I had one goal: to photograph the autumn colors in the Little Cimarron Valley of Southwestern Colorado in a way that truly captured its unique and raw beauty. This wasn’t just any landscape. This was the country once sheep-farmed by my wife’s aunt and uncle. Their rustic, hand-built log cabin still sat deep in the forest—remote, primitive, and filled with family memories.
Timing was everything. Judging the peak of color, praying for perfect light, and hoping for a composition that would stop me in my tracks—it was all a gamble. But I was determined. I had to succeed.
That morning, our extended family loaded up for the 20-mile journey to the cabin. With every mile, anticipation rose. The air was crisp, scented with pine and woodsmoke, and the sound of tires crunching gravel added a rhythm to my racing thoughts. This was my window—today.
As we climbed higher, the aspens began to thicken. Yellow, orange, and flashes of red shimmered in the sunlight like stained glass. I rolled down the window; the air smelled like damp leaves, cool earth, and distant snow.
Then we rounded a bend—and I saw it.
A narrow dirt road, winding gracefully through a tunnel of fiery color. The trees arched above like cathedral beams, light filtering delicately through the golden canopy. It was perfect.
“Stop the car!” I called out, already reaching for my camera. I leapt out, heart pounding, knees sinking into soft earth. I adjusted quickly—aperture, ISO, shutter—breath held. Click.
I had it.
The composition, the light, the story—it all came together.
We continued to the cabin, where laughter and the scent of pine logs on the fire pit filled the air. It was a dream in real life.
