The Quiet Discipline of Chasing Sunrise
I am usually awake really early. Today, my alarm went off at 3:35 a.m.
When it rings that early, I don’t negotiate—I get up. I start moving. There’s a second alarm, just in case I hesitate. His name is Levon, and he makes sure I’m fully awake and out the door.
I let Levon and Rhonda out. I get dressed. Turn on the truck, let the warm air run. Pack my gear. Prepare Conor’s lunch. Say goodbye.
Then Rhonda, Levon and I hit the road.
This is my rhythm when I go out to capture God’s creation.
Where I go, the season, and the sunrise decide everything. Most places are about two hours away. So if I want to be there when the first light touches the land, I have to meet it halfway.
Is it worth it?
Let me show you.
A Hidden Sanctuary at First Light
As the first light touched the mountains, I focused on the landscape.
Then everything shifted.
Below me, a pair of sandhill cranes moved quietly through the stillness. A blue heron crossed the sky. I rushed to switch lenses, hands cold, completely pulled into the moment.
And then—I saw them.
A hidden sanctuary.
Around twelve blue herons, tucked into the willows. So still, so perfectly camouflaged it almost didn’t feel real.
I just stood there.
Grateful. Present. In awe of what God had placed right in front of me.
Peace in the Storm | A Killdeer’s Lesson
Conor warned me the weather was going to turn bad—but I still went.
Sometimes you feel that pull. Like you’re meant to be there.
By the time I reached the lake, the wind was rising and snow was coming down hard. It felt wild… but peaceful at the same time.
I stood there, getting my gear ready. Hands freezing. Camera getting soaked. Wondering if I had made the wrong call.
Then I noticed movement.
A killdeer.
Small. Calm. Walking straight through the storm.
It amazes me how the smallest birds can be the bravest. While everything around me felt loud and chaotic, that little bird kept coming closer—completely unbothered by my presence.
Then everything changed.
The snow softened. The wind slowed. Silence took over.
If you’ve ever stood in fresh snow, you know that kind of quiet. Deep. Almost holy. Like God is gently asking the world to rest.
Just when I thought it was time to leave, the killdeer came back.
Right in front of me.
And then… it closed its eyes.
In the middle of the cold. Right after the storm. It trusted enough to rest.
That moment stayed with me.
Not because of the photo—but because of what it meant.
Even in the storm, there is peace.
White Pelicans in Wyoming (Yes, Really)
I don’t know if you’ve ever stepped into a place that feels like it’s holding its breath.
That’s what Oxbow Bend felt like.
Cars passed by, one after another—but no one stopped. It was just me, the water, and a silence too big to explain.
I stopped because I saw white dots on a small island as I drove by. At first, I thought they were swans.
But the moment I looked through my viewfinder, I knew.
White pelicans.
Already there. Calm. Steady.
A blue heron stood nearby, completely at peace. Like they had been there the whole time—just waiting for someone to slow down enough to see them.
It caught me off guard.
Pelicans in Wyoming still don’t feel real to me. They feel like they belong somewhere coastal.
But there they were.
And this time, I got to photograph them.
Every detail. Every reflection. A gift.
It made me think about how much we miss when we keep moving… and how many moments are already in front of us, waiting.
The Ancient Dance of the Sage Grouse Lek
This is my second year witnessing a sage grouse lek—but it felt just as powerful as the first. Maybe more.
This time, the light was finally in my favor.
The rising sun spilled gold across the land, turning the scene into a stage.
And then—I saw it.
A male, fully displaying. Chest puffed. Bright air sacs expanding and collapsing in rhythm, creating that deep, drumming sound.
Nature’s percussion.
The females moved calmly through the scene—watching, choosing.
And there I was, witnessing what felt like a love story unfolding in real time.
I stayed for an hour.
Completely present. Completely moved.
This wasn’t just behavior.
It was something ancient. Sacred.
“Hello Old Friend” | The Return of the Sandhill Cranes
A friend of mine has a property full of life. Over the past year, I’ve photographed blue herons, moose, newborn calves, Canada geese… the list keeps growing.
But one story stayed with me.
Last year, I followed a family of sandhill cranes.
A month ago, she messaged me: they’re back.
I can’t even explain the excitement.
I arrived before sunrise, set everything up—and right on time, he appeared.
When I looked through the viewfinder and recognized his bill, I felt tears in my eyes.
“Hello, old friend. Do you remember me? Welcome home.”
He answered with his call.
Then he left.
I don’t know if he stayed five minutes or thirty—it felt like both forever and no time at all.
Then she came too.
Just to say hello.
Magnificent.
Learning to See | A Wyoming Sunrise
This place is making me braver.
The first time I came, I didn’t even know how to get back home—but God showed me the way.
The second time, I came with Conor in daylight, seeing everything from a new perspective.
And I knew: I had to come back for sunrise.
So I did.
And I saw God in His light.
I heard Him in the calls of sandhill cranes. I felt Him in the stillness where the herons stood.
Later, when I edited my photos, I noticed something I had missed in the moment—tiny sandhill cranes in the corner of the frame.
They like to sing with the sunrise.
Their way of saying good morning.
They fill that vast, open space with sound—and somehow, it fills you too.
Why It’s Worth Waking Up at 3:35 a.m.
Out there, I watch creation wake up.
And somehow, I wake up with it.
The more I go, the more I see. Yes, it takes patience. Yes, it takes a bit of luck.
But if you stay still long enough… moments like these will find you.
And to me, that’s worth more than anything.
Your Turn
Which of these moments stayed with you the most?
Or have you experienced a moment in nature that changed you—where you felt God’s presence clearly?
Share it in the comments. I’d love to hear your story.
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