At fifteen, standing at Glacier Point in Yosemite, something in me awakened.

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 the falls 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 driving on to the trailhead to Half Dome, and before long we were walking.

Within a mile or so I heard the thundering sound of another waterfall. Crossing the bridge I could feel its light mist as it came into my view.

That’s when I saw things I never saw before, and a new world opened up to me.

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 embraced it — laughing, smiling, playing.

I didn’t know how to explain it to myself back then.
But looking back now I could see how this was leading me into something I needed to keep experiencing.

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 me 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.

Over the years, I hiked through many places and explored many falls. 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 only about the photograph.

It was also about being there.

What began to stand out to me over time was how people experienced these places differently than I did.

I would watch others reactions and it seemed to me like they were not really seeing what I saw.

Or feeling to the depth of what I felt.

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 Yosemite Valley during Christmas.

It was nearly empty.

Only a few campers remained in the lone campground that stayed open through the winter.

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, I was aware of the importance of this place.

And from that awareness came these words.

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:

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