MOTHER Volume 4

The fourth issue of the "Mother" magazine.

VOLUME 4 MOTHER

There will be nothing left but stories

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

The Quiet Between Heartbeats

Melissa Schäfer Founder & Editor-in-Chief

Dear Mother-Family,

What began as a creative outlet has grown into something much larger—a space for shared stories, inspiration, and community. Over the years, Mother magazine has evolved with me and with all of you. It has been an honour to share this journey, and I will forever be grateful to every

single reader, supporter, and contributor who helped shape this magazine into what it is today. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. This is the final edition of Mother , and it’s difficult to put into words what this project has meant to me. This issue was supposed to be published more than six months ago. But life, as it often does, had other plans. On February 19th, our beloved baby dog Nanuk passed away after a long battle with cancer. Her loss broke our heart in a way I never could have imagined. The world turned dark. And just days later, we found out our lives were about to change again: I was pregnant. It was unexpected, and I wasn’t ready. Grieving Nanuk while carrying new life was the most fragile and complicated time of my life. So yes, this is the final issue of Mother as we know it—but in many ways, it’s also a beginning. A new chapter is opening. And maybe one day, with your continued support, we’ll find our way back here—together. To the incredible women who made Volume 4 possible: thank you. Thank you for your patience, your understanding, and for walking with me through my highs and lows. This is your time to shine, and I couldn’t be prouder. As I’ve always said: I’m your biggest fan. Every woman who has ever been part of Mother holds a special place in my heart. Let’s end this chapter with joy. Every article in this volume is accompanied by a song by Mogli, author of the foreword. Let’s celebrate the stories of nature and art, the women behind the lens, and the music that carries us. And let’s send a kiss to my angel up in the clouds—Nanuk—who’s now not just watching over me, but all of us.

Stay kind. Stay loving. Always. And share your stories with the world. Your Mamabär

Love, Melissa Schäfer

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SONY

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Michael Nick Nichols/Courtesy of Vital Impacts Photo by Isabel Nicolau

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@thepowerinusproject www.andersonrocio.com

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MOG L I

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FOREWORD

Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. —Cesar A. Cruz

Politics and educational systems across the globe fail to educate us on the actual state of the world. They fail to overcome stigmas, show our diversity, and unite us as one human race. On top of that, we consume most of our news through social media, meaning it’s heavily filtered by algorithms. We’re all stuck in our own bubbles. Art can be the missing link. It can be a bridge between those bubbles because everyone consumes art. It’s beautiful to me that I, as a musician, am writing these words to be printed alongside the talented photographers showcased in this magazine. Connecting two art forms that are so similar. We express our emotions, we observe, we strip ourselves bare. And we’re ready to uproot the status quo to protect our Mother, the planet we live on. As women, we understand reciprocity over extraction. Our planet gives to us tirelessly, and yet, she’s starting to become tired. Artists have the means to spread information comprehensively, so our message lies in everything we do. We are connected and we won’t stop at anything to save her.

Why do I create?

Because I want to conquer fear—my own and everyone else’s. I believe that fear is the root of everything bad in the world. Every wrong decision and every war comes down to someone being scared. I’m trying to be brave by making myself vulnerable. Vulnerability creates empathy and connection, and our world needs that. It’s okay to be scared sometimes—we all are—scared of change, scared of loss. But being brave anyway is the most rewarding lesson of my life. Choosing love over fear.

Practicing joy is an act of rebellion—every day of my life.

I‘m inviting you now to spend some conscious time with the sheer talent of these photographers. Take a deep breath with every photograph. See the love in all of them. Feel the joy.

May this magazine give you hope,

Mogli

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CONTENTS

12 20 28

36 44 52

Limitless

Draculin

The Lone Horseman

River Matriarch

Facets of the Self

Prism Peaks

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60 70 78

88 96

112 120 128

In the Shadow of the Herd

Shapeshifter

Water Holds Memory The Love of a Dog

On Colourful Skies

Into the Cloudforest A Celestial Dance

104

Motherhood

Contributors

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L IMI TLESS SURREAL NIGHTSCAPES

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PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY ANGEL FUX MUSIC BY MOGLI “OUTRO“

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SWISS ALPS 46°33’36.4”N 8°33’40.0”E

ANGEL FUX

“Patience is key, as the best shots often come to those willing to wait.”

