As I watched sunrise start to color the sky, I thought about all the times I'd stood on this dock, beginning in 1969. It was our first summer on Isle au Haut, and I remember sitting with my father listening to the Apollo moon landing on the radio. I realized that after living in many different parts of the country over the years there wasn't another place on Earth I had been in almost every phase of life. Interesting and notable, but what does that have to do with photography? Not a lot, other than it underscores a deep familiarity with the place, not just from frequent visits but from a lifetime of perspectives, ranging from the restless curiosity of an eight-year-old boy to the restless curiosity of someone a bit older. I no longer wade, foolishly barefoot, at low tide, dodging sea urchins (twice unsuccessfully) to explore the crannies of a submerged pier. Instead I rise early to watch the light or marvel at the fog-shrouded coastline, plotting a short expedition with my camera before my family wakes. It's an enriching and energizing way to start the day, and it occasionally even produces a decent photograph, although that's far from the point.

The ebb and flow of life seems magnified here, quite literally, as the tidal range can approach fifteen feet. But there's also a soothing rhythm to the day, which can't be attributed entirely to vacation. The seagulls, distant lobster boats, metronomic waves, and ocean breezes provide a soundtrack, while the seascape transforms dramatically twice a day with the tide. Fog gives way to sunshine and vice versa. Family expeditions to the woods or a secluded cove depart with great enthusiasm, rain or shine. Few people are on the island, but each one offers a wave in passing. There's time for reading, games, picnics, and rest, as life is mercifully unplugged from the digital world. For me there's also time to make photographs.

In a recent discussion of photography with a friend, they wondered if I got bored of repeatedly visiting the same locations to take pictures. I had never thought of it that way and responded that my feeling was just the opposite. Familiarity with a place helps me work more deliberately and opens up different ways of seeing the landscape. I don't claim to make better photographs on each successive visit, or even any photographs, as is sometimes the case. But I feel more calm and in tune with the landscape, and it's very satisfying when I'm able to make a new image I enjoy from a place I've photographed countless times before. Returning to a familiar spot brings a sense of optimism and anticipation - optimism that I can do better than the previous visit and anticipation of discovering a new point of view. It doesn't always turn out that way, but as I've noted many times in these pages, it's as much about the experience as the output.

This summer on Isle au Haut saw welcome fog, a couple of jaw-dropping sunsets, and time for slow wanderings in the landscape. Although so much of the island is familiar, there's a fresh palette of photographic material around every corner, either rearranged by the elements, recast by different light, or seen anew in the mind's eye. Just like every summer.

The following photos were all taken in July, 2025, on Isle au Haut, Maine. A couple of notes to consider:

• A few images came from inside the boundaries of Acadia National Park, which takes up about a third of the island
• While I love my tripod, I shot more hand-held photographs than usual this year
• I experimented with a new iPhone camera app from Adobe called Indigo, with some surprisingly decent results. A couple of them are included below. See if you can figure out which ones!