Arctic Wilderness Photography

08/30/2026

I’ve been trying to figure out how to write this for a while, and I’m still not sure there are perfect words for it.

For now, I’m stepping away from photography.

I don’t know if that means a few months, a year, several years, or forever. I don’t want to put a timeline on it because the truth is, I honestly don’t know when I’ll be able to come back.

And admitting that hurts more than I expected it to.

Photography has been part of my life for more than three decades. It has taken me places I never imagined I would go and introduced me to people I never would have met otherwise. I’ve spent countless hours photographing wildlife, chasing light through mountains, forests, waterfalls, deserts and oceans, and worked with some incredibly talented people to create images I’m genuinely proud of.

Somewhere along the way, though, something changed.

Photography slowly stopped being the place I went to escape the noise of life and started becoming another source of it.

The pressure to constantly create. The endless battle with social media and algorithms. Watching work you poured your heart into disappear into a feed within seconds. Comparing yourself to thousands of other photographers whether you intend to or not. Wondering whether an image is actually good or whether it simply wasn’t good enough to convince an algorithm to show it to anyone.

But if I’m going to explain why I’m walking away, I also need to acknowledge the part that is harder to talk about.

Photography has cost me.

Not just money.

Not just time.

It has affected my livelihood.

I have lost jobs because of assumptions people made about my fine art photography. Work that I created with artistic intent, with consenting adults, and with tremendous respect for the people who trusted me in front of my camera has been reduced by some people to something shameful simply because the human body was part of the art.

I can accept that my work isn’t for everyone. Art never is.

What has been much harder to accept is watching something I loved creating spill into completely unrelated parts of my life and affect my ability to make a living.

There is a very different feeling that comes with losing a job and sitting at home wondering how you’re going to pay your bills because someone decided the photographs you create in your personal life somehow define your professional character.

That leaves scars.

And after enough of those experiences, it’s difficult to pick up a camera without carrying some of that weight with you.

Then there is the financial reality.

Last year in Hawaii, I managed to accidentally introduce my camera to the Pacific Ocean. Apparently my Nikon was considerably less enthusiastic about underwater photography than I was.

At the time I could joke about it, because sometimes humor is how I deal with things that hurt.

But the reality isn’t quite as funny.

I don’t currently know when I’ll be able to afford another camera of that caliber.

I don’t know when I’ll be financially comfortable enough to start traveling for photography again.

For years, traveling with a camera has been a huge part of who I am. I’ve planned trips around landscapes, wildlife, models, weather and light. I’ve driven ridiculous distances because I thought there might be an incredible photograph waiting somewhere at the end of the road.

Now I’m looking at an uncertain future where I genuinely don’t know when I’ll be able to do those things again.

That’s a difficult thing to admit.

There is something strangely heartbreaking about spending decades learning a craft, finally reaching a point where you feel like you’re creating some of your best work, and then realizing you may not even have the tools or resources to continue doing it.

Maybe that’s temporary.

I desperately hope it is.

But I don’t know.

And I’m tired of pretending that I do.

Right now I need to concentrate on rebuilding other parts of my life. I need stability again. I need to figure out what comes next without constantly wondering when I’ll be able to afford the next photography trip, the next piece of equipment, or even another camera.

More importantly, I need photography to become something I love again instead of something tangled up with anxiety, judgment, financial stress and loss.

That doesn’t mean I regret any of it.

Not even remotely.

Photography has given me some of the greatest adventures, friendships, stories and experiences of my life.

I’ve stood in places where I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to be holding a camera.

I’ve watched wildlife through a viewfinder that most people will only ever see on television. I’ve photographed bears, moose, musk ox and countless other creatures that occasionally seemed considerably less concerned about safe working distances than I was.

I’ve watched incredible light spill across mountains.

I’ve stood waist deep in freezing water trying to make the photograph I could see in my head.

I’ve collaborated with people who trusted me enough to stand vulnerable in front of my lens and help create something neither of us could have created alone.

