The Choice in the Kitchen

I don’t need an alarm to get me out of bed at 5:30 AM. I’ve already been awake for a while, fidgeting and readjusting my body, hoping to find a position comfortable enough to encourage sleep to return. My restless movement, though, has stirred our 1-½ year old puppy, Fern, so now she’s also awakened to the “point of no return.”

With dawn just around the corner and a subtle current of job-related cortisol pumping in my veins, I figure there’s no point in trying to doze off again. It’s just not in the cards, so I roll out from under the covers. It’s still dark outside as I walk into the kitchen and, instinctively, head straight to the refuge of our coffee maker.

Fern has been fed and let herself out to pee, and as I reach into the cabinet for a drinking vessel, I’m faced with my first conscious choice of the day between two different types of mugs. One is a typical ceramic mug, a souvenir I routinely fill with coffee to sip as I work at my computer. The other is dented and scratched from years of use, imbued with memories of places I’ve visited. It’s my insulated travel mug.
Muscle memory sends my hand quickly for the standard option, which would be a comfortable companion while I navigate emails and reconcile the demons who interrupted my sleep. But I stop before I can grab the handle because a glint of light catches my eye. The metallic rim of the travel mug to its right has won my attention. I hesitate, draw a deep breath, and reach instead for the worn companion. Exhaling, I know it will be a better fit for a morning outside, and the decision is made.
It doesn’t take long to gather all I need for a few hours in the woods: my camera and a couple of lenses, a few filters and my tripod, a backpacking stove, water, and plenty of snacks for Fern. Now that I’m in motion, oddly, I feel there is no rush to tend to the things that seemed extremely urgent just minutes before. There is only slow, steady movement. As the first blue light begins to glow above the mountain across the valley where we live, Fern and I are off.

The Aimless Path: Moving with the Landscape

After forty five minutes of driving, steam continues to roll off the top of my travel mug as we pull onto the dirt and gravel road that takes us deep into the woods of Northwest Georgia. We then start our hike up an obscure mountain - a place I’ve visited for nearly twenty years - located on the edge of the Cumberland Plateau, where the sandstone is older than the mountains themselves.

Unlike the jagged peaks out West, these ridges seem hunched and weary, smoothed down by millions of years of Appalachian rain. It’s a landscape that doesn't demand attention with drama or height, but with the quiet persistence of abundant life and moss-covered grit.

My anxiety has calmed, and I’m glad to see the morning’s first direct light cast golden warmth over the surfaces of splotchy boulders and trunks of oaks, maples, and hemlocks. We wind our way up the side of the familiar mountain. It’s become a spiritual and emotional refuge for me - a "home away from home" where the depth of connection, when I let it, helps me see past the immediate and into a longer timescale.
Cold air fills my lungs as we walk. Fern repeatedly bounces through the understory, her comical excitement and curiosity brings a jealous grin to my face. Leaves crunch under my boots, and I laugh like a maniac. The urgent logic of my work life vaporizes under the broader context of this time and place, my real life.
Many photographers begin their hikes with a "trophy" location in mind, but today I’m hiking aimlessly, intentionally reframing the competitive attitude that drives so many of us photographers to more “winnable” pursuits. There is a profound freedom to an aimless approach. I’ve placed no requirement on the morning other than to "be out" - however clumsily and haphazardly I can make that happen.

Winter has exposed the skeletons of trees, and I find myself stopping not because I’ve reached a destination, but because a specific contrast of color and arrangement of branches demand my stillness. Still half asleep, I stop long enough to set up my tripod and make a few frames of a fallen pine, carefully aligning and balancing the elements.

Whether the final image is good doesn’t make much of a difference to me. What does matter is that I’m here with my breathing and stepping, my now-empty coffee mug, and a happy mutt. Without much thought or effort, I’m prioritizing the experience of the place over the production of an image. I consider how much practice it’s taken me to achieve this “unproductive” headspace, and I feel thankful to the fallen pine for helping me remember how far I’ve come in this direction.

Organizing Chaos and the Dying Pine

The unspecial, fallen pine is my first find of the day. To most, it would look like a mess of dead wood, but in the quiet morning’s glow, it feels like a deliberate sculpture. I’m drawn to the rhythmic verticality of the branches and the chaotic reach of rust-colored needles. A “trophy” hunting morning would’ve seen me sprinting past this scene without a glance.