night skies and what they hold have always fascinated me. They’re places of strength and solitude, filled with a sense of timelessness that I find deeply grounding. For me, they’re not just subjects for photography but environments where I feel connected to something bigger. Standing before a glacier or at a mountain’s peak at night, it’s easy to feel the weight of time and the resilience of nature. In photographing these landscapes, I try not only to capture what I see but also to convey the atmosphere and quiet of these places. They offer a unique setting for night photography, where the skies open up, and the landscapes reveal a completely different side of themselves. Night photography feels like its own art form, with unique challenges and rewards. I’m particularly drawn to the way the night sky interacts with landscapes, from the soft glow of distant stars to the vivid colors of the auroras. Capturing these elements takes more than just showing up with a camera—it requires a good understanding of the night sky and some meticulous planning. For instance, shooting the Milky Way requires a knowledge of the moon’s phases, its visibility depending on your location on Earth, and to seek the darkest skies you can find, away from light pollution. For northern lights, you need to account for not only weather conditions but also solar activity and geomagnetic variables, which are very unpredictable. In these moments, patience is key, as the best shots often come to those willing to wait. Patience throughout the year to wait for the perfect window, and patience once you’re there ready to photograph. And in the end, it’s worth the time spent in the cold because those images tell a story that feels both real and otherworldly. Each shoot starts with a fair amount of preparation. From scouting locations to checking the weather and timing for specific astronomical events, a lot happens before I even hike to a location. Once I’m on-site, it’s about adapting to the conditions and finding the right composition that does justice to the scene. The physical side of this work—hiking with gear, setting up in remote areas, and dealing with sometimes unpredictable weather—is part of the experience. It’s essential to know the environment well, not just for getting the best shot but also for staying safe. Glacier areas, for instance, demand extra caution. I carry the necessary equipment to stay warm and safe, knowing that the beauty of a shot is never worth taking unnecessary risks. Once I’ve captured the raw images, the work continues in the editing process. I often combine multiple exposures and subjects to bring out details that wouldn’t be visible in a single shot. My goal isn’t to create something artificial nor exactly what I saw, but to build an image that shows what I felt in the moment and what I wanted to bring forward. Editing is where I assemble, harmonize, and refine the elements I’m bringing together. I enjoy this part of the process because it allows me to share my perspective on these places and add a personal touch to the final piece. This is also the practice that allows me to test new things, use creativity freely, and witness what result comes out.

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SWISS ALPS 46°33’36.4”N 8°33’40.0”E

“Discovering the world and its beauty has been my most effective and meaningful way of discovering myself.”

My Vision for Photography

Through my work, I hope to share not just aesthetic images but also a sense of respect for nature. I think there’s something powerful in showing the quiet and resilience of these landscapes. I hope my images encourage viewers to take a second look at the natural world and perhaps think about the importance of experiencing it. Go out there and see for yourself the beauty that surrounds us. I believe photographers should capture what they want, not necessarily what just lies there. This approach to photography makes you become an active seeker in the world rather than passively witnessing your surroundings. Such a vision of the field puts creativity and discovery at the heart of this art form, just as I believe it should be. Discovering the world and its beauty has been my most effective and meaningful way of discovering myself. Photography, when viewed as an enabler for creativity, gives you the power to choose and to actively decide: What do you want to find in the world? What do you want for yourself? And then go after those things. My aim is to create images that invite people to pause and feel connected to the places I photograph. I want my images to be a reminder of the beauty and wonder that exist in the world, even if we’re only seeing a glimpse of it.

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MUSIC BY MOGLI “CUBBED AND OPEN“

HORSEMAN THE LONE PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY LIANNA MARIE

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CAPPADOCIA 38°39’31.3”N 34°51’11.5”E LIANNA MARIE

“Horses lend us the wings we lack.” – Pam Brown

my ancestors didn ’ t start here , but this land beneath the Erciyes Mountains is the only home I’ve ever known. It holds a strange kind of freedom, a feeling that I’m wild and free but somehow, not fully my own. It’s possible to grow fond of, and even respect, those who hold power over us. Most days, I wander freely across the valley, my days marked only by the sun’s arrival and the darkness of night. At night, he arrives—a man unlike the others, with a way of sitting calm and at ease on my brother’s back. My brother carries him without resistance, and in their movements, I see a partnership that’s hard to understand; my brother belongs to him. But simultaneously, they belong to each other in some unspoken way. As the sun dips down, the landscape comes alive once more. The dogs circle around us and burst with excitement. I worry one day I may step on them as they dart between my legs. The dogs circle and press us together, running alongside my brother and his rider, guiding us in one direction, our hooves beating as one and our manes chasing the wind. In the rush, I see her. A woman with her camera in hand. She stands still while my brothers pass her from both sides, her eyes steady and warm as she sees us. When our gazes meet, there’s a quiet understanding, a shared stillness that settles any unease I feel. I think she senses the same, and in that moment, it’s as if she whispers to me, “I see you.” It’s not every night I see the cowboy and his dogs, but when they come, my brother and his rider lead us to meet the humans they bring with them. Our herd stretches over the land like shadows. I don’t fully understand why they watch us this way. They marvel at our strength and the way we move, but they don’t run beside us, or ride on our backs, as he does. Perhaps they only wish to see what freedom looks like. I know the life I live could change one day; my brother seems to understand this even more. When he carries his rider across the mountains, I see a future where we could be bound to different paths, lives that ask something new from us. And yet, for now, we run, wild and free, as much as any creature can be. As the glow of the sun fades, they leave us once again, but here I stay, free to roam, free to run. She looks back over her shoulder, her eyes fixated on me as if to say, “I see you still,” in that moment, I know she understands something, even if I can’t name it. The look in her eyes and the softness in her smile, I know it. I know that tomorrow, as a new day dawns and then sun again begins to set, my brother and his rider will come back to me, guiding us together through the twilight, a balance of my freedom and his power. And I will continue to run, to feel the earth beat beneath my hooves, the mountains watching over us as a promise from long ago. I wish for the others to know what it is to roam as I do, to understand what it means to feel free. Perhaps, in their own way, they do. in cappadocia , the “land of beautiful horses,” dust rose in great clouds around me, finding its way into every corner of my camera, thick and warm in the late afternoon sun. I wonder what goes through the mind of a horse? As I stood among them, as they rushed past me. Each one, unchained and free to roam, time slowed as they came