I’ve made photographs that won awards and photographs that were published. I’ve made photographs thousands of people saw and others almost nobody noticed.

And strangely enough, some of the ones nobody noticed are still among my favorites.

Because somewhere beneath all the likes, followers, publications, awards and expectations, that was always what photography was supposed to be about.

Seeing something.

Feeling something.

And wanting to remember it.

Maybe someday I’ll feel that pull again.

Maybe I’ll be driving through Alaska and see light breaking through the clouds over the mountains and instinctively reach for a camera.

Maybe I’ll stand beside a waterfall and suddenly see an image in my head that I absolutely have to create.

Maybe a moose, bear, musk ox or some other Alaskan creature with absolutely no respect for personal space will remind me why I started carrying a camera in the first place.

And maybe someday I’ll finally have another camera sitting beside me when that happens.

I hope so.

But I’m not going to force it, and I’m not going to pretend I know when that day will come.

For the first time in a very long time, I’m giving myself permission to put photography down without knowing when I’m going to pick it back up.

This isn’t necessarily goodbye.

Maybe it’s just an intermission.

Maybe it’s the end of one chapter and eventually another one begins.

I really don’t know.

To every model, photographer, artist, friend and stranger who has supported my work, shared an image, bought a print, collaborated with me, traveled with me, stood freezing in an Alaskan river because I said, “Trust me, this is going to look amazing,” or simply told me that one of my photographs made you feel something:

Thank you.

You made this journey worth taking.

And to every person who trusted me enough to stand in front of my camera, especially those who helped me push beyond simply making photographs and start creating art, you have my deepest gratitude. Some of the work we created together will remain among the things I’m proudest of for the rest of my life.

Maybe one day I’ll buy another camera, throw a ridiculous amount of equipment into the truck, pick a spot on the map and disappear down the road chasing light again.

I really hope I do.

Until then, I’m going to concentrate on rebuilding my life, finding some stability, and learning how to look at a beautiful moment without immediately thinking about shutter speed, aperture and ISO.

For now, I’m just going to enjoy the view.

07/09/2026

Wake up this morning to find another page using one of my images and not giving any credit for it. I’m flattered that they liked the image enough to share it, but wish they’d share WHO took the image instead of making it look like it was an image they took. I took this image in August of 2022 in Lake Clark National Park of a brown bear walking the shore of Crescent lake.

06/17/2026

For centuries, biologists, hunters, hikers, and one particularly confused geology professor have reported sightings of a mysterious creature inhabiting Alaska’s remote mountain talus slopes. Official science dismisses these claims as mistaken observations of the common pika. Those who have encountered the beast know better.

They call it the Pikalope (Ochotona antlerus magnificus).

At first glance, the Pikalope appears to be nothing more than a harmless pika—a small rabbit relative no larger than a potato with fur. This illusion lasts only until the creature raises its head and reveals a magnificent rack of antlers seemingly borrowed from a mature bull moose.

No one knows how the Pikalope acquired these antlers. Some indigenous legends claim the Great Spirit accidentally mixed spare moose parts with an overly ambitious pika. Others believe the first Pikalope challenged a moose to a contest of stubbornness and somehow won. Modern wildlife biologists simply avoid the subject altogether.

The Pikalope’s preferred habitat consists of steep talus fields in Alaska’s mountain ranges, where it spends its days gathering vegetation and glaring suspiciously at anyone carrying a camera.

What truly sets the Pikalope apart, however, is its legendary vocalization.

Unlike ordinary pikas, which emit a small squeak, the Pikalope produces a roar so powerful that it echoes across entire valleys. Witnesses describe the sound as a cross between a rutting moose, a chainsaw with bad bearings, and a middle-aged man stepping barefoot onto a Lego in the dark.

The roar often begins with a high-pitched squeak before building dramatically:

“Eeep… EEEEP… MRRRRAAAAAAAAHHHHH!”

The resulting echoes bounce from cliff to cliff, causing unsuspecting hikers to immediately begin looking for grizzly bears, mountain lions, or insurance agents.

