Bears, Mountains, Moose and more

I had never set foot in Wyoming or Montana before this past summer. By the time I returned, I knew I would never see the world the same way again.

Alaska had first lit the fire in me years earlier—the vast wilderness, the raw beauty that pushed me into photography. But somewhere along the way, I had forgotten what it felt like to be small before nature’s grandeur. That spark lay dormant until this trip. Wyoming and Montana didn’t just reignite it. They threw gasoline on the flames.

Flying into Jackson was an experience in itself. As the plane dipped lower, jagged peaks pierced the horizon, sharp as the mountains I used to draw as a kid—triangles thrusting from the earth. Wildfire smoke hung in the air, softening the view, but nothing could hide the power of those mountains. My first thought? Can I climb them?

We didn’t pick up a rental car at the airport. No, my parents had a different plan. They decided to buy one—sight unseen—and use it for the trip before driving it back home to Florida. A gamble, sure, but within minutes my dad found exactly what my mom wanted: a 2006 white Land Cruiser. Just like that, we weren’t renting anymore—we owned a piece of Wyoming steel.

Driving away from the airport, the land spread out before us in vast, open fields framed by some of the most breathtaking peaks I’d ever seen. Gone were the beaches and salty air I knew from home. Here there was nothing but mountains, valleys, and skies so wide they made you feel weightless.

Within hours, we’d seen a moose. A massive, deliberate creature grazing near our Airbnb, its size and calm power leaving us silent in awe. That night, we sat in a rodeo arena, watching cowboys fly from the backs of bulls under the lights, the crowd roaring. In less than twenty-four hours, Wyoming had given me more than I expected the whole week would.

The days blurred into adventures. Sunrise missions to the Snake River Overlook where Ansel Adams had immortalized the Tetons. Long bike rides on e-bikes that carried us sixty miles across varied terrain. But nothing compared to the hike to Lake Solitude.

We caught the first boat across Jenny Lake and hit the trail, moving through forests, over rock, under peaks, with rain cooling our climb. The valley stretched before us, a cathedral of stone and light. A moose stood in the middle of a pond, framed perfectly like a gift for any photographer. Hours later, tired and miscalculating the distance, we reached the lake. It was worth every step. I crouched at the water’s edge, capturing a reflection shot that still makes me proud.

Yellowstone came next: Old Faithful roaring skyward, bison blocking the roads, waterfalls cascading with unstoppable force, and even a wolf loping across the distance. The air smelled of sulfur, and yet, to me, it smelled like history, like the wild earth breathing beneath our feet.

And then—Montana. Glacier National Park.

We stopped in Bozeman, a town alive with energy, then pushed through smoke-filled roads until at last we reached the park. Within hours of arriving, we saw our first bear. Not on a hike, not deep in the backcountry—right outside the lodge. Just like that, Glacier lived up to its reputation.

The next morning, I woke before dawn, camera in hand, chasing the iconic sunrise shot over the lake. Fifteen steps from the lodge was all it took to capture a scene that felt timeless. My rule was simple: if I walked away with one shot I loved, the outing was a success. That morning gave me more than one.

Later that day, we set out for the Ptarmigan Tunnel. It was everything I’d hoped for—exposed, wild, vast. But twenty minutes in, my mom shouted: “Bear!” We spun around to see a grizzly ten yards behind us, following the trail. My dad shouted it off, the bear hardly caring we existed. Moments later, two cubs and their mother crossed the path ahead of us. I raised my camera and finally got the shots I’d been waiting for—an encounter both safe and spectacular.

Fueled by adrenaline, I sprinted up the final switchbacks to the tunnel, grinning like a madman, sheep staring down at me as if to question my sanity. At the top, I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years. The view wasn’t just beautiful—it was a reminder of why I came here in the first place.

We pressed on to Iceberg Lake, pushing tired legs over miles of trail. A moose lounged in a field, sunlight bouncing off its antlers. At the lake, we plunged our aching feet into glacial water and sat in silence, letting the peace of the place wash over us.

The hike back was faster, though filled with biting flies that had us running and swatting like fools. We laughed through it, exhausted but exhilarated.

By the time we left Glacier, we’d seen bears, moose, sheep, and marmots. We’d hiked, kayaked, explored. But more than the wildlife or the landscapes, it was the feeling that stayed with me. The same feeling I’d found in Alaska. The one that told me this wasn’t just a hobby or a trip—it was part of who I was.

Wyoming and Montana didn’t just give me memories. They gave me back my passion.