THE FOREST
Beneath the canopy, the forest keeps its own ancient time. Trees that stood long before us still hold the weight of storms, seasons, and footfalls that fade into memory. Light drifts differently here, sound softens, and the world slows to the quiet rhythm of moss, bark, and wind. This gallery traces that old pulse — the patient way the Northwoods endures, remembers, and breathes — offering a glimpse into a place where nothing is truly still, yet nothing is ever in a hurry.
WARMTH IN THE WIND
By the time I reached this campsite on Winchell Lake, the trip had become something very different from the one I had planned. I was on a four-night solo trip through the Boundary Waters when, near the end of my first day, I badly sprained my ankle. I managed to drag myself the rest of the way to this campsite, but as darkness settled over the lake, I still didn’t know exactly how I was going to get myself out.
Cold winds blew steadily from the east that night. I built a fire and stayed close to it, feeding it piece by piece as the wind moved through camp. There was something reassuring about that fire. It didn’t solve the problem waiting for me in the morning, but for a while, it gave me warmth, light, and something simple to concentrate on. This long exposure captured the wind carrying sparks from the fire into the darkness, stretching them into long trails of light. My own movement became almost ghostlike as I tended the flames. There was still uncertainty beyond the firelight. There was still a long way home. But for that night, on the shore of Winchell Lake, there was warmth in the wind.
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DRINKING LIGHT
Every forest has moments that disappear before they can be named. A shift in the wind. A break in the canopy. For a few quiet seconds, an ordinary leaf becomes something else entirely—its veins glowing like rivers beneath stained glass, carrying the unseen work that sustains the woods around it.
Captured along Minnesota’s North Shore, this photograph is a reminder that wilderness is not only found in sweeping vistas or ancient cliffs. Sometimes it reveals itself in the smallest details, where sunlight passes through living things and exposes the hidden architecture of life. The forest is built one leaf at a time, each one quietly gathering light, feeding the trees that will outlive us, and writing another season into the landscape..
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FIRE IN THE SKY JULY 14TH 2026
These photographs were made between approximately 5:30 and 6:00 p.m. on July 14, 2026, along the Gunflint Trail in northern Minnesota. At a time of year when the sun normally hangs high in the sky for several more hours, daylight had been replaced by an eerie orange glow. The smoke was so dense that it transformed the landscape into something almost unrecognizable—an apocalyptic scene where the forests, lakes, and even the air itself seemed to exist beneath a different sun.
In the days leading up to these photographs, the wildfire burning near the U.S.–Canada border had grown rapidly, reaching an estimated 2,500 acres as it spread along the Ottertrack and Knife Lake area. Officials warned that the fire was expected to cross into Minnesota, prompting evacuation alerts for residents and visitors near the end of the Gunflint Trail. (wtip.org)
What struck me most wasn’t only the color of the sky—it was what longtime residents were saying. I heard from neighbors whose families have lived on the Gunflint Trail for more than eighty years, and they all shared the same sentiment: they had never witnessed anything like this. That perspective says more than any statistic ever could.
The photographs themselves cannot capture the full experience. Ash drifted silently from above. The sun disappeared behind a wall of smoke hours before sunset should have arrived. Familiar places felt unfamiliar, and the wilderness that has always represented peace and resilience suddenly felt fragile.
These images are not simply photographs of a wildfire. They are a record of an extraordinary moment in the history of the Gunflint Trail—a reminder of both the immense power of nature and the changing realities facing the forests we love.
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Old Growth
Porcupine mountain wilderness
There are places in the Northwoods that still feel largely untouched by time. The old-growth forest of Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park is one of them.
Hidden along the southern shore of Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, the Porcupine Mountains protect roughly 35,000 acres of primary old-growth forest—one of the largest remaining relatively undisturbed northern hemlock-hardwood forests west of the Adirondacks. Ancient eastern hemlock, sugar maple, yellow birch and basswood form a forest remarkably similar to the one encountered here centuries ago.
The forest was one of the primary reasons this landscape was protected. Today, the Porkies encompass nearly 60,000 acres of wilderness, rivers, waterfalls, inland lakes, rugged ridges and more than 25 miles of Lake Superior shoreline.
For all of its scale and significance, the Porcupine Mountains still feel strangely overlooked. I have traveled through forests across the Northwoods, but few have stayed with me like this one. Beneath the enormous canopy, surrounded by fallen timber, moss, ferns and trees that have stood through generations, the forest feels less like scenery and more like a living record of the Northwoods.
Of all the forests I have walked, this may be the most beautiful.
in the pines
Taken at a campsite on Gaskin Lake in the Boundary Waters, I sat beside the fire beneath a sky filled with stars while clouds drifted overhead, backlit by the moon. Surrounded by the dark silhouettes of the pines, I found myself thinking about all the trips that had come before this one—the portages, the campsites, the rainy skies, the clear nights, the long days on the water, and all the quiet moments in between.
After enough trips, the details begin to blend together, but certain things stay with you: the smell of smoke, the sound of water against the shoreline, tired legs at the end of the day, and the glow of a fire beneath an open sky. That night on Gaskin, I wasn’t thinking much about where I was going next. I was simply grateful for all the miles, storms, clear skies, and campsites that had brought me there—in the pines.
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THE BURN
Beneath the cold stars, the forest burns by design. This fire is no accident, no careless spark leaping wild into the night. It’s deliberate—a chosen blaze, meant to clear away the dead and dying so the living can return. Each fallen branch and hollowed trunk feeds the flames, offering itself to a cycle older than memory.
As the heat rises and smoke curls skyward, the line between destruction and creation blurs. This is not the end of the forest, but a rebirth disguised as ruin. By morning, only ash will remain, scattered like seeds across blackened soil, waiting for rain to call them back to life.
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BONES OF WINTER
After months beneath the weight of snow, the land exhales. The grass, pale and brittle, emerges like the bones of winter—flattened, tangled, and glowing gold under the starlight. Bare trees reach upward, their branches etched against a sky still cold and vast. This fleeting moment, caught between seasons, is a quiet reminder that even in decay, the earth prepares for renewal.
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breathing forest
In the glow of a quiet forest night, an axe rests among leaves, stars, and young trees. It is a tool of necessity, yet its presence carries a tension—an object designed to cut standing within a place defined by growth. The Garden explores the uneasy relationship between creation and destruction, asking whether stewardship and harm are separated by intent alone. Beneath the canopy, beauty thrives beside the means to undo it, each giving meaning to the other.
Signed and numbered,Limited to 50 prints. No frame / Print only