Far too soon for my liking, the pilot kills the revs of his 1950’s Otter float plane and we glide down to a surprisingly smooth landing on the Allen Water River. Startled wildlife darts for cover along the shore as we busily get to work untying our canoes. Time is money for a float plane, and within moments of us pushing away from the plane’s floats, its engines roar back to life and it’s skimming at speed across the flat water, before lifting skyward and vanishing over the forest’s canopy.

Ray writes something in a note pad, before slipping it back into his kitbag. I’m not sure if it’s a thought, or something he’d seen on the flight, but you could see it was a personal moment, so I didn’t intrude.

We paddle our canoes away from our drop off point to where the river narrows. Bringing our paddles into the boat, we drift on the slow current while taking in our surroundings. At first it seems silent, but as we detune from the static of our normal lives, we begin to notice the sounds of nature, the gentle lapping of the water against our canoes, the rustling of the wind in the trees, the just audible scurrying and chatter of unseen wildlife.

Meditation over, Ray picks up his paddle and nods in the direction of our travel – and we continue wordlessly towards the spot where we now relax.

Pete: Earlier, you talked of how traveling here wasn’t like entering a woodland but more like becoming part of the forest.

Ray: I’ve always felt like that with forests in general. The bigger the forest, the more you feel it, and the smaller you personally feel. It’s hard to explain, but there’s energy. When I look back on some of my journeys into large forests, it’s always there.

Once you leave a city and are traveling deeper into the forest there’s a hush. It’s very hard to explain but there’s a secret and you feel it, it’s like a vibration that passes right through you. When you sit still and simply stop, in any forest – even a small woodland in the UK – you can understand that there is a bigger force in the world than you. It’s a very unusual experience for a modern human being.

So when you’re travelling through the forest on your own, do you feel alone?

The first thing I should say is that I don’t think it suits everybody. You have to be confident in your own company and competent at taking care of yourself.

When you enter the boreal forest, it steps up your level of ‘outdoor pursuiting’. In all outdoor pursuits you have this thing of perceived risk, which is different to real risk. For example, you can go sailing in the UK, and it can feel like the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done but actually it’s very safe – yet there’s can still be a lot of personal growth in it. But when you step into the wilderness, you’re not in control of things anymore, and your safety comes in different ways. You have to pay attention and listen, listen to the voice of the clouds and the weather and act appropriately.

Do I feel alone? (Ray pauses to contemplate before continuing) The first day of a trip is always strange, as I’m readjusting to only hearing my own voice, my internal voice, for dialogue. There is a sense of being torn away from support. By the second day it becomes normal, and by the third I don’t want any external stimulus, as I’m getting it from nature. It makes you more intuitive and more connected to bigger things. Even at home I still get that feeling, but here, because the forests larger, it’s more intense; more swift.

Connecting with the wildlife around me is a big part of it. You can get closer to wildlife when travelling alone, as there’s no one chatting, but there’s also a calmness of spirit in travelling alone in the wild. Wildlife won’t flee anymore and instead will stop and look at you, it’s as if you too have become part of the secret that they are a part of.