Sunrise on Boneyard Beach

My favorite Photo of 2025

The sound of the waves and the scent of salt grew stronger as I walked along the sandy path to Jekyll Island’s Boneyard Beach. The night sky was lifting, revealing the first thin streaks of color on the horizon. All around me, the dawn began to illuminate the fallen trees, turning their jagged silhouettes into magnificent works of art.

It was Easter.

This is where my favorite photograph of 2025 was created.

What makes a photograph a favorite is not always technical perfection or even rarity. Sometimes it is the way an image holds a moment you didn’t expect or even know you needed.

Our journey to that Jekyll Island sunrise followed a long season of service that began years ago. Ever since my stepfather, Johnny, died, Bill and I have maintained a constant rhythm of helping my Mom with ongoing projects at her home and in her yard. This year, that commitment collided with a new challenge when Bill’s stepfather, Walter, suffered a major health crisis. Assisting with his care and rehabilitation required an intense, time-consuming effort from both Bill and me. While we consider it a privilege to support our families, early 2025 proved particularly taxing. Layered beneath those demands was the unaddressed loss of our dog, Doodle. He had passed away in February after seventeen years as a beloved member of our family. We hadn't yet stopped to fully process his absence. Life had been moving fast, and we had been meeting it head-on. But we were tired.

The week before Easter had been busy and hectic, just like the preceding weeks and months. We had managed to get Walter temporarily situated and had tackled a long list of repair and maintenance items at my Mom’s home. We even hosted a joyous double celebration for Easter and my niece’s baby shower on Saturday. But by the time the dishes were all put away and the last guest departed, we realized that we had an unexpected opening in our schedules. So without any planning at all, we hugged my Mom goodbye, jumped into VanGo, and headed south. We had no reservations and no clear destination, just a rare few days without any pressing obligations.

We drove until fatigue caught up with us somewhere near Brunswick, Georgia, and spent the night ‘boondocking’ in a Lowe’s parking lot. Early the next morning, we woke before sunrise and continued on toward Jekyll Island. When I realized we had just enough time to reach Boneyard Beach before the sun broke the horizon, that became our destination.

We arrived later than I would have preferred had this had been a planned destination. Ideally, I like to be in position thirty minutes before sunrise, when the pre-dawn colors first begin. That morning, I had no more than fifteen minutes to trudge through the soft sand and select a composition. I felt pressured to work quickly.

I spotted a composition I liked, but another photographer was already there. I hesitated. I didn’t want to crowd him or ‘borrow’ his vision. But as the sky deepened into brilliant pinks and oranges, I knew I couldn’t wait. I walked closer and apologized quietly. Then, I saw it.

A long, graceful branch extended from an overturned tree, curving gently away from the surf. With each wave, water washed softly over parts of the wood, then slipped back toward the ocean again. It was a striking composition that offered the possibility of a long exposure that could hold both stillness and motion. I worked quickly, testing settings and settling into a decision on how to best frame the tree against the coming light. I settled on a shutter speed of 1/6 sec; ISO 100 and f8. No filters; there was no time for that!

I captured a handful of frames. As the sky brightened and the colors faded, I stood up somewhat content with the results.

But Bill and I stayed on the beach.

Feeling no urgency at all, we stood propped up against the heavy branch of an overturned tree for almost thirty minutes. We listened to the waves and watched shorebirds wade through the sea foam in search of breakfast. It was a stillness we hadn’t allowed ourselves in a long time.

Easter is, at its heart, a story of darkness giving way to light, of life emerging where loss once stood. Standing on that beach, surrounded by fallen trees as the sun rose, I felt the truth of The Resurrection in a way that didn’t need explanation.

Nothing about that morning erased the weariness or loss of the months prior. Walter still faced challenges that would demand our attention. Doodle was still gone. The responsibilities waiting at home had not disappeared. But for those thirty minutes on the beach, something inside me settled.

When I look at “Easter Sunrise on Jekyll’s Boneyard Beach,” I do not see just driftwood and color in the sky. I remember standing beside Bill with no agenda and no urgency. I remember feeling tired but no longer heavy. The image is not my most technically perfect photograph of 2025, but it is the one that reminds me of restoration and renewal.

