a thought
I create photographs of wild, quiet places—scenes meant to be felt as much as seen. Each print is an invitation to pause, breathe, and reconnect with the natural world.
I was seeking dappled sunlight but found only fog.
A rainstorm the night before had left everything shiny and damp-smelling. From my hotel room I saw the weather starting to clear, with patches of blue drifting through the morning sky. I thought a soft glow on the landscape might look great from above, catching scattered pockets of light in Frenchman's Bay below. I avoid frequented places in Acadia because I focus better when alone. But it was November, I didn't need a reservation to drive up, and it felt like the right time to claim the summit of Cadillac Mountain (by car).
The storm was slow to clear. The wind had picked up and was blowing at least 40 mph at the summit, scouring the granite. There wasn't another car in sight. But most surprising, when I arrived, was the fog — swirling, drifting, and blocking the Bay and almost everything else. Going off the main path, I found some stone and the occasional brief view through the fog into the valley below. After some time there, thinking about my next move, I noticed a surprise — lichen in an unexpected range of colors and shapes. They became the subjects for the day.
The best-laid plans in photography can fall apart. In my experience, planning matters, but improvising — especially when the weather shifts — often leads to the most satisfying results. And in the end, that was what I found on top of Cadillac: a moment of wonder.
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