Finding my 'decisive moment' in Utah

Two years ago, while hiking in a remote canyon on BLM land in Utah, I dropped a pin on an area that held promise. No plan to return—if ever. Just a hunch, more than anything.

Last month, I finally went to see the GPS coordinate.

It was better than I imagined.

I spent a few evenings there, chasing different scenes. But one night, I locked in on a hoodoo I thought had potential. I tried everything. Raised and lowered the camera, swapped lenses, shifted positions again and again. But nothing landed. I wasn’t excited by what I was seeing.

I told myself to wait it out. When the light gets softer, it’ll all come together. Just be patient.

But as the sun dipped lower, the scene didn’t improve. The light got prettier. The photo didn’t.

I’ve been in this spot before, where something eventually reveals itself if I just keep working. But not this time.

Eventually, I gave up. With minutes to go before darkness, I grabbed my tripod and hiked out fast, trying to find anything before the sun vanished completely.

And then… I saw it.

Three red stones, partially-sunk into white sandstone, glowing like embers in the last light. Just enough warmth to catch their tops. It stopped me cold.

For a moment, I forgot I was there to take photos. I just stared at the ground, transfixed by the light and color.

But my instincts quickly returned. Knowing I had seconds to capture a photo, I hastily set up my tripod, mounted my camera, framed, focused, and pressed the shutter.

One photo.

Immediately after, the sun dropped below the horizon. The moment was gone. Now dim and gray, the thin sliver of time I’d experienced had passed.

Henri Cartier-Bresson called this the decisive moment—that “creative fraction of a second” when everything aligns, and you either press the button or you miss it forever.

This was mine.

But I know I didn’t orchestrate it. I was lucky.

Lucky to be there at the right time. Lucky to notice the original shot wasn’t working. Lucky to change direction when I still had time. And even luckier to recognize something special when it appeared, however briefly.

Moments like this are why I keep going back out. Why I watch the light. Why I adjust and re-adjust. If I stay open and take chances, something fantastic might emerge.

You can’t plan moments like these. You can’t recreate them. There are no second takes.

Sometimes photography is methodical. You scout, you prep, you wait. But other times? You move fast. You let go. You trust your eye, and you work with what the world gives you.

Many days, I come home empty-handed.

But once in a while, the world hands you something back.

And that’s enough for me to keep casting the line.

I didn't have time to capture video of this moment, but did recently create a video from this area, if interested in checking it out: