Growing up, I always pictured Maine as this vast wilderness, full of mysterious lakes and hidden coves—a paradise where Bigfoot and moose live side by side. While I have no visual confirmation for the latter, the adult version of myself happily confirmed the former. Tucked away in northeastern Maine, on Mount Desert Island, lies Acadia National Park. There’s an enchantment to the land there—a sort of reverence demanded by every stone, tree and lichen. This is an old place, a proud place.

My first visit to Mount Desert Island came thanks to a wonderful person named Charlotte, who invited Cold Weather Company up to play a show back in 2016. A year later, the band was lucky enough to return for a week-long residency through the Barn Arts Collective. Then, in 2018, with my fancy new D850 in hand, I made a return trip to the island to capture photos and footage for CWC’s album ‘Find Light’. I managed to crash my drone within the first hour of being on the island, which can be seen in this video for “Birds on a String” .

If you ever have the chance to roam the mossy trails of Maine, don’t miss it.

Ogunquit, Maine is like a beach town out of a story book. A short walk can take you from a centuries-old shepherd’s trail along the coastline to Perkin’s Cove, a lovable little tourist trap touting super fresh lobster and locally made souvenirs. My favorite mug is rom Perkin’s Cove, actually—now that’s a seal of approval. This little beach town, for many a reason will always hold some of my most cherished memories.

The Ogunquit coastline, with its conceptually-pleasing gradient from liquid depth to solid earth, served as the cover art for Cold Weather Company’s third album ‘Find Light’.

This was an impromptu hike that started with a mission: to procure wings at the Pic-a-Lilli Inn in Shamong after work a couple weeks back. It was the first day that outdoor dining was permitted at restaurants in NJ after quarantine, and I didn’t want to miss out on a solo date with some Hot and Spicy’s. Even better, at 3pm on a Monday, the social distancing was pretty much guaranteed.

To further enhance my social distancing, after leaving the Inn, I drove down some of those glowing sandy roads in Wharton State Forest, eventually parking for what accidentally became a 10-mile hike when I hit the Goshen Pond trails. As usual, the only critter I ran into (no offense to the other non-pictured critters) was about ten feet from where I pulled off the road, but he had some of the most beautiful Box Turtle eyes I’ve ever seen.

I was happy to find plenty of Sundew, a native carnivorous plant that traps its victims in its delightfully dastardly dewdrops. And that feather is kinda nice too! I still have to look up what those floofy little swampy plant guys are too—they’re dodging my image search queries at the moment.

All in all, a very nice day. Would gladly live it again.

We headed from Moab to Jack and Katie’s house in Grand Junction, CO, where we got to hike Colorado National Monument Park. There was some fresh snow on the ground that morning, which sat perfectly on all the little cracks and crevices of the rock faces, and coated every wind-blown side of every blade, leaf and needle. One of my favorite little discoveries was this tiny almost-arch I found up by the outcropping—it’s amazing when you think that the shape of the stone was dependent upon the wind blowing through the exact conditions of the slope, and positions of the surrounding formations. Special feature: if this little almost-arch hadn’t stood so precisely and proudly for hundreds of thousands of years, that little sedge grass wouldn’t have stumbled upon its home, nestled in the sediment caught by the rock over time. That grass has quite the view.

Another quarantine-era solo bike trip out to an abandoned property in South Brunswick, New Jersey. Just a tiny little house—probably from the 30’s or 40’s, uninhabited for at least 15 years. It’s incredible how beautiful something so forgotten can be.

I especially loved the yellows of the forsythia against the rust-patched storm doors. It’s like the interface between life and death. I also love me some spooky doors!

These beautiful desert critters needed a post all to themselves. This was my first encounter with big horn sheep (though that XL one insisted that I credit him as a “Ram” (he required the capitalization as well)). The herd seemed to welcome me into their social structure, posing for photo after photo. They paraded about the slopes with photogenic elegance, munching on sagebrush and juniper to their hearts’ content. I became a part of their herd that day, and my time in their ranks left me with a deeper understanding of, and love for, Bighorn Culture. After many pictures, I bid them farewell, and rushed off to catch up with the human herd I entered the park with.