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CAPPADOCIA 38°39’31.3”N 34°51’11.5”E

near me, meeting my gaze and looking into my eyes as if to say, “I see you.” As I stood there, camera in hand, I began to wonder: What truly lies in the soul of a horse—and, perhaps, the soul of a cowboy? Cappadocia is known for it’s hot air balloons, but it translates to “the land of beautiful horses.” Just outside of the city reside the cowboys of Cappadocia, keeping tradition alive as they coral the wild horses to be captured, not into captivity, but by a lens that seeks to share their beauty with the world. I didn’t grow up around horses, but as I spend more and more time around them, I’m captivated by the connection we, as humans, are granted with them. I’ve felt as though they knew my fears and my heart, and in something I cannot describe, as if they knew my past and accepted me fully in that moment. Studies have shown how a horse can read the emotions of a human, how our joy or fear can even impact their actions. When I capture a portrait of an individual, it’s a deep honor for me to be trusted and granted the opportunity to share how, in a moment, I’ve seen someone. Yet with a horse, I feel this connection, the life in their spirit, the power that is so paralleled by peace, something about the way they are a part of the earth itself, how they become a part of the landscape, the way the dust rises beneath their feet as they shake the earth. The cowboy’s life here is different from the image we might picture, different from the “Wild West.” They are caretakers of history, protectors of a tradition that allows what is wild to roam free. These horses once served as workhorses for the nearby farms by summer, and by winter were released to live on their own as they chose. As times have changed, less and less were brought in for the summer, and many have never known life to be tamed. The cowboys may own the horses, but seek to preserve their way of life, they ensure enough hay is laid to the fields in harsh winters, and that every effort to conserve their way of life is made. As times changed and the land was sought for industrialization, the cowboys fought back, for the horses to remain free, for the land to be their home, and it stands protected to this day because of their efforts. They both profit off them as visitors come, and care for them as needed. It’s a paradox, really. Their freedom is preserved by the cowboys, but the cowboys are, in a way, a parallel spirit that respects the land and the creatures upon it. It made me wonder: Does the horse see the cowboy as an equal? A partner in free- dom? One that sleeps under the stars and rides through the dust, one that worries not where he will lay his head or what tomorrow may bring, one that chases freedom as the wind stirs around him? Is it a cowboy that truly knows what it is to be free, to be wild, to roam? To not place value on material possessions over what it is to know and live on the earth, to be a cowboy, to ride among the wild horses, to roam free. Is it not what we all dream somewhere within our own soul? A cowboy’s life reflects the simplicity and strength of the horse, reminding us what it means to roam, to live without constraint. The cowboy’s connection to the land is deeply rooted. The horse and the cowboy, in their shared respect for the land and freedom, seem to stand as equals, each a partner in the other’s journey. But I wonder what it is to know the story of such a horse?

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FACETS OF THE SELF

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MUSIC BY MOGLI “SWIM“

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY LAURA ZALENGA IN FRONT AND BEHIND THE CAMERA

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THE NETHERLANDS 51°56’26.5”N 4°28’25.1”E

LAURA ZALENGA

“ I know how vulnerable it can feel, and that understanding helps me create a space where people can let their guard down.”

the start of my love for photography is a pretty common one. As a child and teenager, I was always drawn to creativity—drawing, building things, finding ways to express myself visually. When I was around 17, I got my hands on a tiny digital point-and-shoot camera. By today’s standards, it was a limited tool, but it ignited a fiery passion for the medium in me. I love the fact that you see the outcome directly and experimenting can be fast-paced. After an initial phase of photographing flowers and my cats, I turned to self- portraiture. It was the easiest way to have a human subject without feeling like I was bothering anyone with my limited skills at the beginning. Many photographers start this way and then move on to photographing others, but I never wanted to give up the unique possibilities that come with using my own body as my medium. Over time, I learned to capture other people as well, but expressing personal emotions or stories through someone else always felt like an unnecessary detour. When I photograph others, it’s about them—I love to truly show them, their story, their life. But when it comes to translating my own inner world into images, self-portraiture is the way that feels right. I do wonder: Why don’t more people take self-portraits? (Just to clarify, I don’t mean selfies—we see plenty of those.) Maybe I’m biased, but I struggle to think of another photographic genre that offers the same level of freedom. It’s been said many times before, probably because it’s true: self-portraiture has a deeply therapeutic aspect. For years, it was my diary, my safe space. It allowed me to explore who I was, to express emotions without inhibition, to exist without fear of judgment. It helped me accept myself, not just in terms of appearance, but on a deeper level. That process is ongoing, but looking back, I can see how much I’ve grown. Beyond that, self-portraiture taught me what it feels like to be in front of the camera, which made me a better photographer when working with others. I know how vulnerable it can feel, and that understanding helps me create a space where people can let their guard down. One of the things I love most about self-portraiture is the endless room for experimentation. I can create whenever I want, wherever I want, for as long as I want. That kind of independence fuels my creativity. It might also be a necessity in my case, since I have aphantasia, meaning I can’t visualise images in my mind. That makes planning more difficult, so I’ve learned to rely on what’s around me, letting my surroundings spark spontaneous ideas. In a way, it feels like solving a puzzle without a right answer, and I love that. It has made me more adaptable, more willing to embrace the unexpected.