It is for me, the essence of Easter.

Whitehorse, Yukon to Haines, Alaska; five hours of ice-covered road through a lonely, vast stretch just below the Arctic Circle. Bill and I drove through it in awe, each bend in the highway coaxing out another surprised, “Wow… beautiful!” We saw fewer than ten cars the entire way. Snow swept sideways across the ice-glazed Alaska Highway while the dashboard optimistically insisted it was a warm 15°F. As we drove, we passed the time listening to Pastor Allen Nolan teach from the Book of Genesis, a book I’ve been studying for months now. The Bible’s account of creation tells us, among other things, that humans are to have of dominion (radah) over animals; however, as I listened to the lecture, I found myself wondering what that authority truly requires of us.

Our destination was Haines, Alaska, and the Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve, but I had no idea that something other than eagles were waiting for us.

The Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve hosts the world’s largest convocation of American Bald Eagles. They gather here in autumn because the Chilkat River remains unfrozen even when other nearby rivers freeze. The open waters allow the salmon to spawn and complete their lifecycle, guaranteeing an endless feast for the eagles. To see thousands of eagles along the river is common. Yet one morning, what I thought would be a day of eagle photography took a lucky turn.

Walking along the riverbank Bill noticed a deep depression in the snow. It was the unmistakable, massive footprint of a Coastal Brown Bear. These bears, coastal cousins of the inland Grizzly, grow impressively large on a rich, fatty diet of salmon. We followed the tracks from the mountain, down across the road and north along the river’s edge until the prints finally vanished near the water.

We returned to the car and continued north. Then, in a clearing beside the river, we saw him: a large Coastal Brown Bear! Several onlookers had stopped, some standing far too close. The bear, preoccupied with the enormous salmon he had pulled from the river, seemed utterly uninterested in us.

I jumped from the car and stood about fifty feet away from the bear. He was in no hurry, giving me time to adjust camera settings, refine my composition, and even capture some video. I lifted my Canon R5M2 with RF100-500mm lens already in place, and looked through the viewfinder. I quickly settled on a shutter speed 1/320, ISO 800, and f6.3.  Because I was shooting handheld, I was a little nervous about the relatively slow 1/320 shutter speed, but the bear was moving slow and needed as much light as possible because of the heavy cloud cover. I did not want to exceed an ISO of 800.

Golden-brown with dark legs and feet, he tore into the salmon with his teeth, using his massive right claw for leverage. Between bites, he glanced up at the river, then briefly at us. To my surprise, I felt no fear at all.

After finishing the salmon, he took a few steps, then plopped down to roll in the snow. It was a seemingly lighthearted and comedic end to his meal. When he rose and ambled north through heavy brush, the other onlookers moved up the road, hoping for another glimpse. I stayed behind, still savoring the moment.

Then, the bear turned, slipped into the river, and drifted back toward where I stood. I watched his massive head and two fuzzy ears sticking up above the water as he rode the current. Then, he paddled toward the far bank, climbed out, and shook off the water like a dog after a bath. I captured even more photographs of that wild, pure creature on the far riverbank, before he finally vanished.

I stood still, trying to commit the encounter to memory. I had tracked, found, and photographed a wild Coastal Brown Bear in his own domain. It was an exciting series of events! And this encounter had even given me the time to compose every frame with intention. I walked away with a photographer’s ultimate trophy.

But as I stood there elated, watching that magnificent creature trot away across snow and ice, the words of the Creation Account, words we had been studying on the drive to this very place, came into sharper focus. My encounter with this wild, untamed creature provided the true lens for interpreting the commandments in Genesis: Our dominion (radah) over the creatures of the earth is not a license for ownership, but rather a call to sacred, thoughtful stewardship (Shamar). It is a responsibility to guard and honor the wildness and perfection of creation. These animals are not merely subjects for art or sport; they are to be regarded with deep, quiet reverence, cherished and protected exactly as the Author of Life intended.

