Snowshoeing through the Tuolumne Grove, I felt as though I was witnessing the dinosaurs of the plant kingdom. Sequoia trees average 222 feet tall with diameters reaching 23 feet. When miners used to cut down these ‘Mammoth Trees’ (before they became protected) the sheer weight caused the trunks to shatter upon impact.

I came across a fallen Sequoia during my hike. Legend says this Sequoia sacrificed itself so the others in the grove could survive. I learned about the wildly fascinating ways in which trees communicate through their root systems. Via nutrients and “chemical, hormonal and slow-pulsing electrical signals,” this fallen Sequoia learned of an approaching fire and sacrificed itself to protect the others in the grove. The tree pictured in the photograph is a mere 20 yards from the charred Sequoia, standing as one of the survivors.

I find my sense of self restored in nature. The extremities are stripped away and I’m left with only vitals. More recently, however, nature has also meant confronting my identity of colonial history with Indigenous displacement. Here, in Yosemite, a place of breathtaking beauty as granite faces touch clouds and yellow leaves dance with raindrops to the valley floor, I see the untold stories. Stories of Indigenous lives being displaced and destroyed so Americans can enjoy the wilderness.

In 1912, John Muir, a revered naturalist in American history, wrote: “The true ownership of the wilderness belongs in the highest to those who love it most.” A decade later, Totuya, a member of the Ahwahneechee Tribe, wrote: “Whit[e] men drive my people out — my Yosemite.” There’s such a clear difference in perspective about the creation of Yosemite National Park. One is romantic and caters toward a colonial idea of “wilderness” and the righteousness of “true ownership” of nature. The other is an overlooked story of the reality that Native Americans were brutally harmed so their home could become a playground.

We happened upon this cave. The walls were so fragile even the kiss of wind seemed to turn the orange swirls to dust. In some instances, nature feels immovable and everlasting. Other moments, I sense the utter delicateness.

I scouted this location miles away in a diner booth. Scouring satellite pictures from maps I discovered a composition. With coordinates in hand, we curled our manual Toyota FJ Cruiser through the desolate, desert road. I flew my drone out of sight, by a long shot, to the coordinates and found my composition. That evening, we repeated the process. The faded light prevailed rich colors and lines previously missed in the harshness of midday.

My love for photography grew from the ability to document the natural world around me. I found that photography became a tool for me to observe more closely the colors in the lichen on a granite stone or the creases in a distant mountain. There was a sense of realness and understanding.

When I first flew a drone, my whole understanding of documentation and observation of nature shifted. Suddenly, objects that looked one way on foot were rendered completely different aerially. Massive trees became pin prints. Lakes turned into clusters of ponds. As I flew my drone higher and further, these literal objects became abstractions up to interpretation.

Flying my drone in the Southwest deserts, objects and colors easily transformed with my imagination. Spines of mountains became spines of creatures.

As much as I try to capture the energy and emotion of a place, there are moments when I fail as an artist. Occasionally my shutter speed or focus is off, but in this case, I failed because the only way to truly experience this moment was to be there. To stand there with my two feet firmly planted on the dirt. To smell the salty waves crash below. To hear the birds using the ocean surface like a highway from food source to home. To see double — the pinks, yellows, oranges of the sky reflected in the sea.

At that moment, I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. I knew in twenty minutes the scene would vanish to darkness. I knew in three months, come spring, the waterfall would run dry. I knew that in fifty years I wouldn’t be able to stand here and see the same scene. The ocean would continue to acidify from the excessive intake of carbon dioxide. Fish wouldn’t survive as the water’s pH levels rose. More birds would struggle to find food sources and fewer would be there to use the ocean as a highway. The forests at the cliff’s edge would continue to burn from suppressed forest fires. The soil on the hillside would erode with fewer roots there to stabilize.

The point is I found it impossible to capture this all in a single frame — the emotions, the experience, the temporality of the sunset, and the greater ecosystem. The irony is this photograph will last forever, but the subject may not.

A set of waves moving at a geological pace. A meditation on light and lines, rises and valleys, wind and rain.

Do you see her? Do you feel the warmth of the sun as she does? Do you see her wrinkles? Her beauty? Do you feel held?

Further away from our own light, nature’s become brighter. We are never without light.

My love for photography grew from the ability to document the natural world around me. I found that photography became a tool for me to observe more closely the colors in the lichen on a granite stone or the creases in a distant mountain. There was a sense of realness and understanding.

When I first flew a drone, my whole understanding of documentation and observing nature shifted. Suddenly, objects that looked one way on foot were rendered completely different aerially. Massive trees became pin prints. Lakes turned into clusters of ponds. As I flew my drone higher and further, these literal objects became abstractions up to interpretation.

Flying my drone in the Southwest deserts, objects and colors easily transformed with my imagination. Spines of mountains became spines of creatures.