My World Through A Lens

The river was calm that late afternoon—drifting slowly, like the day didn’t want to end. We had been cruising quietly, the boat slicing the golden water with little fanfare, each bend revealing new stillness. And then, on the southern bank, they appeared.

Canon R6 Mark-II & RF 100-500mm F4.5-7.1 L (324mm | f5.6 | 1/3200 sec | ISO1250) – August 25th, 2024

Three elephants.

Not in a rush. Not in formation. Just moving—with that kind of grace only size can carry. Their legs shuffled through the dust, shadows stretched long beneath them, and the sun, heavy and amber, decided to light them like myth.

What struck me was how simple it all was. Three creatures cutting across the light like brushstrokes. No grandeur. No drama. Just existence, proud and quiet. And yet—it was exactly what I’d always imagined an African sunset to be: bold but hushed, wild but gentle, rich in golds and shadow. Silhouettes carved against a sky that seemed too perfect to be real, moving not just through dust but through the edges of a long-held dream.

A perfect ending—not just to an afternoon, but to a moment I’d carried quietly for years. And the Chobe gave it to me, just like that.

I left the house well before sunrise, winding through the quiet streets of Ottawa as the city still slept, headlights brushing empty sidewalks and shuttered storefronts. The roads were hushed, and the Ottawa River shimmered faintly as I crossed into Gatineau, the world beginning to stir beyond the windshield.

The drive felt like a slow descent into silence. No playlists, no coffee—just the hum of tires over asphalt and the soft breath of morning stillness. The air had that early autumn chill, not biting, just enough to make the windows fog if you let them.

Canon M6 & EF-M 15-45mm F3.5-6.3 (15mm|f22|1/4sec|ISO100) – 14th September 2025

I pulled into the empty parking lot just as the eastern sky began its golden bloom. Beyond the treeline, morning light kissed the lake’s surface—still as glass, reflecting earth and sky with delicate precision. A soft veil of fog lingered over the far bank, drifting like breath without wind. I stepped out, the chill wrapping gently around me, and drew a quiet breath that seemed to carry the silence of the whole scene.

I didn’t rush the frame. I wandered along the edge, watching the light shift with every breath of fog, the soft crunch of frost-covered grass beneath my feet like nature’s quiet soundtrack. And when the moment felt right, I raised the camera—not to disturb the silence, but to hold it still just a little longer.

Sometimes, stillness is the loudest story you’ll ever tell.

And this morning told it beautifully.

There are moments that don’t announce themselves softly. They build in the sky, pulse in the air, and challenge your instincts.

Canon Rebel T3i & EF-S 10-18mm f/4.5-5.6 (14mm|f22|6sec|ISO100) - 9th December 2015

I’d been tracking the light all afternoon—watching the clouds thicken, the shadows stretch, and the wind begin to whisper harder through the streets of Sydney. I found myself at Milson's Point, just below Harbour Bridge, the Opera House glowing faintly in the distance beneath a storm-darkened sky.

I waited. Longer than I should have. The tourists thinned out, the air thickened, and the tension in the sky was electric—like something sacred was about to unfold.

Then it happened—that one perfect moment when the sun dipped below darkened clouds, lighting the horizon. And in that same breath, the storm arrived. Torrential. Relentless. No shelter. Just rain that fell in sheets, soaking every inch of me as I quickly packed away my camera gear. I could’ve cursed the timing. Could’ve dashed for cover. But I didn’t. Because I knew: that image could not have existed without the risk.

And yes, I got soaked. But I also got the shot. The one that lives on not just in pixels, but in the soaked memory of a moment earned—when nature refused to hold still, but I did.

It wasn’t part of the plan. The trip was meant to be all business—presentations, meetings, hotel lobbies blurring into one another. But the schedule stretched, and suddenly I had a weekend in Vegas. The city pulsed with its usual rhythm, but I found myself craving something else—something still.

Canon Rebel T3i & EF-S 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 (18mm|f5.6|1/40sec|ISO1250) - 12th December 2016

I grabbed my camera and an overnight bag, pointed the car eastward, and slipped out under the fading neon, leaving the lights of Vegas glowing quietly behind me as the highway opened up and the desert swallowed the noise. The road curled gently through the dark, stars still hanging above. No traffic. No rush. Just the low hum of tires and a quiet resolve that I was heading toward something worth seeing.

The drive was longer than I expected—winding, vast, and empty in that way only the desert can be. Hours passed beneath stars that refused to budge. Somewhere along the way, I pulled into a quiet gas station—lights dim, pumps silent, not another car in sight. Dawn was still a distant promise. I stepped out, stretched beneath the cool hush of early morning, and let the silence settle in around me. It wasn’t eerie. Just still. Like the road itself was pausing, waiting with me.

