Week 6 - Listening to the Body

The small lake above the lodge — a quieter kind of Alaska.

There was a moment on the ATV when I realized just how tired I was.

I remember a long blink — the kind that lingers a moment too long — and when my eyes opened again, the ground felt closer than it should have. The wagon in front of us was still moving steadily, the connection between vehicles secure, and it hit me all at once: I could have dropped a camera — or the ATV could have dropped me.

That’s when it became clear. I wasn’t just physically tired — I was exhausted in a way that demanded attention.

I said yes to everything… until my body asked me to listen.
(Photo by Wayde Carroll)

Up to that point, I had said yes to every outing. Every opportunity. Every chance to photograph something rare or fleeting. That’s how you do Alaska, right? You show up fully, every single time.

But standing there, blinking myself awake, I understood something different. Being present doesn’t always mean pushing harder. Sometimes it means knowing when to pause.

So for the first time on the trip, I chose not to go out with the group. I stayed back. I rested. And it was the right decision.

Rest doesn’t stop the journey. Sometimes it deepens it.

Later that day, I was given a different kind of gift.

From a respectful distance, we witnessed a mating pair of brown bears — a quiet, powerful interaction that felt deeply private. I photographed and recorded some of it, knowing even in the moment that not everything needs to be shared publicly. Some experiences are meant to be held gently, honored without explanation.

What struck me most wasn’t the rarity of what we were seeing — it was the trust. The stillness. The sense that we were witnessing something ancient and complete, happening exactly as it should, whether we were there or not.

Some moments are photographed. Others are simply witnessed.

By the end of the week, I felt it clearly: Alaska hadn’t drained me — it had taught me something. About listening. About limits. About how presence doesn’t always mean doing more.

As the trip wound down and the journey home approached, another realization settled in just as quietly.

This wouldn’t be my last time here.

A brief lift from the water before settling again.

Next time, I wouldn’t come alone. I wanted to return with Dave — to share the landscapes, the long light, the moments of awe and exhaustion and wonder. Alaska had opened a door, not closed a chapter.

And I knew, without needing to say it out loud yet, that I would be back.