It was the first fall I ever spent in Alaska, and the landscape looked like it had been set on fire — a valley overflowing with oranges, reds, and purples so vivid it didn’t feel real. I’ve always had a soft spot for autumn, maybe because I was born in that time of year. There’s something comforting about the warmth of the foliage trying to hold its ground against the coming chill.

As I hiked through the valley, soaking in every color, a young bull moose stepped out from behind a wall of brush as if he’d been part of the scenery all along. It was the first bull moose I had ever photographed, and he carried himself with such purpose — pausing only long enough to acknowledge me before trotting steadily into the valley, on his way to find a lady friend.

There was something quietly powerful about that brief encounter. Just him, the colors, and the vastness of Alaska. A lone traveler passing through, yet leaving an imprint I’ll never forget.