The Night That Changed Everything for Me

“Why don’t you try anyway? You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

I recall these words often — even more so as I age. The weeks move faster than I want them to. The days feel like little more than a blink now.

My son said those words to me on a canoe trip through the Temagami region. We had been moving through clear waters and old-growth pines for about a week. The days were that perfect blend of late-summer warmth, gently kissed by the cool early winds of autumn.

Midway through the trip, my tripod decided it had had enough. Its worn threads — ground down by sand, rain, and years of hard use — finally gave out. It didn’t owe me anything. But the timing of its demise could have been better.

I shoot handheld most of the time, usually moving with the rhythm of the land and water. But a beautiful waterfall, a golden sunset, or a clear night sky will always have me reaching for a tripod. I was heartbroken knowing I’d miss out on so many good shots.

My son asked if I couldn’t just prop the camera up on something.

I had a long list of reasons why that wouldn’t work.

That afternoon, though it was only mid-day, we came across a spectacular campsite perched on a rocky point. It didn’t take long for us to decide to stay. Hammocks were strung between old trees, and the rest of the day was spent soaking in the sun, swinging in the breeze, and living our best life.

These are the moments every backcountry canoeist dreams about during the cold winds of winter — when you’re bent over maps by firelight in the darkness. A hot cup of tea in hand. Hope in your heart.

That night, we were treated to a sky like no other. Every star in the galaxy seemed to show up and bless us. The universe came alive.

We stood in awe.

We stood in silence.

Feeling tiny — yet connected in a way that somehow felt larger than ourselves.

Suddenly, the silence broke.

My son spoke softly.

“Why don’t you try anyway? You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Stripped of excuses, I grabbed my camera. Rocks were gathered and stacked. I propped it up the best I could, composing the frame carefully. With a silent prayer that nothing would shift for the next fifteen seconds, I pressed the shutter.

And my favorite photograph to date was born.

I learned something valuable that night.

We spend a lifetime building walls — crafting reasons why we can’t step beyond them. Why it won’t work. Why we shouldn’t try.

But childhood sees differently. It sees without fear. Without complication. With a clarity we often lose along the way.

You’ll never know if you don’t try.

It really is that simple.

And maybe that’s what chasing light in wild places is all about.