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THE NETHERLANDS 51°56’26.5”N 4°28’25.1”E

“I am very curious how my relationship with self-portraiture will develop. We spent over a decade together already and I hope to explore self-portraiture through my aging body and mind.”

My work often explores themes that matter deeply to me, such as harmful beauty standards, gender identity, and climate change. Nature has always been a central part of my photography, just as it was a central part of my childhood. I grew up climbing trees and exploring forests, and now nature is both my backdrop and a source of energy. To me, it’s something worth protecting, and I hope my images reflect that. Looking back, my relationship with self-portraiture evolved in ways I didn’t expect. My earliest images were essentially close-up selfies, then came a more honest phase of basically setting up a camera and then exercising being vulnerable while forgetting it’s even there. Nowadays I often bring a topic or vague concept into the session and experiment from there, appreciating everything that happens off the beaten path. Now people most often don’t recognise my self-portraits as images of me. Which is a great compliment, as one of my biggest goals is to turn myself into an anonymous protagonist while still capturing the rawness and honesty that self-portraits allow. I’m very curious how my relationship with self-portraiture will develop. We spent over a decade together already and I hope to explore self-portraiture through my aging body and mind. I want to play more freely, break away from routines, push myself further. I want to be even more vulnerable, to care even less about conventional beauty, use my work to speak about the things that matter to me. And of course, I hope to inspire many people to explore the magic and the opportunities of self-portraiture.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY KATE NEWMAN TEXT BY MELISSA SCHÄFER

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MUSIC BY MOGLI “PARADOX“

DRACUL IN MIDNIGHT BEE & FLYING FOXES

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BYRON BAY 28°38’15.0”S 153°38’14.0”E

KATE NEWMAN as the world above settles into sleep, we wake. With the last rays of sunlight fading, the sky is ours, a canvas of dusk and stars. You might not notice us at first, our wings blend with the night, our movements swift and silent. But we are here, as we have been for millions of years, soaring and diving through the dark. We are the quiet guardians of your world, and tonight, like every night, we’re on a mission. You may think of us as creepy or strange, but we are far from the creatures of myths and nightmares. We are nature’s invisible caretakers, working while you rest, ensuring the balance of your world. As you sleep, we feast. Many of us indulge on the mosquitoes that bite you, on the insects that threaten the crops that grow your food. Each with wings spread wide, we collectively consume thousands of these pests in a single night, protecting your harvests and homes almost invisible to your senses. But we do more than just keep the bugs away. When we flit from flower to flower, we help pollinate plants that give life to the fruits you enjoy. Bananas, mangoes, and even the agave that makes your tequila. As we nibble on fruit in the treetops, we scatter seeds far and wide, helping forests grow and giving back to the earth that feeds us all, all in the shadows of night. Yet, despite everything we do, we remain misunderstood. You often don’t see us for what we are—vital components of the ecosystem we share, necessary, and deeply connected to your everyday life. But we, the bats, ask only this: that you look a little closer and remember that the night belongs not to fear but to the quiet heroes who protect you, your food, and your future, one flap of our wings at a time. The next time you see us above in the night sky, remember that we are not just creatures of the night, but helpers of the Earth. Our story begins millions of years ago, long before myths and misunderstandings shaped how you see us. Today, over 1,400 species of bats inhabit the world, making us the second most diverse order of mammals, right after rodents. From the massive wing- span of the flying fox to the small bumblebee bat that could fit in the palm of your hand, we are a family of extraordinary variety and adaptability. Our wings are one of nature’s most fascinating creations, we are the only mammal that can fly, but unlike birds, our wings are not feathers. We stretch our skin over extended finger bones. This unique structure gives us remarkable skills, allowing us to hover like a hummingbird, make sharp turns, or dive with precision. It’s no wonder that some of your most outstanding technological achievements, like sonar and drones, copied our skill set and yet you still can’t master our mode of flight. Many of us navigate our nocturnal world using echolocation, an advanced biological sonar system that outperforms your most sophisticated technologies. By creating high-pitched calls and listening to the returning echoes, we create a detailed mental map of our surroundings, “seeing” even the smallest prey in complete darkness. Each clicking sound is a reminder of the incredible creativity of evolution. As you read this, a bat is hard at work securing your morning coffee somewhere in the tropics. Like many other crops, the coffee plant depends on pollinators, and while bees are well-known for this role, bats play a crucial part, too, especially in regions where