Despite its fearsome reputation, the Pikalope is largely harmless. The exception occurs during the autumn rut when males compete for mates by lowering their antlers and charging at speeds approaching “surprisingly fast for something the size of a sandwich.”

These battles can last for hours and are accompanied by roaring contests that have been mistaken for avalanches.

The greatest challenge facing wildlife photographers is documenting the species. The Pikalope possesses an uncanny ability to detect cameras. It can remain perfectly hidden among the rocks until a photographer has spent six hours crawling through tundra, endured dozens of mosquito attacks, and consumed the last of his trail mix.

Only then will the creature appear.

Unfortunately, it usually appears directly behind the photographer.

The first confirmed photograph was captured after a veteran Alaskan wildlife photographer heard a strange roar echoing through a mountainside. Assuming he had discovered a rare moose, he spent the next hour stalking the sound.

After carefully positioning himself and preparing his camera, he finally spotted the source.

There, standing proudly atop a boulder, was a Pikalope.

The tiny beast threw back its head, its antlers spread wide, and unleashed a roar that echoed across the valley.

The photographer later described the experience as:

“Like watching a mighty bull moose emerge from the body of a squeaky hamster.”

The Pikalope then vanished into the rocks, leaving behind only footprints, confusion, and a photograph that scientists continue to insist is “clearly fake.”

The photographer, however, knows the truth.

The mountains of Alaska still hold secrets.

And somewhere among the talus slopes, the mighty Pikalope continues to rule its rocky kingdom—one thunderous squeak at a time. 🫎🐹📸

06/16/2026

Tucked among a carpet of emerald horsetail, wild geraniums, and summer blooms sits one of Alaska’s most unusual residents—a blue-phase Arctic fox kit (Vulpes lagopus) taking its very first steps into the world. Barely two weeks old, this tiny explorer had just emerged from its den on Shemya Island when it found itself face-to-face with an equally curious visitor: a large, camera-wielding photographer (Davidus neelius shutterbuggus)

Most people are familiar with the classic image of the Arctic fox—a snow-white animal perfectly adapted to the frozen tundra. Far fewer have heard of the blue-phase Arctic fox, a darker color variation found primarily in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands. Unlike their white cousins, blue-phase foxes retain a charcoal, brown, or slate-colored coat year-round, allowing them to blend seamlessly into the rocky coastlines and lush vegetation of the islands they call home.

The story of these foxes is as fascinating as the animals themselves. During the fur trade era of the 18th and 19th centuries, Russian traders recognized the value of the luxurious blue fox pelts and established fox-farming operations throughout the Aleutians. Islands such as Attu and Shemya were ideal locations. Millions of seabirds migrated through the region each year, providing an abundant food source, while the islands themselves offered a natural enclosure from which the foxes could not easily escape.

The foxes thrived—perhaps too well. With few natural predators and a seemingly endless buffet of nesting birds and eggs, fox populations exploded. The impact on native bird colonies was devastating, and by the late 1800s many island ecosystems had been dramatically altered. In some areas, fox populations were eventually eliminated as the fur trade declined and conservation concerns grew.

Yet the story did not end there. Blue foxes were reintroduced to Shemya Island in 1911 as fur stock. Later, during World War II, the island became strategically important. After American forces retook the Aleutians from Japanese occupation, Shemya developed into a major military airfield. Rather than removing the foxes, military personnel discovered they served an unexpected purpose: helping reduce bird populations around the runways and thereby lowering the risk of dangerous bird strikes to aircraft.

Over the decades, the foxes became part of life on the island. Air Force personnel affectionately nicknamed them “Scruffies,” a reference to the somewhat ragged appearance adult foxes acquire each summer. After shedding their thick, luxurious winter coats, the adults often look more like disheveled drifters than the elegant fur-bearers that once fueled a thriving trade. The nickname stuck, and generations of service members came to know and appreciate these hardy island residents.

