Spend time in a place. Go there repeatedly. Don’t say, “I’m done with this place” or “I’ve photographed this species enough.”
These are statements that I—and many others in wildlife photography—have been dispensing for years. At a surface level, I always knew what they meant. But I don’t think the message truly hit me until this year’s trip to Japan, and I now firmly believe that it’s not all about photography .

I’m fortunate enough to travel the world with a small group of repeat clients. Well… lucky and unlucky, depending on how you look at it (My business partner would definitely say unlucky). Some of those clients have long since moved beyond that label and become friends for life. On this year’s trip to Japan, with some of these friends, we were presented with a fascinating lesson.

We reached Kotan Onsen on Lake Kussharo—a place that has been a highlight of every previous visit to Japan. A place where I could happily spend days watching swans emerge from the mist. A place I keep talking about whenever anyone asks me about Japan.

We arrived to find the lake being battered by wind.
Good, said the photographer in me

The skies were thick with cloud and gloom.
Even better, said the photographer in me

Then we reached Kotan itself—the very place where I had spent countless hours lying in the snow, watching swans drift through mist.
Only this time, there were no swans.
No mist.
Nothing.

The wind was too strong for them to like this place for now..
I couldn’t quite come to terms with it for almost half a day I guess.
Fortunately, I was with friends. I wasn’t under pressure to conjure a swan for anyone. We decided to call it a day, enjoy the onsen, relax, and figure out our plans for the next two days over dinner.
For those who know me, you’ll know that “relax” is not something I do particularly well while on field.
So once I was sure everyone had settled in, I wandered back to the lakeshore.
No, this isn’t one of those stories with a fairytale ending.
I sat there for a few minutes. Or perhaps more than a few.
No lightning bolt of inspiration struck me. No divine intervention arrived.
But those quiet minutes made me realize something important.
Somewhere along the journey of leading tours, running workshops, and constantly trying to evolve—as a photographer, guide, teacher, businessman, or whatever label applies that day—I had lost touch with one of the most fundamental things that drew me to nature in the first place:
Being alone in it.
I honestly don’t remember the last time I went on a solo outing into the wild.
Probably sometime around 2010.
That’s a very, very long time.
And I think I’ve been losing something because of it.
Not money..
Not opportunities…


Time…
Time to connect with a place…
Time to let my thoughts wander….
Time to simply sit and watch nature unfold and talk, like the fox I saw running across the snow beside the lake that evening..

it wasn’t a photo-op, I didn’t even have my camera but i just found myself smiling, feeling happy for the fox or maybe feeling happy for myself to have been given this opportunity to be in nature…

That evening made me realize that if I want to stay faithful to what I truly love about photography, I need to spend more quiet time with it. Not necessarily photographing. Not necessarily searching for the next image.
Just being there.

So the entire point of this rather long rant is to let you know that if you ever find me sitting somewhere in nature without a camera, simply watching, don’t be surprised.
I think I need that.
I need it to stay true to my craft.

And perhaps the next time I tell you to spend more time in a place, or to return to a place again and again, what I really mean is this:
Don’t just photograph the place.


Be in the place.