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Among The Reeds _Barn Swallow

This image was captured at a small local fishing pond while I was experimenting with photographing fast moving birds. Barn swallows flit and dive over the water, catching gnats and mosquitoes, and their abrupt turns make them nearly impossible to follow.

I was lucky enough to catch this moment when a male barn swallow paused for a quick break. At the time I was shooting with a Canon 5D Mark IV. It’s a great camera, but back then it didn’t have the animal-tracking autofocus or eye-detect features you see on newer bodies, so it was all about using a high shutter speed, a long lens, and some patience.
Below is a sample of these fast moving birds in  motion.

The trail to Red Pine Lake is a brutal 9.5 miles round trip. It’s not just the length that tests you—it’s the terrain. Long stretches are gravel-covered, while others climb steeply like stone stairways, winding through switchbacks that seem endless.

After leaving the familiar passage toward Gloria Falls, I had my first wildlife encounter: a lone black-and-orange caterpillar. Nearly invisible against the early autumn foliage, it darted beneath a rock before I could get a proper photo. This was a Banded Woolly Bear Caterpillar—a remarkable little creature that freezes solid in winter, only to thaw in spring and continue life as if nothing happened. Eventually, it transforms into the Isabella Tiger Moth.

As I climbed higher, the trees opened up in places, offering sweeping views of the mountains and the canyon below—a vast sea of pine and aspen. The aspen leaves, still green this late in the season, rattled like waves when the breeze passed through. Occasionally, I’d hear the bark of a squirrel or catch sight of a chipmunk, but most of the time, it was just me and the trail. I passed the occasional hiker heading down, but the upper trail felt solitary.

A little over halfway, the path grew more rugged. Wet, rocky patches appeared, and eventually, a muddy stretch where a small stream spilled across the trail before disappearing higher up. Entering the pine woods, the canopy thickened, casting the trail in heavy shade. Here, silence seemed to reign—until just before reaching the lake, when bird songs returned to the air.

Reaching Red Pine Lake in the early evening felt like stepping into balance itself. The lake was half kissed by sunlight, half resting in shadow, framed on all sides by tall white granite peaks. I wandered around its shore, discovering a hidden firepit left by past campers beneath old pines. Scanning the rocky slopes, I thought I was alone—until I heard high-pitched calls from the lake’s dam.

There, bouncing among the rocks, were pikas—small, reddish-blond mountain dwellers that looked like they were arguing in squeaky voices. Their chatter echoed playfully across the water, a reminder that life thrives even in high, rocky places.

On the way down, another surprise waited: a dusky shape resembling a feathered duck moved slowly through the foliage. I suspect it was a Dusky Grouse, quietly retreating into the underbrush as evening deepened.

The Red Pine Lake Trail was exhausting, but the solitude, the wildlife, and the stillness of the lake made every step worth it.

Before my food photography internship, I shot just about everything. Still life, architecture, portraits — whatever the class assignment called for. I enjoyed the process: handling the camera, setting up a shot, watching how light shaped the scene. But the results? Rarely satisfying. It always felt like I was trying to force something into being that hadn’t quite arrived yet. Then I tried a more free flowing style with food. Hands mid-motion, gloved. A lime being drawn across a microplane. Strands of zest falling like streamers into a plastic prep bowl. There’s nothing flashy about it. No stylized set, no retouching wizardry. Just color, texture, rhythm — the honesty of a task done well. I remember taking this shot and feeling it land before I even checked the back of the camera. This one taught me that sometimes the story lives in the process. Not in the final dish, not in the perfect backdrop — but in the repetition, the angle of a wrist, the texture of a peel. That attention to detail — to gesture — stayed with me.

Cecret Lake looks peaceful — and it is, in this photo. But I had to wait for it.

The trail that day was crowded. Families, hikers, kids throwing rocks, and a steady stream of voices bouncing off the basin walls ; there was even another photographer there and a bride to. At one point someone asked if there were salamanders, and as it turns out, they weren’t wrong — I actually did spot a few salamanders near the rocks at the edge of the lake. Between them, the little chipmunks racing around the rocks, the place was alive in ways that don’t always show up in a still frame.

Even so, the quiet didn’t come easy. I waited. Eventually, things lined up — the wind eased, the surface of the lake smoothed out, and for a few brief seconds, everything went still. No one in the frame. No ripples. Just light, rock, and water holding still long enough to notice each other.

I got the shot, then stepped back and let the chaos resume.

I was scrambling upstream above Donut Falls, trying to find a clean angle on the smaller cascade that most people don’t bother looking for. It’s tucked away — quieter than the cave, but steep and full of sharp shell rock. I spotted a large boulder in the center of the stream and figured it was the ideal vantage point. So I leapt.

And slipped.

Instantly.

The next few seconds were a blur of cold water, scattered gear, and a hard reset. I lost my Hydro Flask and a full set of batteries for my Elan 7. Somewhere downstream, those are probably wedged under a log, rusting quietly in the flow.

Soaked and frazzled, I regrouped, reassessed, and eventually found a better spot — not in the middle of the stream, and not involving airborne stunts. From there, everything aligned. The water curled and spilled over mossy rock. The light held. The frame settled. I took the shot.

Most people hike Donut Falls for the cave. But this — this upper tier — is where the real character shows up. It’s not marked. You just find it. Or fall into it, I guess.

I was moving fast — trying to get ahead of a loud group of hikers, kids yelling, trail noise bouncing off everything. It wasn’t exactly the kind of setting where you expect a quiet moment. But then I saw him. A buck, half-hidden in the brush, calmly chewing on the trees just off trail. He had seen me before I saw him — probably had the whole time — but he didn’t move. He just watched. We locked eyes for a second, and there was this moment… not fear, not tension, just a kind of mutual recognition. Like we were both taking a pause in the middle of the noise. I got a handful of shots in.

The noise behind me started to swell again, and he turned, stepped back into the trees, and was gone. I named this one Veiled Majesty because that’s what it felt like — presence without announcement. You don’t chase moments like that. You just notice them when they happen.

This one caught me off guard. I'd been watching the storm roll in across Silver Lake — dark clouds thick enough to blot out most of the light. Then, just for a breath, the clouds cracked open and lit up the treeline like someone flipped a switch. No haze. No softness. Just one sharp beam of light cutting through the mess. I got the shot, and about ten seconds later, the sky opened up and soaked everything.

That print — the only one I had on hand at the time — ended up hanging in a friend’s foot zoning and Reiki studio. Not because it was chosen for the vibe, but because it was available. Funny thing is, it fit. People say it feels grounding, calm, like the kind of stillness that shows up right before something changes. That wasn’t the plan, but maybe that’s the point.