This little kit, however, had not yet reached his scruffy years, like his parent in the last image. For now, he was all oversized eyes, tiny ears, and boundless curiosity. Hidden among the vegetation, he peered cautiously at the strange human crouched nearby with a camera. Every leaf, flower, and shadow was a new discovery. The world beyond the den was enormous, filled with unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells.

For a few brief moments, history, wildlife, and wonder intersected. Descended from foxes whose ancestors arrived through a remarkable chapter of Alaska’s fur-trade history, this tiny pup represented another generation adapting to life on one of the most remote island chains on Earth.

And while he may one day earn the title of “Scruffy,” on this particular summer morning he was simply a young Arctic fox experiencing the world for the very first time—completely unaware that his debut had become a photograph and a story worth sharing.

06/16/2026

Shemya island “Scruffies” (Vulpes lagopus) or Russian blue phase arctic fox

06/15/2026

There is a seemingly unending list of “National (fill in the blank) Days.” More than there are days on the calendar, actually. It's pretty easy to feel overwhelmed by, or to simply ignore, these ‘special’ days altogether. I mean, how many people out there are celebrating “National Pop Goes the Weasel Day?” It's a day set aside each year to… wait for it… acknowledge the famous nursery rhyme. Yeah, that was yesterday. Did you remember to acknowledge it?
No offense meant to those who celebrate Pop Goes the Weasel Day, but TODAY is different because today is ‘National Nature Photography Day,’ and that is an important day for me since that is what I do. This day is meant to promote the enjoyment of nature photography, but not just that.

To celebrate I am sharing some of my favorite images.

06/08/2026

The Day I Kicked a Black Bear Out of My Tree Stand

Most people spend their entire lives hoping they never have to defend themselves from a bear.
At sixteen years old, I managed to do it with my right boot.

At sixteen, I was a big kid by any standard—well over six feet tall, broad through the shoulders, and wearing size-13 hunting boots. Years of working around our family’s hunting lodge had given me the build of a laborer and the confidence of someone who’d spent most of his life around bears. As I would soon discover, however, there is a considerable difference between being around bears and having one face to face with you.

My family operated a remote hunting lodge above the arctic circle. But for part of the spring, we would manage several bear baiting stations scattered throughout the wilderness near Beluga, Alaska. While most sixteen-year-olds were worried about driver’s licenses and dating, I had the dubious honor of hauling buckets of expired candy bars through the woods.

My father had somehow developed a reliable supply chain from the PX on the nearby military base, where outdated candy could be obtained by the case. The bears didn’t care that the Snickers were past their expiration date. If anything, they seemed to appreciate the effort.

Each afternoon I’d make the rounds, replenishing the bait stations with candy, pastries, and whatever other sweet treasures were available. Once the bait was refreshed, I’d help ensure the hunters and guides were settled into their stands for the evening hunt.

Only then would I head to my own stand.

On this particular evening, everything seemed routine.

I climbed into my tree stand about twenty feet above the ground, and used a rope to pull up my bow and backpack after me. Once I was settled, I did what I often did while waiting for bears to appear.

I pulled out a Louis L’Amour novel.

If you’ve spent enough evenings in a tree stand, you learn that hunting often involves long stretches of absolutely nothing happening. A good western novel helps pass the time.

The woods were quiet.

The air was still.

The pages turned slowly.

Then I felt the tree move.

At first, I barely noticed it.

I assumed the wind was picking up.

A few moments later the tree swayed again.

That struck me as odd because the surrounding trees weren’t moving at all.

Just mine.

I lowered the book and looked around.

The forest was perfectly calm.

Only my tree was dancing.

That’s when I heard a noise below me.

I looked down and immediately spotted a large black bear at the base of the tree.

She was standing on her hind legs, grabbing the trunk and shaking it with enough force to make the entire stand sway.

Suddenly the situation seemed considerably less relaxing.

Before I could fully process what was happening, I heard another sound.

This one came from above.

Slowly, I looked up.

Staring down at me from just a couple of feet overhead were two tiny black bear cubs.

They appeared just as surprised to see me as I was to see them.

For a brief moment we simply stared at one another.

