I fell ill as soon as I arrived in Verbier — fever, dry cough, a weary heart, each step a challenge. Yet I didn’t give up. On the verge of fainting, I still went out every day, camera over my shoulder, poorly equipped for the rain, but determined. I walked the mountain trails of Les Ruinettes slowly, as my body allowed, returning each evening soaked, frozen — and happy. Seven, eight, sometimes ten kilometres each day, and above all, extraordinary encounters with the waters of Verbier.

There was nothing spectacular there, unlike Yakushima, but within the intimacy of these alpine waters, many new revelations emerged. Against all expectation, these waters were vividly alive — they told me stories of the mountains, shivering, running, leaping. They filled me with emotion.

The murmurs of these waters, muffled by snow, called me to listen ever more closely. I widened my search, turning to neighbouring valleys. The access to Dailley Gorge was officially closed for winter — enter at your own risk. I went anyway, opening the path through untouched snow, sinking above my knees where the wind had piled it. I should have turned back — I was ill-equipped, in jeans without over-trousers — but I was drawn by the water plunging into the void just above me.

I began the 200-metre ascent. Despite every discouragement, joy carried me forward. A few flights of stairs later, I reached the water and felt a powerful presence. I began to dive into the gorge with it — my camera following its flow as it danced down the cliff before disappearing beneath the snow.

Once again, I didn’t really know what I was photographing. I let the water guide me — a form of intuitive photography. I was drawn to one movement, then another, to a turn it made before leaping upward. The emotion was overwhelming. I saw, etched in the snow, the stylised lines of a face and framed it without realising the force of the rock’s shadow behind it. Higher up, in another cascade, a figure appeared — arms raised to the sky — though I hadn’t seen it while shooting.

I continued to the first bridge crossing the gorge. There I captured a new series of upward-looking shots — unusual for me, as I prefer being level with the water I photograph — but this perspective was rich. Halfway through the climb, soaked to the waist, my shoes flooded by melted snow, cold setting in, I debated whether to continue. I finally turned back the way I came — no disappointment, none at all. I will return.

The images of water alone are fulfilling — letting myself be guided by its movement, capturing its moods, its dialogue with rock, plant, ice, and snow. One might think repetition would come quickly, but it never does — it is never the same water, nor the same Jean-Marie. The light is always changing.

I drove barefoot back to Verbier, heat on full blast, and after a long-awaited shower, I dove into the images from this encounter. Magic, once again, was there. We had danced well together — despite frozen feet and numb fingers. Thank you, water.

I set off again and, on arrival, found a frozen lake — no sign of open water. The owner of the local bakery mentioned a small stream that feeds the lake: “You’ll hear it,” he said. “Go there — you’ll see the ducks, then follow the sound.”

I walked along a cross-country ski track beside a narrow stream of clear water, watching a few fish dart away. After a while, I heard a stronger current — the slope changed, and through a tangle of wood and ice, the water tumbled down the hillside, alive and fierce. I stayed for over an hour, following it upstream with childlike excitement. It was magnificent chaos. I filmed in slow motion, captured dozens of images, then a few clips in real time to remember its soundscape.

When I returned to the lake, its frozen surface had transformed completely — now etched with poetic, calligraphic patterns. As if a tattoo artist had worked in my absence. Backlit, the scene was jubilant — the perfect reward after this intimate adventure with the river.

I decided to leave my camera behind and write instead — about this initiatory journey, the dreams that inhabit me, the presences that appear when I least expect them, the emotions that keep me awake after such encounters. To speak of these worlds that coexist constantly — always accessible, if only we are ready to receive them.