Appalachia is a place of mystery. It is a land steeped in ancient magic that feels whispered by the trees. In the shadowy folds of the Smoky Mountains, where mist clings to the ridges and moss blankets timeworn stones, a story flickers to life. Near the mossy arch locals call the Troll Bridge, a legend pulses to life each spring. It is a love story written in light, whispered through the forest, and never quite forgotten.

To witness and photograph the fleeting marvel of the synchronous fireflies demanded careful planning. My journey began in December of 2021, when I booked a campsite in Elkmont for early June of 2022. I knew the conditions needed for success: a moonless sky, clear weather, and access to the ruins of Daisy Town during the narrow window of June 1st to 14th. So on June 4th, 2022, I packed my Nikon D850 and a 17-35mm f/2.8 lens, choosing that wide-angle to gather maximum light. I arrived in Elkmont around 4 PM and spent an hour or so photographing Little River's rushing water and moss-covered rocks. Around 6 PM, I headed down Little River Trail, carrying my camera gear, a folding chair, my tripod, and two bottles of water. The crunch of dirt and gravel beneath my boots grounded me in reality, but something else stirred in the forest air - Something unseen, something mysterious.

The trail led me to the charming stone bridge that many call the Troll Bridge. With its graceful arch and moss-covered stones, it has always felt to me like more of a "Fairy Bridge," It’s an enchanted little place that seems borrowed from a fairy tale. To my left, Little River played a steady lullaby, its rhythm a constant thread among the sounds of the approaching night. Surrounded by this wild chorus, I set up my gear. That is when a story I heard long ago returned to me. A long forgotten campfire legend tells of two young lovers from feuding families who met in secret here, just outside Daisy Town, over a century ago. They found their way to this spot where the Fairy Bridge arched low over the stream and fireflies lit the night. It is said that the river’s edge still holds the shape of their footsteps, and the fireflies remember the rhythm of their hearts.

Darkness arrived.

Then, it began.

First, a few dim glimmers became faintly visible in the trees; tiny sparks blinking randomly in the dark. More joined, each flashing its own unpredictable rhythm. It was a beautiful visual chaos scattered throughout the forest. Over the next ten minutes, the scattered flickers grew steadily in number and intensity, like an unspoken conversation gaining volume and clarity. Then, impossibly, the flashes began to fall into step, pulsing together. On, On, On, before dissolving into a shared silence. A thousand lights blinked in unison. The forest flashed with golden light: five to eight bright pulses followed by eight to ten seconds of pure darkness. A living heartbeat. The synchronization is so precise it defies belief. Science explains it as something about mating rituals, bioluminescence, and evolutionary strategy. Yet, standing there, it felt like more. It felt like a heartbeat. Like a memory. Like the past tapping gently on the present.

As the forest pulsed with light and shadow, I fumbled with my camera. I adjusted my settings. I settled on the widest aperture of f/2.8, ISO 1600, and 30-second exposures to capture the ephemeral trails the fireflies carved through the air. Some moved in straight, glowing lines. Others danced in spirals or arabesques, as though choreographed by fairies. I took hundreds of shots, knowing the final image would be a composite (a stacking of frames to reveal the full spectacle.) This careful layering is necessary to show what the eye sees but a camera cannot fully capture in a single exposure.

But even as I worked, I couldn’t help but feel I was documenting more than biology. The old legend lingered in my mind. The story goes that when the secret lovers were torn apart by the bitter will of their feuding families, their hearts continued to reach for each other across the veil of time. When their footsteps vanished from these woods and they slipped into legend, the fireflies remembered. Now, every spring, for just a few nights, the forest pulses with light. Some say it's the spirits of a young couple, whose love defied their feuding families and found reunion here. Their timeless devotion manifests in the rhythmic pulse only the fireflies know how to create.

My final image captures the fireflies' dance in radiant detail. But the true ‘symphony behind the still’ is far richer. No image can do justice to this experience. It’s the hush of the river, the silent chimneys of Daisy Town watching from the woods, and the whispered legend of a love that could not be extinguished. That night, beneath a canopy of ancient trees and shimmering gold, I was more than a photographer. I was a witness to science, yes, but also to wonder. The forest then felt less like a place visited and more like a living memory, its ancient Appalachian heart beating in synchronized light, forever whispering of love that transcends time and sight.