Every nature photographer has a secret behind their work. Some credit the gear. Others talk about timing, patience, or years spent chasing the ideal scene. The stunning sunrise or the morning mist. I myself have captured many of these from my summer lakeside camp in northern Vermont. Yet I must acknowledge one of the greatest sources of my success on that front; a big black lab named Rocky who has been getting me out of bed and on my feet for the better part of 14 years.
Long before sunrise photography became a habit, before it became a discipline or a style, it became a routine. One quietly enforced by a loyal family dog who believed mornings mattered and that the world was meant to be experienced early and with the first morning pee.
Rocky has been my sidekick for many sunrises. His arthritic frame and greying snout reveal the passage of time, faster for him than it is for myself. He doesn’t bound ahead anymore, nor burst out the door with the energy he once had. But he is always ready and willing despite being less able. He has been the reliable presence at the porch door with an anxious look that says, “You’ll want to see this.” He has been the steady companion who made sure morning scenes do not slip by unnoticed.
Because of Rocky, I’ve captured countless sunrises across still water. I’ve been able to frame an entire potfolio of early morning imagery in ways you only notice when you’re standing there to witness them. He’s never cared about camera settings or composition. His joy has been about being outside, following familiar paths, and greeting each day the same way he always does with paws to the ground.
And because of that, I have quite a collection of ideal scenes.
On my side of the lake, the light doesn’t wait. It arrives on its own schedule and in abundance. For years, Rocky has ensured I would be there standing beside him on the dock while the day introduced itself across the lake. He understands something important: You don’t rush mornings. You meet them. Right after you pee.
A Slower Pace, A Deeper View
In his younger years, our mornings were energetic. Full of movement and exploration. Over time, the pace has softened—and so has my way of seeing. That slower rhythm teaches me patience. I have learned how to notice the subtle shifts in light, the delicate changes on the lake, and the beauty that unfolds when you’re not in a hurry to get anywhere else. Some of my favorite images were made during those peaceful mornings when neither of us needed to go far to feel like we were exactly where we belonged.
Rocky is well into his senior time now, and mornings unfold more slowly than they once did. The steps down to the lake once cleared in a single, confident leap now require patience and a steady hand. We take them together, one at a time, pausing when he needs to, the sunrise in no particular rush to get to anymore. I look up and out, watching the light spread across the water; Rocky lowers his head, intent on the shoreline, following a map written entirely for his nose.
I’ve always preferred the glow of the sky and the stillness of the lake, while he has remained loyal to the muddy edge and whatever scented stories the night left behind. We stand side by side, each of us seeing what we’ve always loved, just moving much slower now. The camp still faces east, the sun still shows up, and Rocky - older, weaker, yet steadfast - reminds me that beauty isn’t diminished by time, only approached more thoughtfully.