In this corner of the state, the forest is a dense tapestry of Shagbark Hickory, Mountain Laurel, and close to a hundred and forty other tree species. Even now, the Ironwood and Beech trees hold onto their dry, papery leaves, rattling in the wind like a ghostly audience as Fern and I pass by. It’s a subtle beauty you only notice when you stop looking for the grand and move slowly enough to notice the particular.

Slowing down here isn’t just about the physical walk; it’s also about the technical patience required to organize chaos. I spend several minutes adjusting my tripod in tiny ways - leaning, crouching, and weaving my body around the sapling directly behind me - trying to find a balance where the heavy bark of a standing oak can anchor the image without overwhelming the delicate, dying pine. The “tripod slow dance” reliably grounds me in intention.

By sitting with this scene, I begin to see it as a study in transition. The life cycle of the forest floor is usually hidden by the lush, buggy chaos of summer. At this point in the morning, while the reality of my job persists, the cortisol is gone and the sting of the 5:30 AM wake-up has been replaced by a quiet curiosity. I know I’m making a picture, but it also feels like I’m speaking with a familiar friend.

These woods are a 'pocket' wilderness - a resilient stretch of secondary growth that has seen loggers, miners, farmers and homesteaders come and go, now reclaiming its humble identity one season at a time. It's a reminder that even a familiar ridge can offer a profound sense of scale if you give it the time it deserves.

Finding Ritual in the Boulder Field

Now mid-morning, the light has turned harsh. Not too many years ago, I might have seen the lack of clouds as a reason to head back to the car. But since I have no trophy to collect, Fern and I just keep wandering until we discover a massive boulder field tucked away in the gorge.

I pull out my JetBoil to make a quick meal, more out of ritual than hunger (though I am pretty hungry by now). While the water boils, I pull out my small pocket notebook. I’ve found that jotting down messy thoughts is an indispensable tool for finding the right headspace. I write down my observations - lichen, birdsong, pinecones, wind - and then look inward to record, without judgement or ego, what I’m feeling: frustration, relief, confidence, gratitude.

This simple act of stopping, noticing, identifying has helped me find perspective, even purpose, when I’ve felt scattered and creatively lost in the woods. It forces me to physically pause, use my mind, and assign words to things that bother or elate me. And more often than not, it helps me to see what I couldn’t before.

There’s a certain irony in sitting in a prehistoric boulder field while worrying about incomplete tasks and unread emails. But as I sit here, the wind picking up above the lichen-covered boulders, the "urgent list" fully loses its grip. I’m not trying to achieve enlightenment; I’m just trying to be a person standing in the woods, allowing a place he loves to speak through his lens.

The Texture of Time

My favorite image of the day isn’t a grand vista - it’s the strange skin of a rounded boulder that anchors the sloping hillside. After eating, the harsh light I initially dreaded begins to work in my favor, raking across the stone and revealing a reptilian, hexagonal texture I’ve never seen on this side of the mountain.

There is nothing complicated about the setup. Fern stands guard on top of the rock while I do my trusty “slow dance” and zoom in, finding a nice balance in the ancient grooves. The scene makes me feel glad I hadn’t been rushing around; had I been, I surely would have walked right past this unassuming monument to history written in lichen and shadow.

By the time I pack my gear to get moving again, stress has been replaced by a genuine sense of gratitude. The work emails are still waiting, but my internal rhythm has changed. Slowing down hasn’t just given me a better photograph; it’s given me my day back - and much more.

Carrying the Quiet Home

As Fern and I eventually make our way back to the truck in the late morning, the mountain feels different than it did at 6:00 AM. The air is still cold and the birds are calling loudly, but the "urgent" static in my head has settled into a comfortable silence.

I’ve realized that the value of these slow mornings isn't just found in the frame of a boulder or a pine tree; it’s in the ability to carry that realized patience back into the “day-to-day.” The next time a last-minute crisis hits my inbox, I can reach for the memory of that quiet boulder field - how I found “the one” image that I like best from that day and, most importantly, what it took for me to find it.

Slowing down is a choice we get to make over and over again, in any context. Once my truck engine turns over, I look down at the dented travel mug sitting in my cup holder, and I realize it’s a choice I can make even when I’m holding a cheap ceramic mug at my desk. I get home in time for lunch and spend the afternoon calmly catching up on the duties I’d briefly set aside, working with a focus that felt out of reach a few hours earlier.

By prioritizing the experience over the output, we don't just become better photographers; we become more resilient versions of ourselves. The mountain will always be there, taking its sweet time to turn from winter to spring, reminding me that there is no rush. There is only movement.

Mornings of Stillness: How a Local Mountain Resets My Rhythm