One humid June day, I was hiking in Double Trouble State Park, in the Pine Barrens region in southern New Jersey. I’d intended to photograph the trees - mint-green cedar trees with branches forking and criss-crossing at eye level - but the woods were hot, and Cedar Creek, running alongside the sandy path, looked clear and cool. I waded in and noticed the aquatic plants poking through the water surface, the beams of sunlight sparkling on the water. There was a swift current and a surprising ruby-red color to the water (a hue acquired from compounds in the roots of the eponymous cedar trees). It was the best part of the day, and I liked the photos, too. 

There are only three places I can enter. I rotate, based upon the time of day (certain places only get sun around noon, or later in the evening) and my mood. Once in, I barely move. I didn’t always work this way. For an entire summer, I rode an inner tube downstream, so that I could hop off at locations I could not reach on foot. While that was enjoyable, I realized that I actually saw more if I limited myself to a smaller area. Most of my photos have been taken within feet of each other. However, they never look alike. Each day the creek is different. The water level varies, affecting the visibility of the rocks at the bottom, the current is swifter or slower, the sky changes (cloudy, sunny, or mixed). And, I am different, too. I feel more active, or more still, or drawn to certain subjects over others. I could return every day and find endless variations. 

When photographing the creek, I point my lens downward, and lose myself in thought. I shoot water bugs, waving grasses, pebbles, sand ripples. Sparkles and clouds. Sunlight and shadows. I hear the chirp of cicadas, sense the changing light as the sun moves across the sky. I smell the unique green scent of a cedar forest. Occasionally, I see a baby turtle, or a water snake. I hear wind blowing in the treetops. 

Because this park is near a major highway, I also hear cars. Often, I drive one of those cars, on my way to a completely different destiny. But in the creek, waist-deep among the grasses (and probably a stray snake or two), I am a friend to the water beetles, a girl with a magical picture-making box. There is something a bit poignant about listening to the cars roar onward to their urgent destinations, while I stand in the cool water, caring about nothing but swirling colors and skating bugs. And, later on, there is something poignant about driving back over the creek, feeling it pass underneath me in a scant quarter-second. But still, that quarter-second reminds me that the creek and its creatures remain just below the highway, continuing their quiet but steady existences, as I await my return.