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Somehow it is summer again, and already the days are growing shorter. The seasons pass in time-lapse speed, blending hot and cold, wake and sleep, falling leaves and swelling buds into a hodgepodge collage in my mind where real-time seems composed of past, present, and future all at once. For just a moment, I want to hang on to something, I think, as I park my truck near the base of one of Montana’s tallest mountains. I want to grab on, dig my heels in, and strain – however futilely – against this rapid passage of time. I want to...

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Every year, on the cusp of true, Rocky Mountain summer, I travel to the high country to photograph butterflies. For a brief couple of weeks, during the height of the alpine meadow bloom, when lupine and mallows turn acres of open space to blue and pink, Montana's butterflies make the most of their short season.  This year, I test drove Nikon's flagship dx camera, the D500. I ran it with Nikon's 300mm f4 PF VR and the tc-14e iii,  giving me a whopping 630mm of reach, hoping to bring these colorful insects up close and personal and preserve more depth...

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On my 35th birthday, I worked an 18-hour day. A decade later, on my 45th, I finalized plans to walk away from a good salary, premium healthcare benefits, and a great retirement plan. Turning my back on all things sensible, I decided to pursue something closer to my soul - to dive headlong back into the world of the arts, beginning what I fervently hope will be a life-long journey. A trip not only to some of the wilder places on this planet, but an odyssey to validate my belief that the best a person can do with their life...

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It’s no wonder I like color. Growing up in the North Country, where muted shades of grey and white define the landscape for more than half the year, I’ve always been drawn to anything vibrant. From the time I was two years old and found the blue neck of a Phillips Milk of Magnesia bottle leaking from the bank of a stream my father and I fished, anything brightly colored in the wild, particularly birds, has caught my eye. The red comb on a pileated woodpecker’s head. The iridescent blue on a hen mallard’s wing. The emerald flash of a...

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He put up with no foolishness and made that plain from the start. The work was hard, though there was never any acknowledgement of that. To admit it, to as much as tip your hat to the strenuous nature of a day in the field, was the first baby step toward giving up, and that, like allowing the red paint on the barn roof to go more than three years without a fresh coat, was unconscionable. Most of us boys in town worked for him, "bucking" bales during the summer. He'd hire us for a fair wage for the times,...

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