Confessions of a Tourism Photographer: Tales from the Other Side of the Lens

Recently, a very sweet man asked me what my most memorable photo shoot moment was. I was at a loss for words. Because how exactly do you rank “that time I nearly froze to death” against “that time I drove a rental car where only a mountain goat should go” (okay, it was a horse trail, but not sure how we ever got to return that rental without damage charges)?

People always assume my job is glamorous. “You get paid to photograph waterfalls and sunsets? That’s amazing!” And yes, it is. For the past eight years, I’ve been chasing sunrises, fresh snow, fiery leaves and sparkling rivers across the East Coast (and beyond). It’s dreamy. It is literally my job to capture some of the most beautiful moments.

But don’t let the Instagram-worthy sunsets fool you. Behind every breathtaking photo is a story of near-disaster, questionable life choices and me silently asking myself: Why did I think this was a good idea? So, in the spirit of honesty (and therapy), here are a few stories I have gathered over the years from the “glamorous” world of tourism photography.

Chasing Sunrises, Catching Storm Systems

When it comes to tourism photography, the weather isn’t just a factor; it’s the boss. I’m constantly on the lookout for those perfect conditions for the perfect shot. Normal people glance at the forecast once a day. I check it like it’s breaking news, three different apps, three times a day, and of course, they never agree. Between cloud cover, moon phases and storm systems, I’ve basically earned a side hustle as a part-time meteorologist.

And yet, no matter how many apps I check, nature always has its own plans. I’ve trekked to sunrise locations only to find them completely smothered in dense fog. I’ve prepped talent in full snow gear only to have flakes falling so hard we couldn’t see them standing two feet in front of us. And don’t even get me started on chasing “peak fall color.” I’ve chased it harder than a Bigfoot hunter for years (ironically, I shot a Bigfoot statue on a trail in Clay County this year).

Hazard Pay Not Included

Tourism photography has a way of keeping you humble, just when you think you’ve nailed the perfect shot, life (and usually the weather, wildlife or some random human) steps in to remind you that you are not in control. Like the time an ATV driver thought it would be hilarious to douse me head-to-toe in mud. Spoiler: it wasn’t. There I stood, dripping in brown sludge, forcing out my cheeriest “we are going to need another take after I clean off my lens…”

Or the time my fellow photographer got hit in the head by a golf ball during a break at a location. We weren’t even on the course. That shoot ended immediately.

Ah, and the sled crash. Imagine me steering with the confidence of a Winter Olympian with our video guy on the back shooting back up the hill, then flipping the sled so hard it looked like we were auditioning for a blooper reel. Needless to say, I am no longer the dedicated sled driver. But we got the shot.

Lost Without a Signal

Appalachia’s beauty is unmatched. Towering mountains, endless forests, rivers that shine like glass, it’s a photographer’s dream. Its cell service, however? Legendary in other ways. The second you leave the interstate and head toward the prettiest spots, your phone basically turns into an expensive paperweight. Directions? Gone. It’s equal parts magical and terrifying.

At Mower Basin in Pocahontas County, there is zero service — a rookie mistake: I didn’t download offline maps. Just me, panic rising, convinced I was about to become a Dateline episode as I tried to follow the path I “thought” we came in on. Thankfully, a sweet family took pity on me and let me follow their car out until we finally reached a main road where Google Maps guided me back to civilization.

And then there was Watoga State Park. Our rental car broke down as we were trying to head out to our next location. And of course, Watoga is one of the state parks with zero cell service. Just one lonely payphone in the entire park. So yes, my crew and I gathered up our loose change and parked ourselves beside it for hours, waiting for calls like it was 1997. Eventually, we got a replacement car, but the whole day was lost to babysitting that payphone.

Casting Call for Chaos

In the tourism biz, “talent” doesn’t mean Hollywood stars. It means regular people who volunteer to be photographed. Sometimes they’re amazing, smiling through frostbite like seasoned pros. Other times… not so much.

Take the time our “hippy talent” arrived after clearly enjoying some extracurricular substances. Their smiles were way too big… and the photos had a very unique energy.

And kids? One once kicked me in the shin when I leaned down for what I thought was going to be a hug. The hug never came, but the bruise sure did.

But then there are the gems, the moments that make the chaos worth it. Like in Thomas, when we stumbled across a piano between setups. Within minutes, the whole crew was in a full-blown jam session, led by our “talent” for the day — a true musician. It ended with a “Wagon Wheel” and “Country Roads” crew sing-along. Was it a tourism shoot or an impromptu concert? Honestly, both. And it was pure magic.

The Curse of the Camera Bag

Photography gear is heavy, expensive and cursed. Once, at 5 a.m., the tailgate of our rental SUV flung open as we drove away from the hotel and launched thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment into the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue in D.C. Miraculously, nothing broke, which is ironic, because literally everything always breaks and always at the worst time.

Cameras overheat in the sun, drones decide to lose signal right as they’re hovering over a cliff, memory cards corrupt, and the cold? The cold makes the cameras as frozen as my fingers trying to press the shutter.

I’ve never been great with technology (that’s a story for another day), but cameras are definitely my kryptonite. Honestly, I’m convinced the gear has it out for me almost as much as the weather does.

Cabins, Critters & the Comfort Lottery

With shoots, there’s almost always an overnight. Getting to the prettiest corners of Appalachia means you’re seldom near a metropolitan area; in fact, you’re almost always far from one. Which means lodging is always a gamble. One week, I’m sipping coffee in a luxury cabin with Annie Leibovitz-signed photos on the wall, feeling like part of the artsy elite. The next, I’m in a not-so-glamorous spot where I wake up to discover some insect has hatched overnight beside my bed. And yes, it’s happened more than once. I wish I were joking.

As for state parks? If it has a bed, chances are I’ve slept in it. But no complaints there. Their upgrades over the past few years have been genuinely impressive. At this point, I could practically moonlight as a state park lodging critic.

The Part Where I Remember Why I Love This

Here’s the truth: this job is messy, unpredictable and sometimes absurd. I’ve hiked through briar patches, trudged through waist-deep snow, fallen into creeks, eaten gas station dinners and started my day before some people go to bed.

And yet, every single time, it’s worth it. Because when the light breaks over a ridge, the leaves set the hills ablaze or the snow sparkles across the mountains, I remember exactly why I signed up for this madness.

It’s chaos. It’s exhausting. It’s unpredictable. And it’s still the best job in the world.