2025

connecting with 2025...
A cottonwood tree in Capitol Reef National Park.
The transition from dense fog to sunny weather is my favorite time to chase the light.
Words spoken to you<br/>Find no response, nor echo.<br/>Sinking in fall fog.
The trail winds through colossal trees and blooming rhododendrons. Only 1,000 feet from the parking lot, it draws you into an entirely different world. You feel like an ancient human—or even a dinosaur—someone from another time. Then, a loud rattle from the nearby road echoes through the forest, and for a brief moment, it blends perfectly into the illusion, like the roar of a prehistoric beast. The truth comes quickly—but jarringly. It's just a truck. And suddenly, everything man-made—every achievement of humankind—feels completely out of place here.
Some might think this photo was taken in the fall, but I actually captured it in April. These leaves made it through the harsh winter on a windy mountain ridge—almost like a quiet inspiration for all of us.
“I wonder whether the stars are set alight in heaven so that one day each one of us may find his own again.“<br/>I personally think that every adult should be prescribed The Little Prince and read it once a year. For severe cases of adulthood—twice a year.
“We are only seeking Man. We have no need for other worlds. We need mirrors. We don't know what to do with other worlds. A single world, our own, suffices us; but we can't accept it for what it is. We are searching for an ideal image of our own world, we go in quest of a planet, of a civilization superior of our own but developed on the basis of a prototype of our primeval past.“<br/>- Stanislaw Lem
During foliage peak time, areas just off Skyline Drive in Shenandoah NP offer numerous photo opportunities.
The spectrum of reactions from people viewing this photo is as wide as it gets. Some appreciate the composition; others are upset by wind turbines “ruining” the landscape. Still others celebrate clean energy. The point of this picture? Only you decide.
I literally fell in love with the grace and beauty of this tree at the visitor center in Capitol Reef NP. It’s simply perfect—don’t you think?
I wish there were a magical forecast that could predict foggy conditions with a high level of certainty. That would be a game changer.
Even having a remote shutter release doesn’t spare you from running back and forth between the camera and the “selfie” spot at least a few times. But after all, it turns into decent morning exercise.
Just about 100 feet of a 2,000-mile Appalachian trail. Roughly 1,000 miles stretch north from here, and a similar distance heads south. For the average thru-hiker, completing the entire journey takes about six months.<br/>After traveling the past 12+ months mostly in desert and badlands regions, one thing has become clear, while the East Coast might not offer many jaw-dropping vistas, it has something else — the luxury of lush, green landscapes for about nine months of the year. It’s a joy you often take for granted until you’ve spent time in places scorched by the sun.
Contrary to the popular belief that size doesn’t matter, using long, large telephoto lenses allows a photographer to capture some very special moments often invisible to the naked eye.
I met this model during a twilight stroll at Alabama Hills, near the mighty Sierra Nevada. It was an accident, really, but the moment I laid eyes on her, I almost immediately fell in love. Some might say she’s prickly—possibly... But let’s be honest, you can afford a difficult personality when you're as beautiful as she was.<br/>We didn’t exchange many words, but she graciously agreed to pose for me. I made sure to keep my distance, respecting her space as if I were tiptoeing around a delicate masterpiece. There was an undeniable magic in the air that evening, and I’ll always remember our brief, starry romance beneath the California sky. Sadly, it lasted just 30 minutes, but those moments are etched in my memory forever.
The ocean that once covered this place retreated 200 million years ago, but it left behind the daunting silence of the deep. That silence lingers here to this day.
One of those occasions when you spot the perfect light while driving down the road and, after a few seconds of hesitation, decide to turn around, find a place to pull over, and take the chance.
At first, that morning didn’t bring the light I was hoping for. I even ignored the batch of photos I had taken that day while reviewing the raw material. It was only on a second look that I realized the light was just right—there was no need for any extra drama in the picture. The place feels sacred. I'm sure it was exactly this way for people who used to live here.
When God grew tired of precision — of tracing, line by line, the sharp silhouettes of mountains; of mixing endless blues to capture the restless moods of the sea; of flicking his brush to scatter white sparks across the black stillness of night — he paused, the weight of creation heavy in his hands.<br/>Frustration stirred. With a sudden, human kind of impatience, he hurled his palette at the canvas. The colors burst and spilled, tumbling into chaos — gold bleeding into crimson, green dissolving into amber, the hues colliding in wild, careless beauty.<br/>God stepped back, stunned by what he saw. The accidental masterpiece shimmered before him — vibrant, fleeting, alive.<br/>He smiled, half in wonder, half in irony, and called it Fall.
Fifteen minutes after the incredible pre-sunset light came into resonance with the color of the blueberry bushes, twilight took over. By some invisible signal, all the woody hollows around the spot became a chorus of howling coyotes. I’m not sure which part of that evening gave me the most memorable chills.
How about a cocktail for a 5 a.m. breakfast? Might be a bit too early, but such is the misery of a landscape photographer’s life.
Some might say it’s just mud and clouds. Others would call it a piece of art created by nature. Neither is more right or wrong than the other.
I strongly believe that the colors in Utah have a life of their own, not obeying the usual laws of physics. How else could one explain that the cool tones of the blue hour highlight the landscape while making it glow with such intense shades of red?
The area of Dolly Sods traditionally sees fall colors much earlier in the season. Behind me is the Dolly Sods plateau; even farther behind are Canaan Valley and the Allegheny Mountains. The slightly higher elevation of these regions makes the temperature noticeably lower than anywhere else in the Mid-Atlantic. Right in front of me, in the valley below, fall is only now starting to show its snap. Dolly Sods is indeed a unique place—allegedly resembling the Canadian tundra more than other regions of the Appalachians.
Five years ago, I stumbled upon this waterfall in Pennsylvania almost by accident. This spring, I deliberately took a short trip to visit it again. It's little known, not terribly big, yet absolutely gorgeous and photogenic. Even a weird dude in waders traversing the waterfall back and forth—risking all his photo equipment—didn't make it look any worse.
Sometimes, it’s the Manhattan skyline emerging through the haze of Newark as you approach New York City on I-95. Sometimes, it’s the jagged ridge of the Sierra Nevada against the blue sky as you descend into Owens Valley after leaving the scorching heat of Death Valley. But in every case, I always perceive it with the awe and humility of a piece of seaweed washed ashore by a high tide.
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