My name is Marty Hulsebos and I've been a passionate landscape photographer since the late 1980's.
On this photo trek, as I drove through the rugged forest road on Kebler Pass, near Crested Butte Colorado, a familiar twinge of excitement surged through me, tempered with the worry that I might not capture the aspens the way I envisioned. This place had been photographed countless times, yet I longed to portray it uniquely—its essence raw, its colors true, and its spirit alive. I wanted a shot that would make my family and friends feel the Colorado autumn as though they were by my side.
The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting warm light that danced through leaves turning shades of gold, amber, and copper. The air smelled of pine and cool earth, and every now and then, a breeze sent a shower of aspen leaves fluttering down like golden confetti. The beauty was hypnotic and the silence profound, but the challenges kept tugging at the edges of my mind. This place was vast and untamed, and finding the right spot to set up felt almost impossible.
I drove my pickup deeper, following the primitive road that wound through seemingly endless thickets of trees, scanning for a vantage point that would give the aspens the majestic framing they deserved. The taste of cold mountain air settled on my tongue, fresh and crisp. The crunch of leaves beneath my boots reminded me of home, a world away but somehow woven into this forest.
But time was slipping. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that clawed across the forest floor. My heart began to pound; I knew if I didn’t find the shot soon, I’d lose the light and end up with just another disappointing photo. But I also remembered that low light could work in my favor—if I stayed patient. Experience had taught me that a camera often sees beauty in shadows where the eye does not.
Finally, just as hope started to fade, I stumbled upon a small grove. The trees were perfectly spaced, their pale bark standing out starkly against the deepening twilight. Though dimly lit, the stand of aspens seemed to pulse with an ethereal glow. It felt almost unreal, like nature was offering me this moment if only I was quick enough to capture it.
Setting up my tripod carefully, I noticed a family of deer grazing nearby. They stopped and looked up, watching me with cautious, gentle eyes, as if curious but hesitant to trust. I held my breath, not wanting to spook them, and as I adjusted my camera, I heard their quiet breaths and the soft crunch of leaves beneath their hooves. It was as if nature itself was waiting for this moment, lending me its presence.
I adjusted my camera settings for the low light. A calm fell over me, a sense of confidence built from years of learning that light and shadows are never the enemy; they’re allies if I know how to listen. I clicked the shutter, and in that brief, quiet instant, I knew I’d found it—the untamed essence of Kebler pass immortalized in a rich tapestry of tones and colors.
As I reviewed the shot, relief and joy washed over me. This was it. The aspens in all their autumnal glory, captured just before night took hold. A sense of belonging filled me—a feeling that I had somehow claimed a part of this old, wild land as my own. It was more than a photograph; it was a piece of my heart that I’d share with my family and friends, a way of connecting them to the mountains and forests that now felt like home.
I packed up as darkness settled in, feeling triumphant. It was a dream come true—an image that told my story as much as the forest’s, bridging the past and present with the colors of Colorado.
