2025 in Review: A Year of Travel, Light, and Lessons on the Road
2025 in Review: A Year of Travel, Light, and Lessons on the Road
Some years are about distance. Others are about depth. 2025 was both.
This wasn’t simply a collection of trips or a highlight reel of destinations. It was a year shaped by persistence, recalibration, and growth by missed flights and missed shots, long drives that replaced short ones, physical limits tested at altitude, and plans that unraveled without warning. In one case, an airline folded just weeks before departure, forcing a complete rework of an international trip.
And woven through all of it were quiet affirmations: an image published in a magazine, work hanging in a gallery exhibit, and an image placing in the top 32 at the International Photographic Competition (IPC).
Those milestones mattered, not as endpoints, but as reassurance that the early mornings, difficult conditions, and long stretches of uncertainty were shaping something real.
Travel in 2025 became less about chasing icons and more about responding honestly to what was in front of me. Familiar places were revisited with new perspective, unfamiliar ones demanded humility, and every location, whether breathtaking or frustrating, added depth to how I see, photograph, and move through the world.
What follows isn’t a checklist of where I went. It’s a record of how the year unfolded through light, landscape, adaptability, and the moments in between.
Babcock State Park, West Virginia — Winter at the Grist Mill
The year began quietly at Babcock State Park, a place I’ve written about before but never experienced quite like this. Winter transformed the park into something softer and more introspective. Snow muted the forest, footsteps echoed louder than usual, and the New River Gorge region felt suspended in time.
The iconic grist mill, so often photographed in peak autumn color, took on an entirely different character. Ice traced the edge of the creek, the wheel stood frozen mid-story, and bare branches framed the mill in clean, graphic lines. Without foliage or crowds, the structure itself became the subject: weathered wood, subtle textures, and history embedded in every beam.
Revisiting a familiar place in an unfamiliar season reinforced a lesson I return to often: perspective changes everything. Winter stripped the scene down to its essentials and rewarded patience with images that feel quiet, honest, and timeless rather than trendy.
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| Babcock State Park in West Virginia |
Outer Banks, North Carolina — Easter Light & a Changing Coastline
Spring brought me back to the Outer Banks, a destination that evolves with every visit and one I’ve documented repeatedly over the years. This trip balanced moments of calm beauty with the sobering reality of a coastline in transition.
Bodie Island Lighthouse at Sunrise
Easter morning began long before dawn at Bodie Island Lighthouse. Stars still hung in the sky as I set up in familiar marshland, waiting for first light. As the sun rose, soft pinks and blues spread across the horizon, reflecting in the water and wrapping the lighthouse in a quiet, reverent calm.
Nothing dramatic happened, and that was the point. The stillness, the gentle color, the sense of beginning made the morning feel meaningful. These are the moments I try hardest to slow down for, both in photography and in travel.
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| Bodie Island Lighthouse at sunrise |
Rodanthe: Homes on the Edge
Later, the mood shifted dramatically in Rodanthe. I revisited areas I had photographed before, only to find the ocean even closer. Some homes stood at impossible angles, others had already collapsed, and debris lined the shoreline. Standing there, camera in hand, felt heavy.
On social media, it’s common to see comments questioning why anyone would build homes so close to the ocean, as if poor planning alone explains their fate. Being there in person tells a different story. When many of these houses were built, they sat three to four blocks back from the shoreline, considered a safe and reasonable distance at the time. Decades of storms, rising seas, and constant erosion have steadily erased that buffer.
These images weren’t created for beauty. They were created for truth. The Atlantic has been loud and unforgiving, and the erosion was impossible to ignore. What remains isn’t a cautionary tale about reckless development, but a visible timeline of environmental change. Photographing Rodanthe reinforced the importance of documenting places as they are now, not how we wish they would stay. As I write this year end review, this house fell into the ocean this past fall during one of the many coastal storms churning up relentless waves. The house from the movie Nights in Rodanthe has already been moved once. It may need to be moved again. The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse has also been moved due to the receding shoreline.
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| Beach house with oceanfront property |
Assateague Island, Maryland — Wild Horses & New Life
Tucked between larger trips, Assateague Island became one of the quiet emotional anchors of the year.
Photographing the wild horses there is always special, but this visit offered something rare: the sight of a newborn foal, likely only a day or two old, unsteady on its legs and never far from its mother, standing in a marshy area just as the sun began to rise.
The light was soft and low, catching the mist above the water and outlining the foal’s small frame as it learned, moment by moment, how to exist in the world. There was an awkwardness to its movement from tentative steps, brief pauses, a quiet dependence that felt profoundly vulnerable. The mother never strayed far, positioning herself between the foal and anything unfamiliar, her presence calm and watchful.
In that moment, the island felt hushed. Birds moved through the marsh, water barely rippled, and time seemed to slow to accommodate something new and fragile. Witnessing the very beginning of life unscripted and unguarded was grounding in a way few photographic moments are. It wasn’t about composition or technical perfection; it was about respect, restraint, and simply being present while something fleeting unfolded.
I could have spent all day watching this newborn foal, but there was more to explore.
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| Newborn foal with mother |
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| Newborn foal with mother in marshy area |
New York City — Spring Energy & Summer Heat
New York City appeared twice on my calendar in 2025, and each visit felt like a completely different place. Proof that timing shapes everything.
