra Anand on his alms round. The path was slick with dew. At the base of the mountain, villagers waited with offerings, sticky rice, tamarind, grilled mushrooms in banana leaves. The exchanges were wordless.
Later, something unexpected happened.
One of the youngest monks, maybe fourteen, motioned for me to follow. I hesitated, visitors weren’t meant to speak with novices, but curiosity pulled me. He led me behind a mossy boulder, where a faded tarp covered a survival kit: a handmade water filter, a ferro rod, even a snakebite suction tool. “This is how I lived,” he whispered. “Before here” I blinked. “Before?” He nodded. “Alone. In the forest. One week. To prove I was ready” My journalistic brain lit up. A teenage monk undergoing wilderness survival? It was the kind of story editors loved; ritual meets resilience.
I asked if I could photograph the kit.
He paused. “No photo. Just… remember”
That night, I sat by the prayer hall under a ceiling of stars. The scent of burnt rice husks lingered in the air, earthy and acrid. I still felt the coarse weave of the tarp beneath my fingertips, the warmth of his breath close to my cheek. A faint metallic taste from the mountain tea clung to my tongue. Somewhere nearby, a gecko clicked from the rafters, and the night air brushed cool against my skin, carrying the smoky hush of the forest. I knew I could write about this. But how would I explain it without distorting it? Would it become exoticized, another “Buddhist bootcamp” for Western readers to gawk at? Even with changed names, would I be violating something sacred?
The boy hadn’t just shared a fact; he’d shared a transformation. Maybe even a trust. I didn’t sleep much. At dawn, I asked Phra Anand, “Do many novices live alone in the forest before ordaining?”
He nodded. “It is tradition. But not for story.”That sentence stayed with me. Not for story. I stayed one more day, didn’t ask more questions, didn’t write until I’d left the mountain behind.
I didn’t write about the boy. Not because his story lacked weight, but because it carried too much. It wasn’t a headline. It was an offering, meant to be held, not broadcast.
As travel journalists, we’re trained to look for the hook. But on that mountain, I learned not all stories want to be told. Some live best in silence, in the hush of the forest, in a glance, in what’s protected. I had come looking for a story about survival. But what I found was my discomfort with the act of witnessing. My camera, my notebook, my instinct to translate, it all felt suddenly intrusive.
Now, I carry a different kind of question: not what’s the story here? but am I the right person to tell it? And if I do, who does it serve? That moment changed how I see my role. Not just as a writer, but as a guest. And with that comes a responsibility to tread more lightly. Not just on the trail, but on the truths I carry home.
Some stories you carry. Not publish.
This article is part of the practical work carried out by students on the Master’s Degree in Travel Journalism at the School of Travel Journalism.