A hundred people pass by something that has become normal, or turn away because they’re afraid of retaliation.

The forest asks us to remember something we’ve always known. A fallen cedar isn't waste; it's shelter. A stream isn't just water; it's carrying life from mountain to ocean. Moss isn't decoration; it's holding the moisture that allows countless other organisms to survive. Everywhere you look, one life supports another. Nothing exists alone. That's the wonder of the forest, isn't it? After enough time, you stop asking, "What can I get?" and begin asking, "Where is my place?"

Geotagging, social media, and the complicated question of loving wild places.

But something changed when I began slowing down in old-growth forests.

I stopped asking anything of them.

I simply began to be there.

For reasons that are difficult to explain, I have always been drawn to preserving a moment as I experienced it. One frame. One exposure. One slice of time.

And sometimes, if you slow down enough to notice, the smallest parts of the world are the ones that teach you the most about how everything holds together.

Watch your step. The smallest lives are doing some of the most important work.

A reflective essay about patience, hiking and photography while sitting at the foot of Mt.Jefferson.

Being a winner is the best. Everyone says so.