Through the Leaves: Capturing Autumn in the Adirondacks

I’ll admit, I was skeptical about upstate New York. I’d seen the photos, fiery maples, glassy lakes, postcard-perfect scenes. I expected crowds, not quiet. But the Adirondacks surprised me. The stillness there felt deliberate, like the landscape had already learned to wait.

This trip became less about chasing peak color and more about learning to see it, slowly, patiently, without urgency. Somewhere between the hum of travel and the hush of falling leaves, I rediscovered why I pick up a camera at all.

The Journey North

We spent the entire day driving north, easing out of New York City traffic before the road opened into the calm expanse of upstate countryside. Along the way, the names on the signs carried the weight of history. Names like Ticonderoga, Fort William Henry, Lake George…each one a quiet reminder of another time, when this same journey might have taken days or even weeks instead of hours.

By the time we reached the campground, the light had begun to fade. The air was rich with pine and the faint trace of campfire smoke, a scent that felt both grounding and familiar. I wanted to photograph everything, to capture every shape and color before it disappeared into dusk, but a quick snapshot couldn’t hold what it felt like to arrive.

So I let the camera rest. It seemed better to be present, to take in the texture of the moment rather than chase its image, and to trust that memory, not exposure, might serve it best.

Waterfalls and Motion

We visited numerous waterfalls, all steady, rhythmic, and ancient. I set up the Canon R6 and watched as each long exposure turned water into silk. It was technical, but meditative — one second stretched into another until time itself felt slower.

Then I reached for the Hasselblad 503CW. Film shifts my rhythm in a way digital never can. Each frame requires intention: load the roll, meter the light, compose, breathe. There’s no urgency to check what you’ve made — only trust. Every frame becomes a quiet act of faith in both timing and imperfection.

ISO 100 — 0.6 sec — ƒ/11

ISO 100 — 0.5 sec — ƒ/9.0

ISO 100 — 1/80 — ƒ/11

Light, Shape, and Balance

From the overlooks, morning and evening light unfolded slowly across the mountains — soft gradients washing over ridge lines and valleys. The symmetry of reflections began to appear everywhere: the geometry of branches leaning over still water, circles of ripples meeting sharp lines of shadow, triangles of ridges descending toward the horizon and catching the day’s first warmth. The lake below mirrored it all, a quiet echo of form and light.

And yet, the moments that stayed with me weren’t the perfect ones. A scatter of leaves floating unevenly in a shallow pool held me longer than any mountain view. They drifted and rested, suspended just below the surface — still, but not lifeless. Their imbalance made the scene feel more human, more true.

Nature, I realized, finds harmony not in symmetry, but in motion — in the way light shifts, water stirs, and time refuses to stand still.

Patience in Practice

Switching between digital and film became a rhythm of instinct and restraint. The R6 responded to immediacy, quick and forgiving. The Hasselblad demanded patience, slow and intentional. Somewhere between the two, I began to understand what Film & Time means to me: to see without rushing, to trust without knowing, to let each frame become a moment of awareness rather than an image of control.

The Takeaway

Standing at an overlook as the the sun set, I realized photography isn’t about freezing time — it’s about moving with it. The Adirondacks taught me that stillness isn’t the absence of motion, but the presence of attention.

Back home, the digital images are already edited — crisp, certain. The film remains undeveloped, unseen, suspended in quiet uncertainty. And maybe that’s the truest reflection of autumn itself: fleeting, imperfect, and perfectly enough.

ISO 125 — 1/40 — ƒ/13

In the end, it wasn’t the photographs that stayed with me, but the patience it took to make them — the rhythm of slowing down, the balance of film and time.