When I finally hit Moab after about 28 hours of driving over four days, I met up with my cousins Jack, Tim and Sean (as well as a bunch of friends new and old) for the beginning of a week of exploration in celebration of Jack and Katie’s engagement (congrats, guys!). This was my first “real” time out west, and the vastness of it all is humbling beyond explanation. As much as I missed my familiar eastern forests, there’s a strange and timeless magic out there, and I can’t wait to go back. I’m also very proud of my discovery of that tiny little arch. What an adorable testament to the ravages of time and the tenacity of stone.

It was also amazing to see petroglyphs in person for the first time. Staring at the finger paintings of the ancients seems to reconnect some sleeping synapses in the brain—waking some primitive, perceptive senses. Or, you might just see some pretty janky doodles on sandstone. What you see is up to you, I guess.

This collection is all from one day of hiking around a mossy stream flowing to the Delaware—kind of the most magical dreamscape one can imagine in these parts. There’s something so quiet, ancient, and tranquil in places like these—as if, if one were to listen closely enough, the forest would whisper its sacred secrets. Sun spots dance with the breeze—a pocket of shade one moment, triumphantly spotlit the next. Beauty in every tiny corner.

This was also my first official “outing” with a new lens—the Tamron 90mm Macro. I’ve never felt such freedom with the camera—macro photography has always been a dream of mine, and I can’t express my excitement to finally have the power to capture close-ups so clearly.

This is a series I think I’ll call “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have been taking pictures while driving, but at the same time I’m kinda glad I did”, taken en route to Moab. So much America. Lots of space. Many cheap hotels. So many rest stops. Much sandstone, sage and juniper.

This is the first post of a series from my trip out West. I guess click around for more?

A quick solo trip down to Shamong, NJ during the first days of quarantine. I’ll be honest, the main reason for this adventure was the procurement of New Jersey’s best wings at Pic-a-Lilli Inn—sometimes you just need some sweet buttery goodness when the world seems to be falling apart.

Fortunately, the forests don’t seem to be taking notice of the current health crisis, and critters abound. This was my first encounter with an eastern kingsnake, so I get to check another one off in my Pokédex!

Oh yeah, and more moss. Moss never gets old (at least not to me [at least not yet]).

A quick photo post of one of my favorite amphibians. The spotted salamander is a large, beautiful critter, and they’re a threatened species here in New Jersey. These guys were around 7” long from tip to snout. This was my first daylight encounter with this species, and I am so thankful I had my camera on me.

I think there’s an incredible amount of beauty in decaying houses. Ivy creeps through every broken window and under cracking shingles; sunlight streaks in, illuminating dusty ghosts in a kitchen that once fed a family, in a house that once was a home.

I do my best to respect all posted regulations and trespassing laws during my adventures, and I follow the good ol’ rule of leave-no-trace. For anyone seeking similar adventures, I beg you to do the same and treat what you find with respect.

Another solo quarantine adventure at the very end of March. I needed a nice drive, and the trip down 539 to New Gretna is one of the best I know. The air was just warm enough to hint at the sweet pine scents promised by summer. I had never hiked these particular trails before, and they were full of mossy, boggy surprises. I was very excited to find some overwintered cranberries along the way—they were deliciously sweet, and I didn’t die!

My trusty bike, Sage, was my noble steed for the majority of this trip, marking one of our first official trail riding outings—that’s kinda special.

Just some photos from a random trip up to Waterloo Village back in August, 2019. This was my first time visiting the park, and it was something to behold. While wandering around the abandoned, yet preserved town, I had the same conversation with about four different people:

“Wouldn’t it be better if they had a lottery system for dedicated historians and enthusiasts, where they could win a lease to stay in the house for a set period of time, provided they maintain and restore it?” I don’t know if that’s incredibly naive or a decent idea, but at least there are five random hikers on board.