Spring in the City
Spring began with an unexpected curveball. A flight issue meant the plane left without me, forcing a last-minute pivot to a long drive instead. What could have derailed the trip ended up defining it, flexibility, patience, and momentum.
Once there, the city felt like a deep exhale after winter. Trees bloomed in parks and along sidewalks, outdoor seating returned, and light filtered softly between buildings. Walking with a camera felt intuitive again.
This visit leaned heavily into observation: reflections in storefront windows, quiet moments in Central Park, and early morning light softening even the busiest streets. The detour became part of the story, reinforcing a lesson travel never stops teaching, how you arrive matters just as much as where you end up.
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Brooklyn Bridge |
Summer in NYC
Summer was louder, hotter, and far more chaotic. One goal for the trip was photographing Manhattanhenge, something I had planned carefully. Reality, however, had other ideas. The location was overwhelmingly crowded, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, and the experience quickly shifted from anticipation to frustration. In the end, the shot was a bust.
That disappointment became part of the narrative. Not every iconic moment translates into a meaningful photograph. Especially when the experience itself feels disconnected. Letting go of that image freed me to focus elsewhere.
Visits to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island brought the pace back down. Ellis Island, in particular, invited reflection. Its quiet halls, personal histories, and sense of arrival added weight to the trip, less spectacle, more humanity.
Rather than fighting the crowds and heat, I leaned into documenting the experience honestly. Summer in New York doesn’t promise perfection, but it always offers truth.
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| Statue of Liberty |
Colorado — August in the Mountains
August brought me back to Colorado, and the elevation made itself known almost immediately. Altitude sickness forced slower mornings and unplanned breaks—a reminder that in the mountains, you adapt or you don’t move at all.
Despite that challenge, the trip delivered some of the most memorable moments of the year. A journey to Crystal Mill stood out, not just for the destination, but for the rough road and commitment required to reach it. The isolation, history, and setting made the experience feel earned rather than simply visited.
Rocky Mountain National Park added another layer. Photographing elk at sunset, silhouetted against fading light, was a highlight, one of those moments where timing, patience, and respect for distance align.
Colorado demanded humility. Between altitude, weather, and long days, it reinforced a lesson worth repeating: slowing down isn’t a setback, it’s part of the process.
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| Crystal Mill in Colorado |
Iceland — October’s Moody Magic
Iceland in October nearly didn’t happen.
Just weeks before the trip, the airline I had originally booked with went out of business, leaving me scrambling to rebuild the itinerary from scratch. The thought of the trip not happening at all crossed my mind. Flights had to be rebooked, plans reshuffled, and expectations reset. In an unexpected twist, the changes added extra days to the trip. Time I hadn’t planned for, but quickly learned to appreciate.
Those additional days shifted the entire experience. Instead of rushing through a limited route, I was able to see more of the island than originally planned and give each location the time it deserved. Once there, the trip unfolded very differently from previous visits. Instead of relying on tour buses and rigid schedules, I drove the country myself, choosing when to stop, linger, or reroute entirely. That autonomy, paired with extra time, changed everything.
Returning to places like Skógafoss and Diamond Beach felt less like repetition and more like conversation. Familiar scenes revealed new moods under October’s shifting light from darker skies, deeper contrast, and fewer people. Driving the Snæfellsnes Peninsula offered long stretches of solitude, dramatic coastlines, and constantly changing weather that demanded attention rather than control.
Some stops were intentional revisits, others spontaneous decisions made in the moment. The freedom to respond, to weather, light, and instinct, made the experience deeply immersive. Iceland once again proved that revisiting a place doesn’t dull it; it sharpens your understanding, especially when you experience it on your own terms.
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| Skogafoss in Iceland |
Las Vegas — December Lights & Desert Contrast
The year concluded in Las Vegas, but the experience extended far beyond the Strip.
December’s cooler temperatures made desert exploration ideal. Death Valley offered vast silence and scale, a stark counterpoint to the city’s intensity. Valley of Fire delivered bold color, sculpted rock formations, and light that shifted rapidly as the sun dropped.
The Hoover Dam added a sense of human ambition, engineering carved into an unforgiving landscape. Photographing these spaces felt grounding, expansive, and restorative.
Back in Las Vegas, neon lights and reflections took over once again. Moving between silence and spectacle felt like a fitting way to close the year.
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| Valley of Fire |
Looking Back, Looking Ahead
By the end of 2025, the images mattered, but the process mattered more.
This was a year of learning when to let go: of rigid expectations, perfect conditions, and the idea that every trip needs a defining photograph to be worthwhile. Some of the most formative moments came through failure, a missed shot, a crowded scene, a body that demanded rest. Those experiences reshaped how I approach both travel and photography.
At the same time, the year offered affirmation. Seeing work published, exhibited, and recognized at IPC served as quiet confirmation that growth often happens while you’re focused on simply showing up and doing the work, even when plans fall apart at the last minute.
Each destination from snow-covered mills, eroding coastlines, crowded cities, thin mountain air, volcanic landscapes, and glowing desert nights all contributed to a deeper understanding of why I photograph in the first place. Not to collect images, but to tell honest stories shaped by effort, patience, and presence.
As I turn toward a new year, I’m carrying forward fewer expectations and a clearer vision. Wherever the road leads next, the goal remains the same: to slow down, stay present, and let the place, and the moment speak first.
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