Phillip Burrow Fine Art Photography

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Phillip Burrow Fine Art Photography Welcome to my photography page

I am Phillip Burrow, a fine art photographer living in Alabama, just south of Birmingham, in the southeastern United States.

Leaving our e-bikes parked near the little store, my friend and I walked under the cool shade of the forest canopy towar...
11/02/2026

Leaving our e-bikes parked near the little store, my friend and I walked under the cool shade of the forest canopy toward Mill Creek. The damp air smells rich with wet earth, moss, and hemlock leaves. High above the rocky creek bed, an elevated wooden flume cuts through the deep green woods, resting on heavy timber piers stacked like log cabins. A steady stream of clear mountain water spills from a narrow overflow gate, splashing down onto slick, moss-covered river stones below. Standing under the heavy timbers, the ambient temperature drops noticeably, cooled by the constant mist thrown off by the cascading water.

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Built around 1868, this wooden flume represents a stroke of pure mountain engineering by local miller John Cable. Most gristmills in East Tennessee relied on simple waterwheels placed directly in moving streams. Cable recognized that Mill Creek lacked steady water pressure during dry autumn months, so he constructed this elevated trough to carry pressurized water directly to a massive overshot wheel. To guarantee a steady current year-round, Cable manually dug a diversion canal connecting neighboring Forge Creek directly into Mill Creek, doubling his water supply. This steady flow kept the millstones turning day after day, grinding corn and wheat for hundreds of families scattered across Cades Cove. Pausing along the quiet creek trail during our morning ride offers a wonderful glimpse into the sheer resourcefulness that kept this secluded mountain community thriving.

Have you ever explored the historic Cable Mill area in Cades Cove, or stood under the mist of an old wooden flume?

The rhythmic spin of our e-bike hums softly as we round a curve in the eastern loop. Early morning silence wraps around ...
10/29/2026

The rhythmic spin of our e-bike hums softly as we round a curve in the eastern loop. Early morning silence wraps around the valley, thick and unbroken except for the drip of moisture from barbed wire fence strands onto wet grass. A weathered fence stretches out into the open meadow, its worn wooden posts standing in sharp relief against a field of yellowing summer stalks and wild blooms. Heavy morning fog cascades down from the higher ridges, blanketing the dark tree line in shifting white veils. The cool air tastes clean and damp, rich with the smell of wet earth and mountain pasture.

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Fences like these did far more than mark property lines for the farming families who once lived in Cades Cove. In the late 1890s, isolated homesteaders found a clever, pragmatic way to bridge the distance between farms long before power companies ever reached the mountains. Led by local shopkeeper Dan Lawson, families built their own independent telephone system.

Using makeshift rights-of-way, they strung miles of galvanized wire directly across oak branches and top fence posts, using small glass beehive insulators to link neighbor to neighbor. Lawson’s general store served as the cove’s central station. Though their ambitious attempt to run a trunk line over the ridge to Maryville was regularly defeated by mountain wind and falling timber, the valley’s internal party line endured for decades, allowing neighbors to ring each other with coded hand-cranks across the fields.

Later, when land acquisition for the national park began in the 1920s, these same pasture borders became legal battle lines as families fought in court to retain their ancestral land. Gliding along the loop before vehicle traffic begins offers a moment to reflect on the deep human ingenuity, hardscrabble engineering, and quiet determination etched into every corner of this mountain basin.

Have you ever discovered a hidden piece of local history or early tech while exploring a quiet mountain road?

A lone hiker disappears toward the dark wall of forest where the open pasture ends. Wild clover and black-eyed Susans li...
10/26/2026

A lone hiker disappears toward the dark wall of forest where the open pasture ends. Wild clover and black-eyed Susans line both sides of the smooth asphalt, their stems bowing under heavy morning moisture. To the left, a weathered split-rail fence separates the pavement from an open meadow veiled in shifting banks of fog. The morning air feels sharp and damp, filled with the deep earthy scent of wet leaves and rich forest soil. The silence hangs heavily over the valley, broken only by the soft rhythm of footsteps fading in the distance.

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Long before this road was paved for park visitors, these secluded forest edges harbored secret operations during Prohibition and the Great Depression. The cove’s dense vegetation, clean mountain springs, and deep ravines provided perfect cover for illicit copper-still moonshining. Local farmers, struggling to survive economically as traditional agricultural prices collapsed, often turned to distilling corn mash as a necessary trade craft to support their families. Those hidden stills required absolute quiet and deep familiarity with the terrain to avoid federal law enforcement officers known as revenuers. Looking at the misty tree line today, it is fascinating to imagine how these peaceful woods once hid an entire underground economy driven by mountain ingenuity and sheer survival. Moving through this tranquil morning landscape offers a vivid glimpse of the complex layers of human history embedded in these ancient mountains.

Have you ever encountered a quiet trail or road that felt steeped in forgotten history, or felt the shift in atmosphere when entering a dense mountain forest mist?