All photos taken with a Nikon D850, lightly edited in photoshop

The New Jersey Pine Barrens have always been a place of mystery and magic to me. Maybe it’s the legend of the Jersey Devil, the countless ghost stories, or maybe it’s just the incredible biodiversity of the region. Whatever the case, I make a point of visiting the Pine Barrens as many times as I can every summer, when the air is thick with scent of cedar and pine tar.

Another collection from one of Cold Weather Company’s trips up to WestWestSide Music in Cornwall-on-Hudson, NY. There’s never any shortage of natural inspiration when we’re up there.

You know those little Christmas Village thingies that one relative proudly puts under their tree every year? And there are a whole bunch of em that join together and whatnot, forming a whole little Christmastopia (a little ice skating rink powered by magnets is a requirement, btw)? Well that’s basically New Hope, PA this time of year, and it was the perfect place to finish my very late gift shopping the other night.

Wishing a very Merry Christmas to all who are celebrating, a very Happy Holidays to those celebrating other things, a very happy Wednesday to anyone just hanging out, and a very happy sun cycle to anyone who doesn’t like naming days.

Just a collection of some photos taken so far this Spring. Oh, the symbolism of Spring—renewal, rebirth—the tenacity of life and love! Definitely what we want to keep in mind as we face our current quarantine lifestyles. It’s not always easy, it’s not always good, but it always gets better.

Also, let me just wax poetic about moss for a second. That fluffy, magical stuff creates worlds within worlds. One moss colony at the base of a tree presents a miniature model of the greenest pastures, and most gently rolling hills. When fruiting, moss can appear as forests, deep and foreboding. Insects become scale model humans, living out their lives in the fluff and folds.

Also also, I love the moss clump right up on the burn line of a forest fire (the final photo in this post). That clump of moss stood fearlessly (and without choice, I guess), staring down the creeping embers, and stands victorious and verdant.

These photos were taken within about 20 minutes on a very quick hike in Millstone, NJ at the end of May. Sometimes I just grab my camera and take a drive, hoping to find a special looking spot. I know it’s just some pictures of blackberry plants and grape vines, but these late Spring colors are some of my favorites, and they’re only around for a couple weeks a year.

Bass River State Park is one of my favorite New Jersey locations. Down in the middle of the Pine Barrens, soaked in cedar water and sparkling with sundews, is an oasis for aquatic plants and animals. I spent a couple nights camping in a lean-to there this past June, being lulled to swampy slumber by whippoorwills.

This was my first ever trip to what was once the “family farm” in Pottersville, New Jersey. The farm was owned by the Haupin’s (my mom’s side) from the 1920’s-1967, and in that relatively short span, it created cornerstone memories for generations to come. I’ve always heard stories of the farm from my mom, who is just lucky enough to be able to remember childhood moments spent enveloped in the natural beauty of the rolling hills of northwestern New Jersey. Thanks to the incredible work of my Uncle George P. Haupin, the ultimate family historian (whose body of work on the Haupin family can be found here), I was able to find property, which I’m happy to say seems to be very well-cared for by its new stewards. On this visit, I decided I’d set the lofty personal goal of one day being able to buy back the family farm. It would take about $4 million, so I’ve got my work cut out for me (fun fact: my great-grandfather bought the property for around $2800 back in the early 20’s).

What I call my “Reclamation Forest” is actually just a ten-or-so-acre patch of forest and ponds next to the Jersey Turnpike in East Brunswick. For what it lacks in location, it makes up for in spades in biodiversity. The xeric lowland soils, possibly a product of previous sand quarrying, host a variety of pines, mosses, ferns lichens, while the more mesic burms and hills are covered in native beeches, maples and oaks. There’s always something to see in this little patch of forest, and it’s one of my all-time favorite places.

Some photos from Cold Weather Company’s trips up to Alan Douche’s recording and mastering studio. It’s one heck of a place to record some music, lemme tell ya that!

