This photo of an orca’s eye has become one of my favorite images I’ve ever taken, mostly because of everything that had to go wrong for it to exist. Growing up, whenever things felt like they were falling apart, my dad always had the same response: ”The end of the story tells the story.” Looking back, I don’t think there’s a better personal example of what he meant than the day this photo was taken. Aside from all the technical failures I outline in this post, there was a deeper emotional dilemma I was faced with. One that I think anyone who’s built a career around something they’re passionate about has probably felt. When I climbed back onto the boat after flooding the camera, everyone was ecstatic about the orcas we’d just experienced. Half of me could relate to them, but the other half was tearing myself apart over everything that had gone wrong and wondering if I’d failed at the very job that brought me there. Those two feelings existed at the same time. It was one of the strangest emotional battles I’ve ever had, and it made me realize that the same career that gives me access to moments like this also changes the way I experience them. Even on the best days, part of my attention is on focus, composition, exposure, and making sure I tell the story well enough to do the moment justice. Those things are part of the job, and I genuinely love that challenge. But they also mean I’m no longer just experiencing the moment, I’m responsible for preserving it. I don’t think it’s unique to filmmaking either. Whether you’re a guide trying to put clients on fish, a pro athlete, a photographer, or someone on the corporate side, I think anyone who’s built a career around the outdoors has probably wrestled with that same balance of expectation. I’m still trying to figure out where that balance is. But, you know... The end of the story tells the story.