Location: Wildlife Refuge near Albany, Oregon | Captured Spring 2025

Camera: Nikon D7500 | Lens: AF-S DX Nikkor 55-300mm f/4.5-5.6G ED VR

Photo:

A moss-covered path cuts through a forest of bare, tangled trees. The track is faint, almost forgotten two tire lines disappearing into a glow of soft light ahead. A trail not marked, but remembered.

Journal Entry:

I wasn’t looking for this path. It just revealed itself—as some of the best trails do. Faint, quiet, almost swallowed by time. But still there. Still holding its shape.

There’s something sacred about a road like this, one not paved but pressed into the earth by those who came before. You can’t help but wonder who they were. What they carried. Why they chose this way.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the paths we leave behind—not just in nature, but in life. The kind our children might walk without ever knowing our full story. The kind shaped by love, by loss, by showing up even on the days we didn’t feel strong.

This photo made me stop. It made me think about legacy as something subtle. Not carved in stone, but worn into the ground. Not loud, but persistent. Something like this trail, quiet, green with life, moving toward light even through the dark.

Maybe that’s all I can hope to leave behind: a path softened by grace. A direction guided by love. A reminder that even when the world grows over it, something of me will remain.

Because legacy isn’t just what’s built. Sometimes, it’s what simply refuses to fade.