Thoughts on Wilderness and Repentance. Part 2

By Andrew Slaton

I started calling creeks “cricks” when Mike, a Wyoming-born friend, drove me around the western part of the state when I first arrived in 2005. Mike taught me nearly everything: the topography, the plants, the wildlife. He probably would have hated me calling it “flora and fauna.”

I can imagine him thinking, “You sound like one of those people who spent a lot of money on college only to come out with debt.” Especially when I mispronounced the names of cricks. He knew every one we crossed, even the hidden ones you could not see from the road.

Understanding drainages and how water flows through the mountains is key to navigating the land. It is also how you connect with locals. Creeks can guide you when you are lost, provide water and food, and eventually lead you back to a road or civilization.

We used to drive into Grand Teton National Park every few weeks, mostly looking for bears. What I did not realize at the time was that he was mentoring me. Whether he knew it or not, he treated me like a son, passing on his practical knowledge of the West. He was tough, but occasionally showed a softer side. He embodied Wyoming: rugged and sharp, yet capable of quiet gentleness.

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Image © Andrew R. Slaton

It is almost time to leave Wyoming, and Ellen says each year it feels more like home. We are rebuilding our photography business here and in Naples, Florida. We have grown to love both places, though they feel very different to me.

These days, we try to hold on to what we can. Maybe that is a response to years of constant movement, or maybe it is a realization that stability matters. Still, control is an illusion. Life moves whether we are ready or not.

Sometimes we are given moments to hold onto something meaningful, but they never last. Change is inevitable. It may come as a storm or as the loss of someone close.

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I have been thinking about my sense of ownership over places. I realize I have been trying to hold on to the feeling of “discovering” them, like chasing a fleeting high.

That feeling exists only in memory. Letting go is the only way forward. Wilderness is not just a place, but a state of mind.

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Image © Andrew R. Slaton

A strong wind sprays saltwater across my face as I paddle forward in a small kayak. The effort is exhausting, and waves crash over the bow. I ask myself why I am doing this, and then answer: why not?

Ellen and I often talk about our “happy places.” Mine is the mountains, hers is the sea. The ocean unsettles me. Its vastness reminds me of my vulnerability, yet I feel drawn toward it.

That pull toward the unknown has grown stronger over time.

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Image © Andrew R. Slaton

The sky begins to brighten, though not in a way that would excite a photographer. In some ways, photography has changed how I experience moments. I often find myself evaluating scenes instead of simply enjoying them.

The Everglades hold a special place in my life. At 19, I took a solo trip there that shaped my future. I brought 23 rolls of film and used every frame.

Photography was once the vehicle that brought me into these experiences. Over time, I fell in love with the craft itself. Recently, however, I have spent more time fishing than photographing. I suspect there is a deeper reason for that shift, though I have not fully understood it yet.

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Image © Andrew R. Slaton

Our life has been uncertain for some time. When we started this journey, our goal was simple: live fully and visit every national park. We have achieved the first, but not the second. Wyoming and South Florida have become too important to leave behind.

This lifestyle has shaped us deeply. The rhythm of constant movement is now part of who we are. While it brings freedom and adventure, it also comes with trade-offs.

We may never fully belong to one place. We may never have a traditional sense of community. Technology offers connection, but not the same depth.

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Image © Andrew R. Slaton

The Everglades have given me unforgettable encounters with wildlife and plant life. Today, however, I have no camera. I just finished leading a workshop and needed a break.

Lately, I feel a shift. Nature photography does not bring the same joy it once did. The field has become crowded, and I have always valued individuality. It is a difficult realization, but an honest one.

I am left wondering whether my passion will return or if a new path lies ahead.

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Perhaps my focus on fly fishing is a form of renewal. Stepping away from documenting nature allows me to reconnect with it. In time, I hope to return with a fresh perspective.

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Image © Andrew R. Slaton

A storm is building to the south, and I feel uneasy. Still, I am drawn forward. The pull feels inevitable, like a tide. I step into the water knowing the calm will not last.

Life is constant change. Seasons shift, passions evolve, and uncertainty is unavoidable. What matters is how we respond.

Sometimes we are drawn beyond our comfort zones, into uncertainty. I trust that the past seven years have prepared me for what lies ahead.

About the Author

Andrew Slaton is an award-winning photographer who has completed assignments for more than 50 clients and specializes in lifestyle and outdoor imagery.

He is a Red River Pro who produces limited-edition National Parks prints on archival Red River Papers using fade-resistant pigment inks.

Contact Information
Visit Andrew’s website to view his work, order prints, and learn about upcoming workshops.

Watch Andrew and Ellen’s videos on their blog.

Original Publication Date: March 29, 2023

Article Last updated: May 01, 2026

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