Then my brain finally connected all the pieces.

The shaking tree.

The cubs.

The large black bear below.

I had unknowingly climbed into a tree already occupied by a bear family.

The next sound I heard was claws digging into bark.

I looked down just in time to see Mama Bear begin climbing toward me.

Now, black bears are impressive climbers under normal circumstances.

A mother bear climbing directly toward your tree stand tends to make that fact even more memorable.

I quickly set the book aside and pulled my .44 revolver.

Not because I wanted to shoot her, but because I was rapidly running out of alternatives.

She climbed higher.

And higher.

And higher.

The distance between us disappeared alarmingly fast.

Then her head appeared above the edge of the stand.

There I was looking into the face of a very determined mother bear. She wasn’t snarling, or even baring her teeth, she actually appeared kind of puzzled, like she didn’t expect to find a human halfway up a tree. More like she was annoyed that she had to come collect her misbehaving children.

Pure instinct took over, and I drove my hunting boot straight into her face.

The kick connected squarely with her nose, the mother bear’s expression shifted from fierce determination to what could only be described as utter disbelief. For a split second, she seemed suspended in midair, paws spread wide, eyes bulging, and mouth hanging open as if she couldn’t quite comprehend that she’d just been kicked out of a tree stand by a sixteen-year-old kid. Then gravity took over. She fell backward down the tree in slow-motion perfection, tumbling through the air with all the grace of Hans Gruber plummeting from the Nakatomi Plaza in Die Hard. Limbs flailing, fur flying, and dignity rapidly departing the scene, she bounced off a few branches on the way down before landing with a decided THUMP on the forest floor, leaving me staring after her in stunned silence and wondering if I’d just become the first person in Alaska to drop-kick a bear out of a tree.

The woods became very quiet.

Then she exploded into the brush.

From somewhere just beyond sight came the unmistakable sound of deep moans and jaw-popping. If you've never heard an angry bear popping its jaws, imagine someone snapping thick branches together —a bear’s version of saying she was extremely unhappy with the situation.

Unfortunately, I still had a problem.

I was twenty feet in the air.

And the angry bear was somewhere below me.

I lowered my bow back down with the rope, along with my backpack to lessen the weight I had to climb down with. With every ounce of courage I could muster, I began to climb down the tree using the pegs we had screwed in as a makeshift ladder.

Climbing down a tree while keeping a .44 pointed toward a hidden bear turns out to be surprisingly difficult. Every step required equal parts caution, balance, and prayer.

Slowly I worked my way down. Every step down required keeping my eyes on her while somehow finding the next foothold.

I probably looked like a drunk squirrel trying to rappel.

Eventually my boots hit the ground.

The entire time she remained hidden in the brush.

The entire time I kept the revolver trained in her direction.

I began backing away from the area, expecting at any moment for her to reappear.

Instead, she watched.

When I had put a safe distance between us, the cubs finally climbed down from the tree.

Mama emerged from the brush, gathered up her youngsters, and led them away into the forest.

Only then did I fully appreciate what had happened.

She hadn’t been hunting me.

She hadn’t been acting out of aggression.

She was simply doing what any mother would do after discovering a sixteen-year-old boy had climbed into a tree with her children.

Looking back, I can’t blame her.

If anything, she showed remarkable restraint.

Still, whenever people ask if I’ve ever had a close encounter with a bear, I can truthfully answer:

“Close enough to kick one in the face.”

And thanks to a size-13 hunting boot, a little luck, and one very patient mama bear, everyone walked away from the encounter with a story to tell.

06/08/2026

So Facebook decides that because my profile photo shows a bear eating a salmon that it violates their family friendly rules and shadow bans me. I have requested they look at my content without using a computer algorithm and see that it is not violating any of their guidelines. If they still determine that I am in violation, I will be ending my relationship with the Meta-verse as they are not friendly to actual photographers and I will not continue to support a company that pushes AI generated content that do not reflect anything natural, while banning work that actually does show nature in It’s raw form.

06/08/2026