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BYRON BAY 28°38’15.0”S 153°38’14.0”E

bees are less active. Without us, crops like guava, durian, and even chocolate-producing cacao might struggle to thrive. Think of us the next time you savor a bite of chocolate or sip on your morning brew. And then there’s our role as seed dispersers. Some of us are often called “forest farmers” because of our ability to regenerate forests. In Australia, we are the most important pollinators because of the vast distance we fly. As we eat fruit, we carry seeds far from their parent trees, dropping them in new locations to grow. In this way, we are architects of biodiversity, helping to maintain the balance of ecosystems that sustain countless other species—including you. Despite our contributions, we are often seen as harbingers of doom. Myths and folklore have painted us as vampires, witches’ familiars, or omens of death. While it’s true that a few species feed on blood, the so-called vampire bats of Central and South America usually target livestock, not humans, and their feeding habits even contribute to medical advancements. Did you know that a protein in vampire bat saliva, fittingly named Draculin, is being studied for its potential to treat blood clots and strokes? Fear of disease is another challenge we face. Like all animals, we can carry pathogens, but most pose no threat to humans. In fact, we are more at risk from you than you are from us. Habitat destruction, climate change, and hunting are eliminating bat populations worldwide. Diseases like white-nose syndrome, a fungal infection, have wiped out millions of us in North America alone. Yet, without us, insect populations could grow too much, crops could fail, and ecosystems could collapse. So, what can you do to help? The first step is simple: Learn to share your world with us. If you have a garden, consider installing a bat house, a safe haven where we can roost during the day. By giving us shelter, you encourage natural pest control and help your plants thrive. Avoid using harmful pesticides that can poison our food sources and damage the delicate balance of your ecosystem. Be cautious of the fencing you install, and the netting you use in your garden, becoming entangled in these materials causes us serious harm and can damage our fragile wings. You can also help by spreading awareness about our importance. Replace fear and myth about us with curiosity. Teach your children and friends about the wonders of Mother Nature, including creatures that live at night. Imagine a world without bats. It’s a world where crops fail, forests wither, and the night becomes a battleground against swarms of insects. It’s a world poorer in bio- diversity, beauty, and balance. But it doesn’t have to be that way. By protecting us, you protect the delicate web of life that sustains us all. We’re not asking for much. We’re not flashy or loud and don’t seek the spotlight. We’ll continue our nightly work as we always have, pollinating, scattering, and feasting. But perhaps the next time you see a shadow flit across the moon or hear the faint rustle of wings, you’ll pause and think of us not as creatures of the dark but as creatures of light—a light that shines in the quiet rhythms of nature while you sleep.

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RIVER MATRIARCH

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MUSIC BY MOGLI “EARTH“

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY JULIE CHANDELIER ELEPHANTS OF THE CHOBE RIVER

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NAMIBIA 17°47’58.2”S 25°10’13.1”E

JULIE CHANDELIER

the light is low as our boat drifts on the Chobe River. I’m balancing my camera, but all around me is stillness. We’re watching, waiting. And then, there she is—a silhouette rising from the nearby trees, her immense frame backlit by the fading sun, like some ancient spirit stepping out of time itself. The matriarch. She is colossal yet gentle, moving with a kind of grace I almost can’t fathom. More than just the leader, she is the heart of the herd. Elephant societies are matriarchal, led by the oldest and most experienced females. She carries within her the collective memory of the herd—where to find water in times of drought, which paths are safe, and how to respond to threats. Her knowledge is essential for survival, passed down through generations. Some matriarchs live well into their sixties, guiding and protecting their families for decades. But when a matriarch dies, her absence is deeply felt. The herd can struggle without her wisdom, sometimes even fragmenting as they attempt to adapt to life without their leader. I can see her eyes: deep-set, intelligent, scanning the horizon and her surroundings, her attention flicking from the water’s edge to the shadowed reeds. And she’s not alone. The whole family is here, following her lead. They emerge one by one, walking in a steady, regimented line. Chobe National Park is home to the largest population of African elephants, with an estimated 120,000 individuals roaming its floodplains and forests, stretching across Botswana, Zimbabwe, Namibia, and Zambia. These elephants, despite their towering presence, are slightly smaller than other African savanna elephants—a unique trait likely due to the mineral-rich soil and water they rely on. At this moment, I feel like I’m looking into the soul of the Earth herself. There’s power in her gaze, yes, but there’s also love—a kind of fierce protectiveness as she nudges the smallest calves forward. She is more than a leader. She’s a mother in the truest sense, the keeper of wisdom, of generations, of the land itself. Around her, the young ones dart in and out—some bold, others shy, curious trunks lifting, smelling, learning. They cling to the matriarch and the older females, absorbing everything from their elders—like how to cross the river, how to feed, when to retreat from danger, and when to advance. The matriarch’s memory plays a crucial role, as she leads the herd across vast distances—sometimes over 200 kilometers—seeking water sources she remembers from seasons past. I read once that elephants are known to be some of the most emotional creatures on the planet, that they grieve their dead and remember faces for decades. And as I watch them now, I believe it. The other females circle the younger ones, their trunks gently caressing each calf, guiding them toward safety. The matriarch lets out a low rumble, almost like a whisper, and immediately, the younger elephants turn, understanding her message in a way that

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ANTARCTICA 64°49’05”S 63°29’00”W

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NAMIBIA 17°47’58.2”S 25°10’13.1”E

“She reminds me of something primal, something that’s been there from the beginning of time, but that we, in our hurry and bustle, have left behind.”

