There have always been stories about the origin of the land and the life that calls it home. Before there was science, those stories came from imagination and spirituality. In this series, I have created contemporary nature photography to illustrate them. Read more about my Legends of the Land series.
There was a time when marriage wasn’t just for people — trees and shrubs got married too. But they don’t anymore and it’s because of a tree that was too quick to judge a beautiful potential bride.
There have always been stories about the origin of the land and the life that calls it home. Before there was science, those stories came from imagination and spirituality. In this series, I have created contemporary nature photography to illustrate them. Read more about my Legends of the Land series.
It was the middle of the night, but the forest was brightly lit as if it were day. A lightning strike had triggered a massive wildfire.
There had been other lightning strikes and other fires, but everyone from the smallest creatures to the biggest trees knew this one was different. Nothing was slowing it down. Not only did it continue to grow, but it grew at a faster and faster rate.
All the animals began to flee. Birds flew away. Deer and other many other animals ran, barely able to beat the heat. But the mice, with their tiny legs, fell farther and farther behind.
There have always been stories about the origin of the land and the life that calls it home. Before there was science, those stories came from imagination and spirituality. In this series, I have created contemporary nature photography to illustrate them. Read more about my Legends of the Land series.
Ewauna was the very definition of adventurous. A child of the mountains, she spent all her free time climbing as high as she could, seeing as far as she could see. So there was no doubt that she would attend the first gathering of four tribes, which was going to be held along the coast, something she had only seen from far, far away. As a chief’s daughter, she had to go, not that it mattered; she would have invited herself anyway.
Arriving at the potlatch, however, she was immediately disappointed. She was forbidden to see the very thing she traveled so far to see: the ocean.
This week, I said goodbye to Buttercup Meadow. Most of the time, the name sounds prettier than the actual meadow is, but for a few weeks a year, it is a truly glorious place. Or at least it was.