By the time I reached Grand Canyon National Park, the sky had just begun to stir—pale blue edging up from the black. I barely had time to park before the light started to arrive. Slowly. Reverently.

The canyon didn’t explode into view—it unveiled itself. Rock by rock. Shadow by shadow. Light trickled in, catching the edges, warming the stone, brushing the vast emptiness with the softest of fire. I stood still, at the canyon edge, camera in hand, heartbeat rising with the sun. The frigid December air nipping at my finger tips.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. Just watched.

Then—click.

I had always wanted to stand among these stones.

Not just as a photographer or traveler — but as someone quietly haunted by images of them in textbooks, documentaries, and dreams. To finally go felt like approaching myth itself.

Canon M6 & EF-M 15-45mm F3.5-6.3 (15mm|f8|1/320sec|ISO100) - 8th May 2024

I’d woken in Fareham, a quaint little town nestled in southern England — still pressed beneath its blankets of fog. The drive to Salisbury Plain took just over an hour: winding country roads brushed by hedgerows and slept-in barns, the air so cold it clung to the glass and slowed my breath. There was no music, no rush. Just the steady hum of tires and that strange, ancient pull.

Stonehenge didn’t rise into view — it emerged. From the mist, from the hush, from the very breath of morning. The sky hadn’t yet made up its mind about light, and the frost-kissed ground muffled every step. I stood still, camera idle, as the first golden rays grazed the megaliths like a slow revelation.

The stones didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their silence was the point — a silence so dense it felt alive, shared by the wind and the cold and the long-forgotten architects who set these monoliths in place long before we had names for awe.

I took the shot. But honestly, I could’ve left the lens capped. The moment would’ve stayed with me either way.

Some places aren’t just seen — they’re felt, long after the shutter clicks.

Sometimes, travel gives you more than a destination — it offers a pause, and a chance to return to a moment previously missed.

Canon M6 & EF-M 15-45mm F3.5-6.3 (15mm|f5|1/125sec|ISO100) - 29th December 2024

On my last layover in Doha, the plan was simple: capture the city’s rising skyline bathed in late afternoon light. But delays and poor timing had other ideas. The moment slipped past, the lens stayed capped, and I left with only a mental image I never quite made real.

This time, I gave the moment a second chance.

A chilly morning in late December. A quiet taxi ride through sleeping streets. No crowds, no chaos—just the low hum of tires over stone and a sky not yet committed to light. I stepped out near the Corniche and began to walk, breath curling in the air.

And then — there it was.

A single dhow, still in the bay. Skyscrapers behind it, tall and watchful — blending cultural heritage with modernity. The sun just flirting with the horizon, casting a glow that brushed both sea and steel in equal reverence.

I didn’t rush. Didn’t overthink. I framed the shot and let the moment unfold. That missed shot shaped the eye that found this frame.

It didn’t haunt me—it honed me.

There’s something sacred about the stillness before sunrise—when the world hasn't quite woken up and every streetlamp glow feels like a whisper. I was staying at the charming Three Sisters Inn, nestled in the peaceful mountain town of Katoomba, and woke before the first birdcall.

Canon Rebel T3i & EF-S 18-55mm f/3.5-5.6 (24mm|f5.6|1/30sec|ISO250) - 13th December 2015

The streets were deserted as I stepped out—just the soft echo of my footsteps on damp pavement, the scent of eucalyptus in the mountain air, and a fog so thick it swallowed everything but the path ahead, dimly lit by the glow of the street lamps.

I made my way to Echo Point Lookout, camera in hand, not entirely sure if I’d see anything at all. But as I stood there, breath visible in the cold air, the world began to shift. The fog, stubborn at first, started to drift—like a curtain lifting off a stage.

And there they were. The Three Sisters, cloaked in soft mist, as golden light spilled over the Blue Mountains. The rising sun backlit the scene with a palette of honeyed oranges and pinks, turning rock into silhouette, and mist into magic.

I didn’t rush the shot. I stood with it. Watched it evolve. Let the moment compose itself.

Some scenes don’t ask to be captured—they invite you to stay.

This was one of those moments.

Sometimes, it’s not the action or the angle, but the quiet weight of a moment that compels you to raise the camera. This was one of those moments.

Canon R6 Mark-II & RF 100-500mm F4.5-7.1 L (500mm|f8|1/1600sec|ISO250) - 24th August 2024

We were heading back from a boat safari along the Chobe River, that liminal hour where day exhales into dusk and everything begins to settle. The chatter on the boat had softened. The sun hovered low, setting fire to the water’s edge. That’s when we pulled up to a quiet embankment—empty, save for one solitary figure.