goes beyond language. These rumbles can travel for kilometers (around 6 kilometers maximum), carrying through the earth and allowing distant family members to remain connected. It’s an unbreakable bond, forged from years and instincts that stretch back across millennia. I feel a wave of awe. This matriarch’s life is devoted to the survival of her family. Every decision she makes is about protection and continuity, about ensuring that this river, this land, this life will sustain her kin for generations. She holds her place with wisdom and power, and even we humans could learn from her strength—from her unyielding love for her family, her commitment to the land that sustains them all. As she leads the herd into the river, I feel a strange tug at my heart. There’s a lesson here, I think, about balance, about protection, about a kind of loyalty we’ve forgotten. She reminds me of something primal, something that’s been there from the beginning of time, but that we, in our hurry and bustle, have left behind. The elephants’ gentle splashing fills the air as they cross the river, moving in unison. Unlike other elephant populations, Chobe’s elephants have mastered the art of deep- water swimming, submerging their massive bodies and using their trunks as snorkels. One pauses, too afraid to wade deeper, until its mother circles back, brushing it gently with her trunk, reassuring, guiding. I can see how the matriarch is looking at her family the way our own mothers look at us, the way our planet looks at us. There’s a grace in how these elephants move, a respect for the water and the land that we’ve forgotten. And here, on the river, I feel it keenly. These elephants are living reminders, silent but powerful teachers, showing us that true strength lies in connection—connection to each other, to the land, and to the delicate, unbreakable threads that bind us all. As the herd passes into the golden light, then disappearing into the twilight on the bank, I sit in silence and ponder. I am in awe of the matriarch, her family, and her wisdom. And I know that this moment will stay with me—a reminder of what it means to protect, to nurture, and to honor the earth we share.

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

MUSIC BY MOGLI “WANDERER“

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY SARAH TENG PRISM PEAKS

LLAMAS, HIGH PEAKS, AND THE JOURNEY TO RECONNECT

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

VINIKUNCA 13°52’12.8”S 71°18’10.6”W

SARAH TENG

we had just reached the peak of Rainbow Mountain—but we weren’t alone. Although we woke up at 3:30 a.m. to be one of the first groups to begin our upward trek, some had been at the top for quite some time when we made it. I took a 360-degree scan of my surroundings once I caught my breath at the top, and that’s when I saw them: two perfectly positioned llamas, comfortably dressed in sunglasses and rainbow Peruvian pom-poms. They were perched in the perfect spot with Rainbow Mountain directly behind them, so I took out my camera and snapped a photo— THE photo. It was this exact moment on Rainbow Mountain that went on to epitomize the numerous unexpected joys of my journey through Peru. What first began as a high-altitude challenge turned into an adventure filled with vibrant landscapes, cultural connections, and moments of self- discovery that I’ll carry with me forever. A Colorful Opening Rainbow Mountain—or Vinikunka—is famous for its characteristic rainbow stripes, a result of prehistoric mineral deposits from a time when Vinikunka was underwater. The 14-color mineral mountain was only discovered about 11 years ago when the snow covering it melted. When my friend Natalie and I set out to hike it, we had just landed in Cusco less than 24 hours earlier, skipping the usual two-to-three-day acclimatization that every guidebook and website recommends. For lack of vacation days (thanks, capitalism!), we arrived the afternoon before and immediately began chugging coca tea because we heard it would help with altitude sickness (which we were beginning to feel not long after we landed). It was only a few hours later when we found out that coca tea is, in fact, caffeinated and we were meant to go to bed early to wake up at 3:30 the next morning. All to say, sleep was nil, but vibes were so high (figuratively and literally) that it didn’t matter. The hike was steep and short, but at 17,060 feet / 5,200 meters above sea level, every step felt way harder than it should’ve. We chatted the whole way in between catching our breath, and I’ll admit I took more “photo breaks” than usual to recover. The intermittent cold and thin air were constant companions, but reaching the summit made it all worthwhile, especially once I saw those llamas at the top. For a moment, I forgot about the altitude headache and simply enjoyed the playful and colorful connection between these animals and their Quechua handlers. It was a glimpse of the cultural richness that would define the rest of my trip. Into the Inca Trail: Four Days of Discovery If Rainbow Mountain was just a small taste of Peru’s beauty, the Inca Trail was a full immersion. Across four days and more than 26 miles, it’s a journey through history, nature, and endurance. Even with a full group of strangers, I quickly found myself settling into the rhythm of the trail—a simpler life waking up with the sun, trekking through stunning landscapes, and sharing stories over meals cooked by our incredible chef, Armando. Without any phone service through the entire hike, I felt the weight of my life at home lifted off my shoulders, and like I could finally enjoy each moment as it came.

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

VINIKUNCA 13°52’12.8”S 71°18’10.6”W

“By the time we reached camp, my phone camera storage was full, my legs were aching, and my spirit felt alive in a way it hadn’t in years.”

