At fifteen, standing at Glacier Point, something in me shifted.
But it wasn’t until we drove down into the valley and came out at Tunnel View that the experience truly took hold.
The expanse opened wide before me — and with it, more waterfalls appeared, each with its own presence, its own character.
I remember seeing Bridalveil Fall in the distance, drawn to the way the water dropped and the mist spread outward at its base. I wanted to stop, to step into it, to feel it.
But we kept driving.
We continued on to the trailhead for Half Dome, and before long we were walking.
Within a mile or two, Vernal Falls came into view.
That’s when everything changed.
The mist from the falls reached far beyond the water itself. It spread across the trail, and everyone walking forward had to pass through it. There was no avoiding it.
Some people turned away, shielding themselves, trying not to get wet. Others leaned into it — laughing, smiling, embracing it like something alive.
I didn’t know how to explain it then.
But I could feel something changing in me.
We continued upward, eventually reaching the top and pressing on toward the next falls. The sound of water crashing against the rocks demanded attention. It wasn’t background noise — it was something that called you to stop.
To listen.
To feel.
At each waterfall, both going up and coming back down, we paused. I tried to take photographs, hoping to capture what I was experiencing.
But the camera never could.
What I felt couldn’t be contained in an image.
I kept returning.
Again and again, over the years, I made that hike. I explored other falls — Yosemite Falls, and others I would find along the way. As my photography improved, I began to understand more about how to capture the motion of water, how to suggest its movement and power.
But even when the image worked…
it still wasn’t the same.
It was never about the photograph.
It was about being there.
What began to stand out to me over time was how differently people experienced the same place.
I would watch others pass through it, and it seemed like many never really saw it.
Or felt it.
That began to stir something deeper in me — a question I didn’t yet have words for.
A search for meaning that I didn’t yet understand.
One winter, I came back to the valley at Christmas.
It was nearly empty.
Only a few campers remained in the lone campground that stayed open through the season.
As night fell, I laid my sleeping bag on a bed of pine boughs.
By morning, there was a light dusting of snow on top of me.
It was quiet in a way I had never experienced there before.
In that stillness, something opened.
And from that place came these words.
In that quiet, something remains.
Many times I would bring friends to Yosemite, hoping they might experience what I did.
Waterfalls became a place I returned to again and again.
Not just to photograph —
but to be still.
They taught me patience in ways I didn’t expect.
Waiting for the light to soften…
for the sun to pass behind a cloud…
for people to move on so the space could be quiet again.
In those moments, I wasn’t just taking pictures.
I was learning how to wait.
How to be present.
And even now, it is still the experience of being there —
more than the image —
that continues to call me back.
If you feel drawn to explore further: