August

The air is filled with smoke.

Good days follow hard rain, or at least enough to rid the sky of haze. I always used to wonder if it smelled like a campfire, and I can now assure you it doesn’t. It’s a rotten smell - like mixing paint into your kindling. The smell that doesn’t leave your nose or your t-shirt immediately. I made the mistake of leaving my bedroom windows open one day last week and woke up with the same headache that put me to sleep. A headache derived from paint, trees and hot air. I often wonder how the animals react to it. I mean, the wolves are still howling, the bison are bellowing. Occasionally I’ll find a prairie falcon chasing ducks out in the valley, so I know the birds are doing fine. The light is flat and filtered, which seems fitting. It takes the life out my images, a direct reflection of life taken from the trees that are burning. Again, that smell.

Every once in a while I get in a creative mindset and hope to put a few words down somewhere. This is probably the eighth attempt at doing so this summer, though I haven’t been able to pull my fumbled thoughts together adequately enough. And I feel this one slipping as I write it. I worry about the state of the world, more often than I probably should. Then again, shouldn’t the state of the world be at the forefront of our minds, all the time? This is our planet that’s being mistreated by the people who we elect, and who we trust. The truth is, the climate is changing rapidly, so much so that in twenty-four years of life I’ve noticed the change. Sure, I read the science, I look at the charts, I interpret the CO2 we’re putting into our atmosphere at all time highs as the primary issue, I learned it all in school from credible sources and formed my own thoughts and opinions on the truth that was given to me; but at the end of the day I’m noticing the change with my own two eyes, and that is scary.

Montana, Idaho and Wyoming are waging a war on wolves. The U.S. Forest Service is cutting the trees I fell in love with. The pandemic is gaining strength again. But you know what? I am happy. Never in my life have I been more happy than this. I’ve never had a job that has been more fulfilling not only for myself but for the dozens of strangers I meet per week. I get to wake up early, see the stars, race into the park and hear wolves howl at dawn. I get to walk with American bison as they have done so for thousands of years here. I get to share my stories, create stories with new people and then friends and leave this place knowing I left it a little better than it was before I got here. That is fulfilling. This is all fulfilling. I am happy.

I watched these wolves a few nights ago. Bellies stuffed with bison meat, they moved on from the crowd they had drawn and ran into the night. The smoke took the life out of the image, a direct reflection of life taken from the trees that are burning. Again, that smell. We smelt it the whole way home. And some more today.

My mind races. This is August. I can’t wait for September.

Dark

Forever grateful for a natural world to lean on, rich with life and wonder. But in some cases, it is the natural world that must lean on us. Watching this story develop has been the most fulfilling work of my career yet some of the toughest to take home and think on. While I fear that the next few months will be quite the opposite of inspiring, I know that we have to be here, shedding light on these dark forests. Because dark is how they should remain.

Truly Never Alone

Though I travel by foot to the places with no people, I know I am truly never alone.

Atop the Ridge

I used to have dreams about standing atop high, treeless ridges with a big lens, photographing things like Northern pygmy-owls. Except, I had never been on a high, treeless ridge, had a big lens or known what a Northern pygmy-owl was. Two years in Montana and these things start to feel routine. After checking on an old great gray owl nest in the forest below, I was drawn to the song of this little owl on my way back to the car. Up the hill we went.

Just another day in the west.

Changes

The sun is shining in Montana.

It’s a beautiful thing when something as simple as the first signs of spring showing up on a landscape bring enough joy to completely alter your thinking. Suddenly the same old repetitive rut that winter so kindly invites is met with changes. Temperatures rise, rivers swell, green roots and buds begin emerging out of their dormancy in town and elsewhere. Daylight reaches further and further into the evening, the air no longer cuts deep into your layers. The birds arrive! The world feels new again. 24 years later, and it still feels new again.

This week begins a journey that I only could have dreamt of as a kid in New York, fantasizing about what the world was like before our houses and highways. You see, the mountains here show glimpses of pre-development, between the cracks of industry and human influence. Centuries-old trees still stand not far from this computer screen, backdropped by 10,000ft peaks and incomprehensible beauty. Beauty I am itching to explore.

The great gray owls are singing, nesting season is beginning. I am beyond fortunate to be here, to have this opportunity to take the life of a seldom-seen bird and show it to the world; but more importantly, show it to those responsible for taking the forest away. If great gray owls are to thrive here for centuries to come, deforestation cannot. Harvesting of old growth trees cannot. New development on our public lands cannot. So this week begins a journey far more significant than anything I’ve ever found myself involved in. And thanks to those who have listened, I am now more confident than ever in my craft.

The sun is shining in Montana.

Kyle