As much as I appreciate the beauty of a crystal clear day, or the sun shining perfectly on a flowing field, I have always loved the waning hours of the day--when the forest becomes a place of mystery and storytelling.  Here in Central New Jersey, one of the most populated areas in the country, every patch of forest is layered with stories, so many of which have evaporated without a trace.  Seeking out these stories is like chasing ghosts--one can only piece a scene together from the fragments of glass or the fire rings left on the forest floor decades ago.  It's this depth that keeps me fascinated, and calls me back time and time again to wander these same grounds, hoping to absorb some hidden secrets from the soil.

Of all the locations I've travelled to for wildlife photography, Huntingdon Beach State Park in Murrell's Inlet, South Carolina, still stands as my favorite. The biodiversity present in such a relatively small park is incredible. Home to alligators, tree frogs, leopard frogs, lizards, snakes, and some enormous golden orb weaver spiders (not to mention the countless migratory birds that feed in the tidal marshes), the park has endless photographic opportunities. I mean, heck, there’s even a historic “castle” on the property connected to a century-old love story between two super rich people! If you’re anywhere near Myrtle Beach, SC in the future, be sure to add Huntingdon Beach State Park to your list.

There are countless photos of sunsets taken every day, yet no two are exactly alike. So many landscapes have been captured time and time again, only to show something new to each photographer—or maybe something old, in a new way. There’s always more to learn, see, and feel by following the light as it falls to the earth.

I thought the oft-lamented (for very good reason) fragmented forests of New Jersey deserved a site entry of their own. Like people, each little patch of trees has a character of its own—a history, and a mystery. There’s a personality to every place for those willing to patiently listen. There are tiny narratives unfolding in the brush, fronds unfurling, leaves unfolding, a breathing in and a breathing out of life. So much to cherish in so little space. Give your neighborhood fragmented forest a hug today, if you can.

These photos were taken between 2011-2016.

The 2012 ASLA National Convention in Phoenix, AZ, was my first trip out to the Sonoran Desert. Most of these photos were taken at the Desert Botanical Gardens just outside of Phoenix. As someone who has spent his whole life in the deciduous northeast, I think I was under the assumption that the “desert” was…deserted. Of course I knew there were critters scurrying about and big ol’ cacti, but the reality was much more lush and biodiverse than I could have imagined. I was taken aback by the tiny oases, bursting with life in every crack and crevice lucky enough to catch some moisture. I love thinking that, if all goes well and we don’t implode, hundreds of thousands (maybe millions) of years from now, when the organic soil layer has grown enough, this same desert may be a fertile grassland inhabited by a whole new host of flora and fauna. Everything is always changing. Also, look at that cute little desert spiny lizard!!

Like countless camera carriers, many of my first photos were of flowers and their pollinators. When framed just right, with the perfect lighting, little compares to the beauty of a flower. The intricacy and detail in every petal and wing has always fascinated me, and I don't see that feeling fading any time soon. Update in 2021: the feeling hasn’t faded, and now there are flower pictures all over the site. Oh organization, how I long for thee!

Photos in this collection were taken with an iPhone X equipped with a Moment wide angle lens during a week-long adventure to Montréal, Quebec. We were fortunate enough to stay in the heart of Old Town, rich with historic architecture, and at the time, coated in a couple inches of ice. Montréal is a city with some considerable topography, so much of our trekking most likely looked like penguins sliding down ice chutes (terrifying, but thrilling nonetheless). The Aura lightshow at Notre Dame Basilica took the cake when it comes to stunning visuals. I had no clue we were this far into the future already—laser light shows in historic cathedrals!? The juxtaposition!! What will Canada think of next?

I think it's my interest in uncovering and retelling stories long forgotten that drives me to explore abandoned parcels and buildings. There's something so eerie about exploring a decaying structure that was once a home to a family, or a place of business for hundreds of workers. There are memories in the objects and markings left behind--moments that may have passed nearly a century ago, but echo through the present. Nothing of historical significance needs to have happened at these locations--for me, it's the simple moments of an average day in the past that draw me in. A newspaper left on a table fifty years ago, a shopping list in a drawer from a store that was demolished in the 60's--moments of our past that so commonly dissolve into time. Sometimes those mundane memories pull me the most; compelling me to do my best to tell their stories however I can.