Throughout each day, I found myself saying “wow” more times that I could count, marveling at each pass, turn, and ledge as we trekked through the Andes. Our guide, Miguel, shared snippets of history along the way, about how the Inca Trail used to be a pathway (physically and spiritually) to connect Incas with Pachamama (Mother Earth). As we walked in the footsteps of the original trail, I understood exactly what he meant. The trail tested me in ways I hadn’t expected. Day two brought us to Dead Woman’s Pass, the highest point of the trail at 13,829 feet. The steep ascent was grueling and seemingly unending, but standing at the top of the pass, looking down into the valley from which we came and surrounded in a sea of clouds, I was reminded that I can do hard things, and that should be celebrated. Our group of strangers, now friends, all made it back to camp that evening at different times, but it was the shared experience of it all that brought us closer together by dinner time, despite having spent most of the day apart. By the time we reached camp, my phone camera storage was full, my legs were aching, and my spirit felt alive in a way it hadn’t in years. Late in the afternoon on day three, we came upon Wiñay Wayna archeological site, where we sat and looked out into the mountain valley for a quick history lesson. Miguel started to explain that the Incas chose this spot in the mountain to build the site because this area is prone to rainbows. Sure enough, about five minutes later, the misty clouds gave way to the afternoon sun and there was a beautiful rainbow cutting right through the valley, as if spoken into existence by our presence. It was the first time in a long time that felt like magic, and I felt an overwhelming sense of gratefulness to have experienced that moment. One of my favorite memories from each evening was actually the hour before dinner was served, otherwise known as tea time. When you sit down for tea time, you have the option of various hot beverages: coca tea, mint tea, hot chocolate, or simply hot water. At the same time, snacks are served, usually popcorn and some sort of cracker or sweet treat (one night we had roasted marshmallows and donuts). Each evening, I made myself a hot chocolate—three scoops of chocolate powder and one heaping scoop of dehydrated milk powder, dissolved in hot water. It was my favorite short-lived ritual I ever had, and it was followed by moments of genuine connection and joy shared between new friends after a long day of hiking. It’s the compounding of these little in-between moments that shape the bigger picture of our memories, which is a reminder enough for me to cherish all of the moments, no matter how small.

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

HISTORIC SANCTUARY OF MACHU PICCHU 13°09’47.5”S 72°32’43.1”W

Machu Picchu: The Reward In the late morning on the fourth day, we finally met our reward from the trail: the historic lost city of Machu Picchu. Wake up time on our last morning was 3 o’clock in the middle of the night so we could leave camp by 3:30AM to be at the front of the line for the final stretch of the trail. We arrived at the entrance gate around 3:45AM, but the gate didn’t open until 5:00AM, so we had to sit and wait among hundreds of strangers waiting for the adventure to begin. At 5:00AM, the anxiety started to kick in as we all stood up and got ready to enter the trail. With this many hikers starting in the same place and trying to reach the same endpoint, it’s hard not to feel competitive in order to not get left behind. We finally got through the checkpoint and fast-hiked our way past the less-fast hikers, aiming to land in larger gaps between hikers where we felt like we could take a breather. It took another hour and all four limbs to climb the infamous monkey steps until we reached the iconic Sun Gate, also known as Inti Punku in Quechua. The Sun Gate is an archeological site and viewpoint for Machu Picchu that is only accessible via the Inca Trail, which makes it an extra treat for us, knowing that most common visitors to Machu Picchu don’t get to experience the same. All of our efforts the past four days, every step and climb, had led up to this moment. Machu Picchu itself was as awe-inspiring as I’d imagined, but what stood out most was how different it felt to arrive after four days on the trail. And realizing that we were taking steps through history felt like an honor we almost, but still didn’t quite, deserve. The Journey is Always Worth It My trip to Peru was more than an adventure—it was a reminder of the power of stepping outside your comfort zone. From Rainbow Mountain’s llamas to the Inca Trail’s countless stairs, every moment offered a chance to connect: with nature, with others, and with myself. Travel has a way of teaching us lessons we didn’t know we needed. For me, Peru taught the joy of presence, the strength that comes from tackling a hard task, and the beauty of finding wonder in the unexpected. And yes, it also taught me that llamas in sunglasses don’t just exist in picture books. If you’re looking for an adventure that will challenge and change you, Peru is waiting. Just don’t forget to pack your camera! You’ll want to capture every unforgettable moment, and I’m so grateful I did.

