Every year, Earth Day invites us to pause and reflect on our connection to the natural world—but for me, that connection is constant. It’s stitched into the fabric of who I am. Long before I ever photographed a pet, I was a girl flipping through National Geographic magazines, captivated by images of misty mountains, untamed coasts, and endless forests. Landscape photography was my first love.
I’d lose myself in the black-and-white brilliance of Ansel Adams’ work, drawn to the drama, stillness, and sacredness of the landscapes he captured. His photos made me feel like the mountains were speaking directly to the soul—and in a way, they were. That quiet reverence has always stayed with me.
And though life eventually led me into other paths, that call of the wild never quieted. I found my way back during a photography workshop in the Adirondacks—drawn once more to the trails, the waterfalls, and the quiet music of wind and water. Being out in nature recharges me in a way nothing else can. I feel peace. Joy. Purpose. And I feel a responsibility to not only document these places but to protect them.
With environmental protections being dismantled and climate change ever-present, photography can be a form of quiet activism. It invites people to see—to remember what’s at stake and why it’s worth fighting for. I hope these images do just that.
Here are two of my favorites, and the stories behind them.
Into the Light
We were on a rainy drive through Maine, aiming for Acadia, and landed for the night in Belfast. I’ve always loved sunrises, so when I saw Moose Point State Park on the map, I set my alarm, hoping for something beautiful—even though the sky was still heavy with clouds.
The next morning, I walked through the damp woods before dawn, stepping over seaweed-covered rocks, waiting for the sun to break through. But the sky stayed gray. The sunrise I’d hoped for never came.
Feeling a little defeated, I started walking back through the trees. And then, halfway down the trail, the light found me. A single ray broke through the clouds, cutting through the trees and lighting up the path in front of me.
It wasn’t the scene I had envisioned. It was better.
Quieter. More personal.
A reminder that sometimes the most meaningful moments are the ones we don’t plan for.
Whispers of the Wild
This trip started as a cousin’s weekend in Ocean City, Maryland—just a chance to reconnect, laugh, and enjoy the coast. But in the back of my mind, I had a quiet hope: a visit to Assateague Island to see the wild horses.
I’ve loved horses for as long as I can remember. There’s something about their presence—calm, powerful, free—that has always drawn me in. I’d seen photos of the wild herds at Assateague, roaming the beaches and marshes, and it had been on my list for years to witness it for myself… and to capture that beauty with my camera.
On our first day, we explored the island from end to end and didn’t spot a single horse—until we were heading out and got caught in a line of cars. A few horses wandered across the road, and the traffic stopped as everyone tried to grab a photo. It was chaotic, not the quiet, natural scene I’d imagined.
Someone nearby mentioned that the best time to find the horses was early morning. So the next morning, before sunrise, we headed out again. We parked, crossed the dunes, and stepped onto the beach—only to find it completely empty. Just sand, sea, and sky.
Eventually, we saw a small group of horses in the distance. But as others approached them, the horses began to move away. I didn’t want to be part of the crowd chasing them off, so I stopped and sat down in the sand to take in the view.
That’s when I saw them.
Just ahead of me—almost hidden in the early light—were three horses. Two were lying down, completely at ease, and one stood watch nearby. The sky behind them had just started to shift, picking up soft golds as the sun pushed through the clouds. One of the horses had a white band around his belly, which is probably the only reason I saw them at all—they blended so naturally into the landscape.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to disturb them. I simply stayed where I was and quietly took the photo.
It was peaceful. It was real. And it brought me joy.
I may have found my peace with a photo of three wild horses in the soft light of dawn, but the truth is… I’m still chasing a moose somewhere out in the wilderness.
Maybe one day I’ll round a bend in the trail, and there it’ll be—majestic, surprising, and perfectly framed by pines and morning mist. Until then, I’ll keep walking the paths, chasing the light, and listening to the whispers of the wild.
Stunning! Timing and patience was everything,, and it paid off with some very special images.