A baboon, seated still as stone. Away from the rest of the troop, no sudden movement—just him and the horizon. He didn’t seem to notice us. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t care. There was something ancient in his posture, something introspective; as he sat there lost in throught.

I hesitated. The camera felt like an intrusion—too deliberate for a moment that seemed to belong only to the river and the fading light. But then, the sun dipped just slightly, brushing him in amber, and I knew I couldn’t let it pass.

Not to disturb the stillness—but to freeze that one moment in time.

That’s the paradox of these kinds of photographs. They’re not about spectacle. They’re about recognizing presence—in others and in yourself. They’re the unposed, unscripted echoes of something shared. And for me, that baboon, alone in the open, staring into the blaze of a Botswana sunset, held a mirror I wasn’t expecting.

Sometimes, the most stirring subjects are the ones that remain perfectly still.

Some photographs require the perfect light. Others, the perfect lens. And some, just demand patience.

Canon M6 & EF-M 15-45mm F3.5-6.3 (45mm|f6.3|1/80sec|ISO100) - 20th November 2019

I was passing through Dulles, camera slung over my shoulder and nowhere in particular to be as I waited for my next flight. The terminal caught my eye—not for its architecture or buzz, but for the momentary glimpse of stillness it hinted at. Rows of empty chairs facing a wall of windows, behind which a plane waited in silence.

Of course, it was never truly empty. People streamed past in a steady rhythm—travelers, attendants, trolleys. The frame I wanted flickered in and out, never quite settling into place. But something told me to stay.

Quietly. Casually. Leaning gently on my carry-on, fingers resting on the shutter. I waited. I let the world do what it does—move, shift, repeat.

And then, for a few seconds, it didn’t.

The walkway cleared. The hush arrived. The light hit just right. I got the shot.

Photography isn’t always about chance. Sometimes, it’s about holding space—long enough for life to breathe around the composition you see in your head. That small, shared moment between the chaos and the calm.

There are moments when stillness speaks louder than sound—where a single frame contains a thousand whispered stories. This photograph was one of those moments.

Canon SX10IS - 30th May 2013

I arrived in Petra before dawn, determined to beat the crowds and catch the morning light spilling into the Siq. But Petra had other plans.

The storm rolled in swiftly—angry, blinding, and loud in the way only silence-shattering wind can be. Sand swept through the ancient corridors like a whispering tide, and everyone disappeared. The guides, the early risers, the photographers like me—gone. Everyone except me.

I sat huddled against the canyon wall, eyes narrowed, mouth dry, camera gear sealed tight against the grain. It was sheer stubborness. There was no guarantee the storm would pass, or that I’d get a shot at all. But something told me to wait. To hold out.

Eventually, it cleared. Not with a flourish, but with a gentle, golden hush. The dust settled and the sun returned—soft and slanting, brushing the carved face of the Treasury like a reverent hand.

Petra was mine!

Not just free of crowds—but emptied by nature herself. No footsteps. No voices. No click of phones or rustle of tour guides’ maps. Just rock, light, and the soft rustle of sand shifting in its own time.

That’s what photography is sometimes—not just patience, but persistence. Not just capturing beauty, but earning solitude. And when a place like Petra offers you that...

You take the shot.

There are moments when the camera feels less like a tool and more like a time machine—an instrument of magic that captures split seconds of poetry in motion. This photo was one of those moments...

Canon M6 & EF-M 15-45mm F3.5-6.3 - 30th May 2023

The sun was low and golden, skimming across the horizon with just enough intensity to paint everything in warm amber tones. I stood back, waiting—waiting for the right silhouette, the perfect leap, and a frame where light, movement, and atmosphere aligned like a constellation.

But it wasn’t just the sun that needed to cooperate. The sand had to be just right too. Dry enough to kick up that soft halo of dust as feet pivoted and launched skyward—but not so dry that it would billow and cloud the shot. It’s a balance that most people overlook, but when it’s perfect, it adds texture and life that you can’t replicate in post.

What made this shot sing was that rare harmony: the flare of light, the suspended volleyball, the crisp outlines of players in motion, the crowd of observers, and that ephemeral cloud of dust catching fire in the setting sun. I didn’t plan it—at least, not entirely. It took patience. It took the right light. And yes, it took a little luck.

But that’s the thing with photography—you can chase the shot all day, but often, it’s when you stop forcing it, when you simply wait and observe...

that everything aligns on its own, for that one perfect shot...