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

MUSIC BY MOGLI “EMPIRES“

IN THE SHADOW OF THE HERD PHOTOGRAPHY AND TEXT BY HANNEKE VAN CAMP

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

SWEDISH LAPLAND 67°28’36.1”N 18°21’10.9”E

HANNEKE VAN CAMP it ’ s a crisp november morning . We’ve snowshoed our way up a hill to overlook the world below us. Mist rises from the frozen lakes, cladding the surrounding trees in a layer of ice. As the sun breaks through the clouds, it makes every crystal sparkle, and all the frost lights up gold. Having lived most of the year in our campervan and tent, this is one of the last sunrises before we drive back home. It feels as if the snow just melted away while the days lasted forever underneath the midnight sun. End of August, the first aurora appeared, and then it started snowing. Soon, temperatures dropped further and the autumn colours faded away. As the days got shorter, the world around us turned white. Now, it won’t take long before the polar night sets in. Still that doesn’t mean all will be dark. On the contrary, the sky will assume all shades of pink, purple, blue, and occasionally, vibrantly green. The snow then reflects the faintest light, even when the sun stays hidden beneath the horizon. As the trees gather more and more snow, the reindeer dig up lichens. While our fingers, toes, and nose require our attention, their dense coats of fur keep them warm even in the coldest winter storm. But it’s not the harshness or the ruggedness that keeps calling us north—it’s the ever present feeling of peace and tranquility that we find here. With eight seasons of constant change, and a rich history and culture heavily intertwined with nature, Sápmi’s environment and people inspired me to dig deeper and explore further. So where did this deep connection come from? The first time going up a mountain in Northern Norway, strong winds blew in our faces. We had the summit to ourselves and looked out over a vast ocean with island after island rising up from it. The mountain chain curved as it disappeared into the horizon. Exposed to the elements, we felt like tiny drops at the edge of the world. Fresh air and limitless views went hand in hand with a liberating feeling of freedom. There was no other option but to feel inspired—though the impending dark clouds were a trigger to quickly head down again. Driving through Riksgränsen, inclement weather travelled with us and introduced us to the harsh reality of the tundra above the Arctic Circle. A snowstorm in May made us realize seasonal changes weren’t quite the same as what we’d been used to. Reindeer moving through this landscape only made the experience more impressive. But it was out hiking that we really felt closer to nature. Pitching the tent under a starry night sky, to find a field with ripe cloud- berries in front of us, with mirror-like lakes reflecting the surrounding mountains. Those are moments that stay with you forever. Zipping open the tent to see moose crossing the river delta below, courting each other in rutting season. Hiking up a cliff to gaze out over a lush river valley, full of life and colour. Drinking fresh glacial meltwater and breathing in pure air. Taking a break to watch the northern lights above. Looking out over seas of clouds, with only the highest mountains peeking above. Having owls hunt nearby underneath the midnight sun. Feeling the wind in my face. Contemplating the landscape below as it’s waking up slowly during countless misty mornings, watching how the light changes and everything transforms. Seeing how lakes freeze over and the whole landscape turns white. Sitting on a rock as hundreds of reindeer walk by, making their way to their winter grazing lands. And finally, snowshoeing amidst snowy giants during polar nights—trees that amass enormous quantities of frost, yet still stand tall.

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

SWEDISH LAPLAND 67°28’36.1”N 18°21’10.9”E

All of those experiences strengthened our bond with these landscapes. Our journeys became longer and longer. Away from civilization and phone signals, but also without an end date. Time didn’t stand still, but the ticking clocks faded to the back of our minds. It became less relevant, as we were there in nature, just the two of us: me and my partner. As long as we had food and shelter, there was nothing else that required our attention. At the same time, it made us so much more aware of the subtle yet constant changes—how everything evolves and how every day is different. Being out there, taking it all in seemed to be all that mattered. And as my fascination for and appeal to these landscapes kept on growing, so did my love for reindeer, which we encountered frequently. It was clearly their world we ventured into, their footsteps we walked in. It’s hard to imagine reindeer living in Spain today. But when Northern and Central Europe were covered by an ice shelf, they were there. As the earth warmed up and the glaciers retreated over 10.000 years ago, the reindeer migrated north again, in search of the colder, arctic climate. People also made their way north, and the reindeer provided them with everything they needed to survive. Blood and meat for food, fur for clothing, sinew for threads, and antlers for tools and crafts. As reindeer herds migrated, so did humans, following their footsteps. They lived off the land, gathering shrubs, mushrooms, and berries, hunting, fishing—but they were careful to never take more than the land could regenerate upon their next visit. The Sami people of Northern Europe slowly started domesticating animals. A semi- domesticated reindeer could help out with hunting wild ones, carry loads, pull a sleigh, and provide milk. A few hundred years ago, the weight shifted from hunting wild reindeer to Sami families having their own herds. Still, the reindeer lived freely in the mountains, the forests, or out on grazing lands. They were only gathered together a few times a year, and the seasonal migrations from winter pastures to calving grounds and summer still called for a nomadic way of life, dictated by nature’s rhythm. Eventually, traders and European settlers went north too, claiming the land for king and country. This concept was strange for the Sami, as they thought they belonged to the land, not that the land could be owned by someone. Inevitably, the Sami were pushed further north and forced to pay taxes, while land suitable for farming was taken and mines were opened. They were colonized, their languages, religion, and culture suppressed. For lands that were borderless before, maps were drawn up with boundaries that cut straight through reindeer migration routes. Only 10% of the Sami still practice reindeer husbandry. Having to adopt a nomadic way of life for a job that requires many hours but doesn’t provide a stable income isn’t an attractive option in today’s reality. While the snowmobile ensures that less time and people are required for reindeer herding activities, this also leaves the herds more exposed to predation. Forestry, mining, the construction of roads, hydropower installations on rivers all cause habitat destruction, reduction, and fragmentation. There are simply fewer places for reindeer to graze undisturbed, as less and less mature forest remains. This became apparent on one particular hike, where we climbed up a hill hoping to catch a wonderful misty sunrise. Fog rolled in, and the soft orange colours of early morning provided an atmosphere of peace and tranquility. Fresh air and birdsong pleased my other

MOTHER VOLUME FOUR

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