We pedaled our e-bikes beneath a thick canopy of mature hardwoods as morning light filtered through the mist. Participat...
10/22/2026

We pedaled our e-bikes beneath a thick canopy of mature hardwoods as morning light filtered through the mist. Participating in the vehicle-free Wednesday allowed us to experience the eleven-mile loop in complete tranquility. Smooth pavement stretched ahead, flanked by rustic fence posts and rich green grass soaked in early dew. Warm sunlight pooled at the end of the tree-lined corridor, turning the atmospheric fog into a soft golden haze. The cool air smelled of fresh oak leaves and moist soil. Other cyclists passed us quietly in the morning gloom, their tires humming softly against the road.

Interested in a fine-art print of this piece? Head over to phillip-burrow dot pixels dot com to browse my full gallery.

Riding along this quiet stretch made me reflect on how this valley transitioned into a national park. Before paved roads and tourist permits existed, traveling through Cades Cove required navigating rugged wagon trails carved out by mid-nineteenth-century farm families. When the park was established in the 1930s, federal planners transformed those rustic farm lanes into a scenic loop road designed to highlight the valley scenery. To maintain the illusion of an untouched historic pastoral landscape, workers removed modern early-twentieth-century homes while deliberately preserving selected log cabins, churches, and split-rail fences. Today’s vehicle-free morning gives us a small taste of that earlier era, as we move through the valley at a peaceful, measured pace. Gliding through this emerald tunnel in the early mist offers a rare connection to the quiet rhythm of the mountains.

Have you ever cycled or walked through Cades Cove during a vehicle-free morning, or enjoyed the peaceful atmosphere of a mountain road before cars arrived?

A friend and I rode e-bikes along the eleven-mile loop on a cool, vehicle-free Wednesday morning. The air smelled of dam...
10/19/2026

A friend and I rode e-bikes along the eleven-mile loop on a cool, vehicle-free Wednesday morning. The air smelled of damp soil and wild clover as sunrise cast warm golden light across dew-drenched pasture grass. Massive hardwoods arched over the road, dripping moisture. Aside from the quiet whir of our bikes, the valley was profoundly still as thick fog settled into dips in the terrain, softening distant mountain ridges into muted shades of blue and gray.

Millions of years ago, tectonic forces pushed ancient sandstone over younger limestone. Erosion eventually wore away the top sandstone, opening a limestone window (fenster) on the valley floor. As cool air sinks from the surrounding ridges, humidity settles into fog banks that burn away with the sunrise.

Long before tourists, Cherokee hunters knew this place as Tsiya'hi. Later, 19th-century pioneers farmed this fertile soil, unaware of the ancient geology beneath their boots. Riding through that silent dawn allowed us to feel deeply connected to the land's rich history.

Have you ever explored Cades Cove during the quiet morning hours, or watched mountain fog pull back across open fields?

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Soft afternoon light falls across a simple wooden window frame where layers of old white paint have slowly aged over tim...
10/15/2026

Soft afternoon light falls across a simple wooden window frame where layers of old white paint have slowly aged over time. Looking through the glass, the quiet room inside preserves a straightforward collection of local history. Small wooden blocks used for typesetting sit organized in their original partitioned shallow trays. Next to these antique printing tools, a printed page features clear English text, its dark ink remaining legible on the paper despite the passage of generations.

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Standing openly behind their words, they faced constant threats from pro-slavery factions across the Missouri River, once even burying their heavy iron printing press in the backyard dirt overnight to save it from an angry mob. They believed that having fled political oppression in Europe, they could not in good conscience support the institution of human bo***ge in their new home.

Mühl passed away before the conflict began, but Strehly lived until nineteen hundred and one, witnessing the complete abolition of slavery and watching his town transform into a peaceful haven that welcomed annual Emancipation Day celebrations. This window preserves the physical space where their dangerous, courageous labor unfolded.

When you look through a window into our nation’s complex past, what kind of stories or hidden sacrifices do you find yourself reflecting on?

The unique beauty of Newport lies just beneath the cliffs at Cobble Beach. Here, thousands of smooth, black basalt stone...
10/12/2026

The unique beauty of Newport lies just beneath the cliffs at Cobble Beach. Here, thousands of smooth, black basalt stones roll and clatter against one another with every retreating wave, creating a steady, rhythmic sound like distant applause. These rounded cobblestones, worn smoothly by centuries of tides, are remnants of massive volcanic flows that shaped the Oregon coastline. Above this dark, textured shoreline, the historic white tower of the lighthouse rises against the Pacific horizon. The dry grass on the headland bends in the coastal wind, framing a landscape where geology and history meet.

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While this great tower has guided mariners since 1873, its brilliant light unintentionally doomed its older, wooden sister lighthouse just three miles south. The Yaquina Bay light was shut down after only three years because this new beacon was so much more powerful. Left abandoned, the older wooden structure fell into deep neglect. In 1899, a local writer published a gothic story about a young girl named Muriel who supposedly vanished inside the empty building, leaving only a pool of blood. The spooky tale was entirely fictional, but the public believed it was true. Decades later, when the state scheduled the decaying structure for demolition, preservationists used the fame of this imaginary ghost to rally support and successfully saved the building. Today, it stands as a museum, rescued by a spirit that never existed.

