It was a crisp October evening. There was a slight chill in the air, the kind that feels refreshing and exhilarating every time a breath is drawn or a breeze brushes against the skin. The sun was low, bathing everything in a warm golden glow. Most of the trees in the area had clearly passed their fall peak, but in front of me stood two glorious maples proudly displaying their most garish shades of crimson and saffron. It was the type of scene that would make any photographer drool. I grabbed my camera and feverishly began snapping away to capture as many shots as possible before the sun bid farewell. Afterwards, in the dim light of dusk, I stood and reflected on my experience. I had come in search of beautiful photographs, but what I left with, would in the coming months, turn out to be so much more.

I am an avid outdoor photographer - you could say it is my driving force in life. When I surround myself with wilderness and get behind the lens all my problems seem to dissolve away. There is nothing in my opinion quit so liberating, though I would not realize just how liberating until I was faced with the most devastating personal crisis of my life. Rather than offer another lesson in nature photography, I instead offer a lesson in life as it pertains not only to nature photography, but also nature itself.

My crisis began in late September 2001. At that time I made my home in Florida, complete with my husband and a virtual zoo of animals. Within a fifteen-hour period, our lives would suddenly plunge into chaos and my decade long life in Florida would be over. Without warning my husband, our pets, and myself were homeless drifters with little more than our vehicle and the clothes on our backs. Over the next half-year we became nomads, not knowing where our new home would be or when calm would return to our lives.

Aside from a small bag of clothes, the one thing that I carried with me everywhere was my camera equipment. Reality became a difficult and stressful enemy to face and as often as possible I retreated from that enemy and immersed myself in photography. Often what I found was that instead of actually taking photographs, I would spend the majority of my time observing and listening to the natural world around me.

On one such outing, I found myself in New Jersey sitting by the edge of a stream starved by drought. So depleted were its resources, it barely flowed above a trickle. It was early November and the dead, brittle leaves that littered the ground crunched beneath my weight. A cluster of withered flowers stood off to one side. The once warm soil that gave them their beauty and allowed them to flourish was now cold, draining them of life. The sun filtered through the branches of half-naked trees, bathing my face in light. The warmth from its rays was noticeably diminished as fall began to give way to the coming season. At that moment I realized that everything around me seemed in a stage of death, and in that moment the realization hit that I was, at this point in my life, no different than the trees and flowers in my company. Though at the time I did not understand what that realization would later mean.

By January winter was in full swing. Now in North Carolina, I woke one morning to a landscape transformed. Snow had fallen through the night and coated everything in a foot-and-a half thick blanket of powder. I suited up, and camera in tow, headed out into the cold. I shot image after image of the ghostly forms of dead trees peering out of a foggy veil of white. As wet flakes grazed my face I paused, silently staring at those seemingly lifeless shells. Looking beyond their sad exteriors, I recognized a sense of dignity and determined defiance about them. Again I was hit by the realization that I was no different than those lifeless trees standing in front of me, but still I did not understand what that realization would come to mean.

As March rolled in I noticed the sun's rays were again warm on my face. Winter was slowly giving way to spring. As I strolled through a nearby park, looking as always for a subject to photograph, I began to notice the first signs of life returning to the land. Lit from behind, delicate green buds twinkled and danced on the ends of branches. Flowers began to peak out of the soil, looking again to a new bloom. A luna moth fresh from its cocoon rested on the bark of a pine tree before spreading its wings for its maiden voyage. In that moment, I understood what nature had been trying to teach me. Whether through the silent hibernation of a tree, or the rebirth of a flower, or the metamorphosis of a moth, nature always finds a way to reinvent itself. The time had come for me to follow suit. It was time to come out of hibernation and undergo my own metamorphosis.

I began by turning to again face reality. This time I would conquer my enemy. With that conquest I was finally able to let go of the past and move toward my future, and in doing so I set my spirit free and spread my wings to fly. My husband and I had long since discussed moving out west and now decided there was no better time than the present. Selling our car to fund the move, we loaded up a rental truck, collected our pets and hit the road. Within a week we would be in our new home state of Arizona!

I have always loved and deeply respected nature in all its forms. I guess that is what led me on the path of photography. If asked, most nature photographers will say that their camera gives them an excuse to get out and explore, and in the process perhaps they may capture forever one of nature's many fleeting moments. I am no different, but I never quite understood the power that both my interactions with nature and my love of photography could have over my life. During my darkest days it was my desire to escape that darkness through the lens of a camera, but my freedom would come only through a lesson learned in nature.