Marcy & Dustin / Engagement Shoot / Fall Season / Tehachapi Mountain, CA


I can’t help it! The glimmering setting sun, a cold, brisk, fall day, in the mountains… The snow patches cause you to watch your field-crossing-step from slipping, and the chill of the wind helps to put a skip in your step down the road. The sound of the wind turns your head to see a patch of yellow tumbling leaves race to the best landing spot. Mezmorized by colors and textures, enchanted by change and anticipation…

The Fall season is by far… BY FAR the best weeks of life each year. I am a self-professing summer girl, I love hot weather and the excitement of looong days, BUT nothing captures my heart like brief adventurous trips to the mountains in fall. I have to thank my dear Aunt Peggy for taking my family to Mammoth Mountain during the fall season as a kid, and for my parents for helping me enjoy fall walks in Wisconsin like a real country kid (like they were!), and I have to remember in gratitude the devoted pastors and mentors who arranged fall-retreats in my youth and college groups! It is because of these memories and experiences which make Fall in the mountains so exciting to me!

So you’re looking at the photos below, already, for sure, and wondering why I am talking about my childhood memories… well, perhaps that is because it was all I could think about while I was taking these photos of Marcy & Dustin, and it filled me up with joy.
I can’t think of a better way to spend time… Fall Season in the mountains, with two fun, excited, and loving people, who make love look… well, look like what you see! They TRULY love being together, and needing each other. I got such a good laugh listening to them distressfully question why the other has stuck it out… They marvel at the gift of their relationship, and the marvel is building the beautiful anticipation of their wedding day.

Marcy, Dustin, and I invite you to share in beauty of the Fall:

Tehachapi Mountain, California


I want to add here a small section of a favorite author’s writing which suggests the “use” of nature and light for an artist. It turns out that the beauty of a landscape at the right time puts more into the soul of an artist than that which he can see. Inspired and curious, I believe I will look and see much better the light and loveliness of nature.

(The entire writing is called “White Chauk”, by G.K. Chesterton.
It can be found here:

Here is a piece of the article:
With my stick, my knife, my chalks, and my brown paper, I went out on to the great downs. I crawled across those colossal contours that express the best quality of England, because they are at the same time soft and strong. The smoothness of them has the same meaning as the smoothness of great cart-horses, or the smoothness of the beech-tree; it declares in the teeth of our timid and cruel theories that the mighty are merciful. As my eye swept the landscape, the landscape was as kindly as any of its cottages, but for power it was like an earthquake. The villages in the immense valley were safe, one could see, for centuries: yet the lifting of the whole land was like the lifting of one enormous wave to wash them all away.

I crossed one swell of living turf after another, looking for a place to sit down and draw. Do not, for heaven’s sake, imagine I was going to sketch from Nature. I was going to draw devils and seraphim, and blind old gods that men worshipped before the dawn of right, and saints in robes of angry crimson, and seas of strange green, and all the sacred or monstrous symbols that look so well in bright colors on brown drawing paper. They are much better worth drawing than Nature; also they are much easier to draw. When a cow came slouching by in a field next to me, a mere artist might have drawn it; but I always get wrong in the hind legs of quadrupeds. So I drew the soul of the cow; which I saw there plainly walking before me in the sunlight; and the soul was all purple and silver, and had seven horns and the mystery that belongs to all beasts. But though I could not with a crayon get the best out of the landscape, it does not follow that the landscape was not getting the best out of me. And this, I think, is the mistake that people make about the old poets who lived before Wordsworth, and were supposed not to care very much about Nature because they did not describe it much.

They preferred writing about great men to writing about great hills; but they sat on the great hills to write about it. They gave out much less about Nature, but they drank it in, perhaps, much more. They painted the white robes of their holy virgins with the blinding snow, at which they had stared all day. They blazoned the shields of their paladins with the purple and gold of many heraldic sunsets. The greenness of a thousand green leaves clustered into the live green figure of Robin Hood. The blueness of a score of forgotten skies became the blue robes of the Virgin. The inspiration went in like sunbeams and came out like Apollo.

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