Do you know of any other historic landmarks saved by a local legend?

Would you visit a place rumored to be haunted, or do you prefer to focus strictly on the natural geology?

The morning sun gently illuminates the calm waters of the Olympic Peninsula, casting a warm glow across the shore. A sof...
10/08/2026

The morning sun gently illuminates the calm waters of the Olympic Peninsula, casting a warm glow across the shore. A soft breeze carries the clean, comforting scent of damp cedar and Douglas-fir from the ancient forest canopy rising along the mountain. The transparent surface of the lake rests like a flawless mirror, holding the deep greens and blues of the scenery in perfect stillness. Walking onto the weathered wooden planks of the dock brings an immediate sense of peaceful relief, where the grand scale of the Pacific Northwest wilderness meets a quiet, personal sanctuary.

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The incredible purity of this water is the result of a monumental geological event that occurred seven thousand years ago, when a massive rockslide cascaded down from Mount Storm King. This cataclysmic event severed the valley, completely isolating the lake from all surrounding river systems and preventing the introduction of nutrient runoff. Lacking nitrogen, the water inhibits algae growth, creating a hyper-clear, deep blue sanctuary where two distinct species of trout evolved and survived, found nowhere else on Earth. This very shoreline also shifted the course of American conservation history when President Franklin Roosevelt stayed here in the autumn of nineteen thirty-seven. Deeply moved by the pristine beauty of this exact view, he bypassed intense political opposition to establish Olympic National Park the following year, permanently protecting this ancient ecosystem for generations to come.

What memories of quiet places does this landscape bring up for you?

A heavy, warm humidity hangs in the mountain air of the Hilo Coast, carrying the rich, thick scent of damp volcanic eart...
10/05/2026

A heavy, warm humidity hangs in the mountain air of the Hilo Coast, carrying the rich, thick scent of damp volcanic earth and crushed tropical leaves. Wet green moss clings to the sheer basalt cliffs, glistening under a high canopy of prehistoric tree ferns and swaying giant bamboo. Far below, the deep-seated rumble of rushing water vibrates through the soles of your feet long before the falls even come into view.

Interested in a fine-art print of this piece? Head over to phillip-burrow dot pixels dot com to browse my full gallery.

As the paved jungle trail winds closer, the roar of the Kolekole Stream grows immense, a steady, powerful thrum that fills the entire gorge with a cool, perpetual misty spray. This photograph captures that exact sensory rush, forever frozen in a single frame of vibrant greens and plunging white water.
This dramatic 442-foot drop is a remarkable geological marvel, carved over thousands of years into Mauna Kea's volcanic basalt slopes. Heavy rains feeding the Kolekole Stream slowly eroded the soft ash layers, creating the vertical plunge we see today.

But to Native Hawaiians, this landscape carries a much deeper, spiritual story. The falls bear the name of Chief ʻĀkaka, who, according to ancient Hawaiian legend, leaped from the top of the cliff in a moment of overwhelming grief. His grieving wife, Lehua, searched for him in vain and wept so bitterly that she was transformed into a stone near the precipice. Her endless tears became the waterfall itself, forever cascading down the dark rock face into the deep pool below. Looking at the sheer scale of the water falling through the lush green canopy, you can't help but feel the deep cultural connection and raw natural power that define the Big Island.
Have you ever stood before a waterfall that felt so powerful it completely silenced the rest of the world?

The humid air of Hilo carries a heavy mist that clings to your skin long before you even see the waterfall. Through a de...
09/30/2026

The humid air of Hilo carries a heavy mist that clings to your skin long before you even see the waterfall. Through a dense framing of vibrant green hapuu ferns and wild ginger, the thunderous roar of the Wailuku River reverberates deep within your chest. Cool moisture rises from the swirling dark basin below, colliding with the warm, tropical breeze. Here, water crashes eighty feet over a massive, dark basalt shelf, plummeting into a pool shadowed by a cavernous black void. It is a sensory collision of heavy water, damp earth, and ancient volcanic stone.

Interested in a fine-art print of this piece? Head over to phillip-burrow dot pixels dot com to browse my full gallery.

This dramatic plunge pool is known worldwide as Rainbow Falls, named for a spectacular daily phenomenon. On clear mornings, the rising sun hits the mist at just the right angle, painting brilliant, shimmering rainbows across the face of the waterfall. In the Hawaiian language, this sacred site is called Waianuenue, which translates directly to rainbow water. Beneath this mist lies a dark basalt cavern with a rich historical and mythological story. Oral traditions name this deep cave as the home of Hina, the goddess of the moon and mother of the demigod Maui. Legend tells of a fierce battle here when Kuna, a monstrous lizard deity, tried to drown Hina by blocking the river downstream. As the water flooded her cave, she cried out for help. Maui paddled his canoe with incredible speed from Maui to Hilo, shattered the dam, and chased the monster up the river, defeating Kuna by boiling the water with hot volcanic stones. This cavern remains a physical reminder of their legendary struggle.

Have you ever stood before a place where ancient legends and natural beauty are so woven together? Tell me about a landscape that made you feel connected to its deeper history.

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