The sun had diminished during my epic clash with nature. While I fought its troublesome mischief and subdued the turbid green phalanx, the redshift had arrived. From the far edge of the spectrum, bloody vermillion had come, as did Burgundy and Currant. Arrived with companies and contingents, allies and accomplice, with all the vast hosts of the scarlet lineage. Come to wash away the remains of the day on tides of crimson and carmine. The scene was shifting from fiery orange to a rich red before my eyes. From beneath the boughs and branches, the shadows had grown long. Freed from the confines of the forest, they reached out from ethereal realms to commiserate with their departing brethren. Bright golds and ambers, the signage of an October afternoon, had abated. The strength of the light, along with its vibrant hues, were being consumed by richer tones of garnet and merlot. All of this made for an enchanting scene, one that the prepared photographer would cherish and capitalize on. Not so much for the foolish, cursing barbarian types. There is one force in nature that influences each moment, every decision and every course of action I choose while traipsing about the woods playing wildlife photographer. Like a double-edged sword, that element is the wellspring of my exuberant joy, moping defeatism, and apprehensive blundering. Illuminating a governance over all things photographic. That influence has held my attention and concern for many years, while countless other dictums were lost and forgotten.

Light is the deity to which all photographers, both professional and inept, pander for favour. Its blessings give glorious reward to those fortunate few who bask in its illuminating favour. When I turn that dial and mark the settings that burning god dictates the quality of each work. By the guidance of a vast and unknowable will, I work to capture the essence of nature. Through that guidance, I feel as though my actions are determined at the primordial dawn, etched upon the fabric of all things by photons born in the nuclear heart of a star. Right here, at this place, at this moment, the last act of a cosmic ballet unfolds. Mythic particles born in some dim past have travelled across the black expanse to arrive here, at this exact moment. Cascading and colliding all around me, they create the world around me and without those inconceivable fragments of light, the world I know would not exist. Regardless of theory or fact, those photons are the reason that a cursing photographer, that smells of dog sh&t, is standing in a remote tract of forest, struggling to decide which direction to turn a plastic dial. I mulled over the theory in which the sun was the sole responsibility of my anxious awareness of light and time. The fickle properties of which remain an ever-present source of anxiety fuelled checks and balances. Gauging, measuring,...