Half Moon

I had been chasing the moon for months now, trying to capture it in all its glory, nestled against the landscape like a jewel in the sky. Each attempt had left me frustrated. Either the moon was too bright, a glowing white blur, or the landscape was swallowed by shadows, black and featureless. No amount of editing could save those shots. 

So, I dove into research—reading articles, watching tutorials, practicing. But even then, I still hadn’t nailed the shot. As much as I loved my art, I wondered if the perfect moon photo was a goal I’d ever reach. 

That’s when I decided to head out solo into the Tahoe forest, the trip that would change everything. It was my first time backpacking in this area, and I picked a spot on the edge of a lake. There was something about the remoteness of it that called to me, as if the moon itself whispered through the pines, promising this time would be different.

The forest greeted me with that comforting smell of pine needles and fresh earth. My boots crunched against the trail, a steady rhythm that drowned out the faint whisper of wind through the trees. Every so often, I’d stop to listen—really listen—and all I could hear was the silence of nature. No cars, no distant hum of civilization, just the wild world breathing. 

The sun was already beginning to set when I reached the lake. The sky had begun its shift into warm hues, casting a golden glow on the water. I set up my camera by the shore. There was no rush. I knew what I was here for—the moon—and it wouldn’t rise for a bit yet.

I watched the sky. I felt the temperature drop, the cool air against my skin. As the colors darkened, I knew it was close. My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned the sky, feeling like I was on the edge of something monumental. 

Then I saw it. Rising over the distant treeline, the moon appeared. A pale ghost in the early twilight. My excitement surged. This was it. I could feel it in my bones. 

The moon continued its climb, but it wasn’t alone this time. The last remnants of the sunset still lingered in the sky, painting the horizon with just enough light to illuminate the landscape without washing out the moon. It was perfect. The water mirrored the frame, a glowing ribbon of moonlight reflecting on its surface. 

I could hardly breathe as I adjusted my camera settings. Aperture, ISO, shutter speed. I’d learned so much since my last failed attempts, and everything I’d read echoed in my mind. Don’t let the moon overexpose. Balance the light. Capture the moment where the sky, the moon, and the landscape all work together.

The camera clicked, the sound so familiar yet so loaded with possibility. I took a few more shots, adjusting for different compositions, but I already knew—I had it. 

When I stepped back from the camera, I let the forest envelop me once more. The sounds of night had crept in while I was focused on the shot: the soft rustle of nocturnal creatures, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. The moon was now fully in the sky, casting a silver glow over the entire scene, turning the lake into a shimmering mirror.

I sat down by the water's edge, breathing in the cool, pine-scented air. My fingers were cold, my back sore from lugging my gear up here, but none of it mattered. I had the shot I had dreamed of. 

For the first time in months, I felt like I had conquered the moon. It was no longer this elusive, unreachable subject. It was right there, framed perfectly against the landscape I loved. This moment was mine, captured forever. 

And as I sat there, alone in the wild, I realized this journey wasn’t just about photographing the moon. It was about persistence, about finding the right moment and being ready to seize it. Every step in the darkness had brought me here—to this quiet, moonlit lake, where everything came together.