The Photographer Without a Camera

It was a mid-June evening, the kind where the light hangs longer than expected and the air feels full but soft. I had spent most of the day editing photos, locked into that creative tunnel where hours pass unnoticed. Once I get going, it’s hard to stop—because I know how hard it can be to pick it back up again.

Eventually, something in me said, enough. I needed air. I needed water. I needed out.

My kayak had been waiting. I threw it in the car and headed down toward the shore, not far from my place. The Leach Amphitheater was hosting a show that night—George Thorogood and The Destroyers were already echoing across the Fox River. I knew a quiet little spot to launch, tucked between the Oshkosh Marina and the narrow channel that leads to the river.

The spot is hidden just beyond a fence, down a little slope between the marina and the water. Depending on the water level, there’s only a small patch of space to launch. I lined the kayak up, gave it a solid push… and watched it slide right out into the channel.

Too hard. Within seconds, it was drifting away, completely out of reach.

I had about two seconds to make a decision.

To my left was a fallen tree, resting across the edge of the shore. Either I’d be swimming fully clothed, or I’d have to channel my inner Huck Finn and go for it.

So I ran.

Scrambled up the trunk, sprinted across the mossy bark, and leapt. I landed square in the kayak like it was part of the plan. Balanced. Soaked with adrenaline. Smiling. The evening was already off to a story-worthy start.

Once I caught my breath, I let myself drift for a few minutes. I floated under a bridge, letting the stillness soak into me. Birds skimmed the surface. The sky shifted to that perfect balance between warm and blue. No camera. No phone. Just breath and motion.

When I finally started moving, a cloud of bugs followed me like I was some kind of swamp king. They hovered just above my head, swirling like they were caught in my gravity. I’ve always been sensitive to more than what’s seen—places, people, the energy they carry. And those bugs felt different. Not just insects. Not just summer gnats. They felt like something symbolic. Maybe even spiritual.

I thought: maybe they’re spirits that never moved on. Maybe that’s why I feel so heavy some days. Like I carry something with me that’s not entirely mine. I’ve never learned how to protect myself from that kind of weight. I just absorb it.

And still, they followed me. Above the paddle, above my breath, above my thoughts.

Then the wind shifted. The water rippled with warning. The sky darkened. I felt the drops—quick, sudden. A fast summer rain.

I didn’t panic. I knew the old train bridge was just ahead.

I paddled hard toward it, slid beneath its steel frame, and dropped anchor.

The rain hit harder now, slapping the water in sheets. The kind of storm that comes in loud, quick, and raw. I pulled my hood up and waited it out.

Then the rumble started.

It wasn’t thunder.

A train.

Right overhead.

I looked up and saw the underbelly of it flying past just feet above me. Steel and weight and sound. The whole bridge shook. The water trembled beneath me. The air cracked wide open.

And the bugs—were gone.

Not scattered. Gone.

Something about that moment felt bigger than me. Like the train was a threshold. Like the spirits that had been hovering were finally given a way across. They didn’t need to follow me anymore. They had their crossing.

I raised my paddle into the air and let out a primal yell, half joy, half release. No one heard me. But that moment was mine.

The rain eased. The clouds began to part. And to the west, the sky opened into gold—the kind of light that only shows up after the storm has said its piece. The kind of light that photographers dream of.

And I didn’t have my camera.

But I didn’t feel the usual ache of missing the shot.

This wasn’t meant to be captured. It was meant to be lived.

That sunset wasn’t a missed opportunity. It was a sacred invitation. A moment to sit with. A reminder that not everything beautiful needs to be documented to matter.

I thought about my business, about how close it feels to something real breaking open. I thought about my friend Kyle—how he started as a photographer but found his voice in video and branding. He helps others find their stories but keeps his own quiet. There’s something in that duality I understand.

Maybe we could build something together. A full-service creative team. Photography, video, sound, and design. A way to tell stories for businesses, galas, and communities with real presence. Not just packages. Not just marketing. Meaning.

The sun began its final descent behind the city.

I paddled to the opposite side of the riverwalk, beached the kayak, and found a man standing with his bike. I asked if he’d watch my boat for five minutes.

He nodded.

I ran. From the water’s edge to the car. A sprint I couldn’t have managed last summer. This time, I didn’t stop once.

I drove home, grabbed my camera, and walked back to the riverwalk. The music still echoed across the water. The lights of Oshkosh shimmered in long ribbons across the river.

I set up my tripod and took a few long exposures. But I already knew the image I would carry with me couldn’t be printed.

It was the one taken deep inside me.

A picture of weight, of release, of crossing.

Of finally letting go.