There’s a moment I think about often.
It was early morning, late September, the kind of quiet that feels like a blanket pulled up around your shoulders. I was standing near Auke Bay. Mist lifted in curls off the water, and the mountains were just beginning to reveal themselves through the fog. The world was bathed in a muted gold, and everything felt hushed—like Alaska was gently waking up.
I held my camera, but I didn’t lift it.
Not yet.
Instead, I stood still. I listened to the rhythm of water against the shore. I watched as the light changed, not in bursts, but in whispers.
That moment wasn’t about capturing a perfect photo. It was about being in it—fully. It was about allowing time to stretch and letting the land move at its own pace.
That’s what Alaska does to you.
It slows your pulse.
It widens your gaze.
It rearranges what you think matters.
The Pace of the Wild: Nature as Teacher
When I first began photographing Alaska, I moved fast.
Too fast.
I mapped sunrise angles and trail distances like a math equation. I was always calculating, always searching, always trying to find the next great shot before the light changed or the clouds rolled in. I’d hike with my camera strapped and ready, often passing scenes that—looking back—I wish I had slowed down to appreciate.
But Alaska doesn’t move for you.
It doesn’t perform on command.
The bald eagle doesn’t arrive because your itinerary said 10 a.m.
The clouds won’t part just because you’ve hiked ten miles.
The glacier doesn’t calve on schedule.
If you want to photograph Alaska—really photograph it—you have to listen to it. Wait with it. Respect the slowness that governs everything here.
That’s when the magic happens:
When the fog lifts one minute before you turn back.
When a fox appears after hours of stillness.
When the wind calms just long enough to reflect the mountains perfectly on a glassy lake.
The wild asks you to give more than just your time—it asks for your presence.
More Than Photos: What Slowing Down Taught Me About Living
What surprised me most is how this shift in rhythm didn’t just change how I shoot—it changed how I live.
Before, I was always “on.” My to-do list ran my day. I filled silence with podcasts, my drives with phone calls, and my coffee breaks with scrolling. Even when I was in nature, part of me was thinking about what I could do with the moment, not how to be in it.
But something about Alaska makes that impossible.
You can’t multitask a glacier.
You can’t rush the northern lights.
Eventually, the pace of this place starts to seep into you. It softens your edges. It makes you more aware—not just of nature, but of yourself. Your breath. Your habits. Your longings.
Slowing down made space for:
Long walks without headphones
Journaling beside the ocean
Time with people I love—without checking the clock
Creativity that didn’t feel forced, just flowing
I learned that slowing down isn’t laziness—it’s an act of devotion. To this life. To this land. To myself.
What You See When You’re Still
When you start to slow down, something else happens: you see differently.
You notice the way dew clings to fireweed.
The exact moment when a raven’s wing catches sunlight.
The hush that follows snowfall in the Tongass.
Some of my favorite images weren’t the result of a plan or a perfect forecast. They came after I waited too long in one place. After I stayed through the wind. After I talked myself out of leaving and simply watched.
Photography has always been about light—but now, for me, it’s just as much about stillness.
Stillness lets you:
Compose with more intention
Respond to what the land gives you
Photograph not just what you see, but what you feel
These images feel more alive. They hold something true—not just about Alaska, but about what it means to really see the world around you.
An Invitation: Try “Slow Seeing”
You don’t have to live in Alaska to practice this.
Wherever you are, whatever season you’re in, try this:
Leave your phone at home.
Go outside with no goal.
Pick a spot and stay there—ten, twenty, maybe thirty minutes.
Let your gaze soften. Let your thoughts drift. Let your breath deepen.
Watch what begins to show up when you stop trying to find something.
You might see more.
You might feel more.
You might remember what it’s like to be fully here.
This is what Alaska taught me.
It’s what I hope my photos carry.
And it’s what I hope you feel, in some small way, when you visit this space.
Stay in the Wild With Me
If you’re drawn to stories like this—quiet reflections, photography in wild places, and a slower, more intentional rhythm. I’d love to stay connected.
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Browse the print shop to bring a piece of this stillness into your home.
Read more in the travel journal, where I share behind-the-lens stories and seasonal guides.
Until next time—go slow. Look longer. And let the wild find you.
