The transition to Fall always brings excitement as temperatures drop and increasingly angular light reveals textures seldomly noticed in the Summer. The introduction of the color yellow is equally enticing to my eye, though I tend to go a bit overboard incorporating it into my compositions.

A quiet morning hike recently took me to a special place off trail on top of my favorite nearby mountain, and I remembered an interesting “paved” feature in the ground that resembles a walkway.

“Promenade” instantly came to mind as a descriptive and metaphorical title for this scene. I very often consider the beginning of Fall as a fresh way forward into experiences of higher quality on the heels of Summer’s maddening heat and humidity. Feelings of relief, gratitude, balance, and calm find their way into my work much more naturally in Autumn.

June of 2024 found my partner Hannah and I visiting a farm in Bon Aqua, Tennessee, about 45 minutes outside of Nashville. Hannah volunteered at Camp Horizon, an oncology camp for children, while I worked remotely and spent time with Randy the Pig, numerous chickens, five friendly farm cats, two great dogs, and a few horses.

My camera came with me on only one early morning walk through the woods, where I became covered in spiderwebs and my glasses fogged over thanks to thick humidity. I actually noticed lots of different fauna - surprising given how close to home we were.

While wandering on my own, I imagined Hannah working with courageous sick children, each on a journey more arduous than I have ever experienced, or could possibly imagine, teaching them how to create crafts to take home when camp ended.

"Storytime" is about the excitement and anticipation of beginning a new path, whether that is a painful but necessary journey or something much simpler, such as following light in a dark wood. It’s about being a little bit scared about what's around the corner, but allowing ourselves to remain curious, even optimistic, when we are too often told to be anything but.

At the end of April 2024 we lost our beloved Clemenzo, our dog of 16 years. He was such a great companion, loyal to the bone, always sweet and stoic. It hurt deeply to say goodbye. After mourning for a couple of weeks we mustered the energy to take a much-needed trip to a small cabin on a mountain creek a couple of hours away. It was relaxing, fun and bittersweet. The creek, and all of its wildlife, was a serene companion to our grief for two full days and evenings.

When I think back to Meno’s life, one trait I remember most was what a resilient, dutiful, and even reverent (to the extent that a dog can display reverence) dog he always was. When something bad happened, like when he had surgery or lost a toenail, he calmly allowed his Momma take care of him without complaining. In fact, he hardly ever complained or cried about anything, ever. He simply persevered and loved unconditionally, crying only out of joy when we came home from work. We miss him dearly.

If we allow it to, the grief that follows significant loss can become one of life's great teachers. The title of this image comes from the feelings of brokenness and pain that strike so sharply at first, but can, with time, open a hardened heart so that it can radiate outward with new vitality and strength.

Patterns of lichen crisscross damp sandstone formations tucked discretely into one of my favorite places to visit. I’ve scrambled up boulders to explore this phenomenon in the past, but this was my first visit during rainy weather. Moving about was sketchy, but the rain caused the colors of the sandstone to appear more vibrant than I could remember.

These colonies of lichen interest me because of how they have followed lines of least resistance to reconnect with themselves, creating fun textures and unexpected shapes. It’s fascinating how lichen adapts, and how it contributes to the long term health of countless other species it seems to have little to do with.

Over time, acid secreted from the lichen will break down the stone it resides upon, and the minerals will gradually trickle down to the forest floor. The resulting rich soil will nourish generations of plants, and by extension animals, for generations.

Everything is connected.

The Wichita Mountains of Southwest Oklahoma have fascinated me since I was a little kid. This past October I was fortunate to visit the historical wildlife refuge on a ten-day solo visit. I stayed in a small cabin in Medicine Park, OK, right outside the refuge, and managed to hike about seven days during my stay. I also retraced some meaningful places from memories of visiting my grandparents with my family, just down the road in Lawton and Ft. Sill.

OnLandscape Magazine was so kind to publish an article I wrote and photographs taken during that trip, which I have also posted in my Words section. I hope you'll give it a read if you can spare about five minutes.

Spring is a truly joyful time to be outside. For weeks I found myself attracted to the fresh greens throughout the forest, lit softly by ever-changing, partially clouded skies.

This mature oak lives among younger trees in a patch of dense, chaotic scrub that I would typically avoid walking through. However, the new translucent leaves behind the tree appeared to envelop it in a jubilant spiral-like pattern, which made me think of some kind of celebration. The tree almost appeared to spin or sway, sending confetti out in all directions.

The light was tricky, but only about ten minutes were needed for clouds to block the direct sunlight and create a soft box effect on the scene. This was perfect for the type of image I wanted to make. In processing, I burned a bit of the lower corners and edges, and raised the luminance of the leaves to bring them out a bit more.

In The Living Mountain, Nan Shepherd writes “... the mountain is one and indivisible, and rock, soil, water and air are no more integral to it than what grows from the soil and breathes the air. All are aspects of one entity, the living mountain. The disintegrating rock, the nurturing rain, the quickening sun, the seed, the root, the bird – all are one.”

One of most valuable truths nature teaches is that we are all connected to each other and to our planet. There is no separation aside from that formed by the imaginary boundaries we are taught and the physical walls we manufacture to separate and contain ourselves. Society in the modern technical age finds itself more isolated than ever despite humans’ fundamentally social nature.

This cluster of worn boulders sits at the edge of a cliff I enjoy hiking along. On this cold day I was drawn to the blue softness of the scene, as much a reflection of the diffused light as it was a testament to my feelings of malaise. However in this moment, and ones like it, I believe it was my sense of connection with the whole of nature, and even to humankind (despite my solitary process) that stopped me to photograph.

Photos don’t normally happen when I walk through this section of woods. I've always found it nice to look at as I pass by, but it's never felt quite right to stop and spend much time with.

The sun on this particular winter morning provided just the right amount of light between passing clouds overhead which allowed a soft glow to reach the forest floor at an angle. Dormant plants covering the forest floor became backlit and reminded me of swampy mist or even thick snow blanketing the ground. The trunks of trees often meet with the ground abruptly, but it was somehow comforting to witness a soft transition.

After I played with a few different focal lengths and positions, I settled on a telephoto and vertical composition to tighten and accentuate the trunks and their relationship with the floor. There was no mist (something I had hoped to find) but I have become content to make the most of forest scenes without any atmosphere handed to me.

The rest of the day was spent tromping around a large boulder field beyond these trees, making strong coffee and enjoying a hot backpacking meal with no one but a few noisy birds and squirrels for company. After a busy holiday season it was pure medicine.

A fitting photo for the rainy weather we’re having this weekend, taken a few weeks ago on a short outing. Winter is my favorite time of year. The plant life all seems distilled and simplified, and on damp days the subdued colors don’t complete with each other like they do in the warmer months. Everything is resting now and allowing nature to run its course after a year of thriving and surviving. Respite well deserved.

At the close of a recent afternoon hike I noticed an interesting pattern in the wood of a fallen tree laying to the side of the trail. The repeating patterns of cracks in the wood caught my attention quickly, but when I looked closer I found an interesting ridge line cutting diagonally across the exposed wood. I imagined the contours of a range of mountains, or the fault between tectonic plates slowly converging at the bottom of the ocean. I played with different angles and heights for a good thirty minutes, wiping sweat from my face as I worked. I arrived at a composition that emphasizes the diagonal “rift” as well as the subtle greens, oranges and browns that tone the long-dead specimen.