Yosemite National Park, CA

I've stood in a lot of places and made a lot of photographs. Most of them I remember for the light, or the timing, or the conditions that came together just right. Yosemite I remember differently — not for any single frame, but for what it felt like to just be there.

I went to photograph. Specifically, I was chasing the light you only get in that valley at first and last hour — the way it catches the granite faces and turns them almost amber. What I didn't expect was how quickly the valley stops being something you look at and becomes something you feel. Standing at the edge of the Merced, watching the light crawl down El Capitan — I swear I could see the forest breathe. I know how that sounds.

There's something about that valley that doesn't ask anything of you. The granite, the water, the way the morning moves through the trees — it exists completely on its own terms. Ansel Adams first went in 1916 at 14 years old and kept returning until he died in 1984. Nearly 70 years of coming back to the same valley. I spent seven days trying to understand why.

I think I get it now.

This is the first of a few posts from that trip. Not a highlight reel. Just an honest account of what it's like to spend time in a place that reminds you how small you are — and somehow makes that feel like a good thing.