When I began writing my blog in June of 2017, my intent was to have an outlet to share my love of landscape photography. At times, I diverted along the way to include photographs of stage productions I worked on, and then to share our adventures while traveling across the country in our Scamp trailer. Three months ago, I redirected the blog once again to be my outlet for sharing our experiences as missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Hawaii. Even though my primary focus for the blog has changed over the years, I still harbor a deep love and passion for photography, especially a love for nature and the beautiful landscapes that we find outside our backdoor.

While in Hawaii, I will have my camera equipment close at hand, and when I have free time, we hope to explore the wonders of these Pacific islands. We depart on this journey in less than one month. From there on out, my photography will take a drastic turn in that I will no longer be exploring scenes of the American Desert Southwest and the Rocky Mountains, or the coast of California, but instead, be making images of sandy beaches, tropical jungles, volcanic landscapes, and ocean vistas. I decided that for this post, I will share a few images I’ve made during the past six months. Instead of simply publishing pretty pictures though, I want to share what the photos mean to me, and what I see when I look at them. I hope you will find inspiration in what I see when looking through the viewfinder of my camera.

This first image I call the Marriage Trees. Virginia and I were passing through the Santa Ynez Mountains in California this spring when we drove over a rise and I spotted these two magnificent oak trees on the crown of a hill, I believe they are California Live Oak (Quercus agrifolia). The first thing that caught my attention was the similarity of the two trees growing in a parallel manner. Their curving trunks follow the same line. Graphically and compositionally, they made a pleasing arrangement. They were on private property beyond a barbed wire fence, so I was limited with how I could frame the trees. I made the image, and we drove on up the canyon. I returned often to look at this image in my editing software and pondered why I was so captivated by the shapes. It soon dawned on me that these two striking specimens reminded me of a perfect matrimonial union. These oaks began their lives probably at roughly the same time and under the same conditions. The identical forces that shaped the one also fell upon the other. Each tree sent it’s roots down deep to draw up moisture and the minerals of the earth to help it grow. The same winds that fell upon one also pushed upon the other. After many years of growth, their branches came in contact one with another, for the first time they touched. That touch sent a shiver throughout both partners, down their trunks and into the roots that held them fast to the rocky soil. Reverberations of that first touch are still felt today. Through many storms of life, the draughts, the fires, the earthquakes, and the insects, they continued taking strength from the ground below them. After many more years together, their branches intertwined. When I look at these two trees, I cannot tell where one tree ends and the other begins. Their lives are wholly comingled one with another. When one goes down, so likely will the other follow. This is what marriage seems to me, and why I call these the Marriage Trees.

This next image was made at Montana de Oro State Beach on the Central Coast. I’ve shot this arch several times. It’s a beautiful place to sit and listen to the pounding of the ocean waves. Virginia and I visited it again in July, and to my surprise, the arch had fallen. It is now only a sea stack separated from the cliff. It reminds me that change is constant. The pounding of the ocean waves is ever present. A million waves, maybe more, carved this piece of rock over eons of time. It is no less beautiful as a lone sentinel as it was a stately arch.

I spend a lot of time wondering what this mission to Hawaii will be like. It isn’t likely I will return the same person I am when I leave in four weeks. Over the next two years rhythmic waves will work away at Virginia and I, reshaping our characters. The changes will likely be imperceptible when considered day by day. It’s the cumulative effect of the waves over time that reshape the land and reshape the lives of individuals. God tends to create his grandest works slowly and carefully. Opposition is the tool through which He changes his children. We rarely grow in safe and protected environments. I don’t expect this mission to be easy, and I don’t expect it to be a vacation. We are both submitting ourselves to the care of the Master Craftsman, and His ever-pounding rhythm of the waves of change.

I made this image in early spring on the backside of Mount Timpanogos. I call it Textures of the Wasatch. I was across a valley when I spotted this stand of trees. I used my long lens to isolate this small bit of forest on the backside of Wasatch Mountain. I am drawn to these intimate scenes that reveal textures and patterns in the local forests. These are young aspen trees that have set their first leaves of the season. The maples and the oaks were still weeks away from greening. At times it feels as though the mountains are covered with a rich blanket in the patterns of nature’s tapestry. I’ve contemplated the word tapestry in a symbolic sense. I designed a show once many years ago wherein lyrics to a song were sung about the threads in a tapestry:

I am a thread in the tapestry,
I have the Master's hand on me,
And then He weaves me carefully,
Making textures as He goes.

As I’ve pondered these lyrics, I come to realize that from my perspective, I can’t always see the design the Master is working. From the level of the thread (or the tree), I have a limited view. We must rise above the fabric to see the magnificent patterns we’re a part of. If I were standing on the hillside with the trees, I wouldn’t see the rich textures and colors of early spring. I must stand on the opposite hill and look back across the valley to see the Master’s work. It’s easy to feel alone on this planet, and to wonder what God’s purpose is for each of us. It’s enough for me to know I am a thread, an important thread. The pattern wouldn’t be complete if a single thread is missing, just like this hillside would show a void if one of the trees was removed. I’m troubled because the daughter of a former neighbor took her life last week. A thread was cut short. I’m unsure how the pattern will be made whole again. My prayers are with her family.