The Photo Everyone Takes (and Why I Took It Anyway)

Fairy Lake, Bonsai trees, Rembrandt, and 🍌 slugs

“It’s here!” I said, feeling a surge of excitement as we rounded the final bend. I had been following Google Maps the whole way, tracking our progress along the winding road, knowing the stop would be on the side of the road, likely with no sign to mark it. Corey had planned my birthday trip to Port Renfrew around a few places he knew I’d love—one, a towering tree named Big Lonely Doug, and the other, a place that seemed straight out of a storybook: Fairy Lake.

Fairy Lake, known for its solitary bonsai tree growing from a submerged stump, standing alone in the water. We arrived as the golden hour began, the sunlight warm and low, casting long, soft shadows. I had hoped for mist, imagining the bonsai standing out against a pale, diffuse light rather than blending into the dense forest behind it.

I made my way down a steep, narrow path off the roadside, quickly becoming grateful for my hiking boots as they unexpectedly sank into ankle-deep mud. After a few wobbly steps and a quick hop over a puddle, the scene unfolded before me: the lake, calm and still, with the bonsai tree emerging like a tiny defiance against the vastness around it.

I paused, taking it all in. It’s hard to believe I’d almost decided to sleep in. What a mistake that would have been.

When I first learned we were heading to Fairy Lake, I did what I always do—I started planning, figuring out the best light and the right angle to approach. But a quick search on Google Maps showed me that countless others had already taken this photo, from every conceivable perspective.

For a moment, the excitement faded. I thought, “Just another photo like all the other tourists.” A sense of arriving late to the party crept over me. Someone else has already done it, perhaps better.

I spend a lot of time in nature, often lugging my camera and gear with me. Photography is a form of meditation for me, a way to stay present, to notice the details, and to linger longer than seems reasonable. So, the thought of feeling inadequate or uninspired unsettled me.

I slammed my laptop shut and shared my frustration with Corey. He understood immediately. “I was worried you’d feel that way,” he admitted. Of course, hundreds of photographers had found this spot before me, and they’d shared their photos, adding to the sense that there was nothing new to capture.

But then I reminded myself: everything has been done before, and that’s perfectly fine. If we all held back, afraid to repeat what someone else had already tried, there would be no innovation, no growth. We would become like stumps in stagnant water.

Who cares if a thousand people have photographed this tree? The feeling of scarcity is dangerous to our ability to put forth art and ideas we are proud of. Of course, someone has already 'done the thing,' but how will you approach it? Perhaps the world doesn’t need yet another photo of this little bonsai tree, eking out its existence on its precarious perch. But I did.

As I stood at the edge of the lake, observing the bonsai perched on its stump, mist swirling around it, water as still as glass, with the first golden rays breaking through, I felt that familiar spark. This is why I love photography. For moments like this. For the awe.

I didn’t rush to take a photo and leave. I stood there, absorbing the scene. I may never return here, and I will never see this exact moment again. I watched the mist drift across the lake, the water’s surface rippling occasionally with the touch of a bird or an insect. The air was cool against my skin, filled with the scent of cedar and damp earth. Each passing minute, the light shifted, the mist adjusted around the bends in the lake. I was here for myself.

Even the Masters Painted the Same Thing

Years ago, on a visit to Amsterdam, I was thrilled to see an exhibit featuring Caravaggio and Rembrandt. What excited me most was how the exhibit displayed each painter’s interpretation of the same scenes, side by side.

Back in their time, having patrons was common, and often, those patrons wanted similar subjects painted. Imagine if these artists had been so preoccupied with what others had already done—we might not have many of Rembrandt's masterpieces today.

Caravaggio (Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio) was born in 1571 and died in 1610, while Rembrandt (Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn) was born in 1606. Granted, they lived in different places, but Rembrandt would have been exposed to Caravaggio’s work through a group of Dutch painters who had studied in Italy and were inspired by Caravaggio's techniques.

So, where am I going with this?

The existence of one does not diminish the impact of the other. Each has its own value and power. I stood in front of their works, side by side. They were equally profound.

Sacrifice of Isaac, 1603 by Caravaggio

The Sacrifice of Isaac , 1635 by Rembrandt

Hey you made it to the end! I have a little secret for you!

I am obsessed with the massive slugs found on Vancouver Island. The most common type we see around here are the Ariolimax, or the banana slug, aptly named for its colouring that often resembles a ripe banana.

During one of our hikes this weekend, we passed a sign mentioning a rare species in the area called the Dromedary Jumping-slug. The sign, weathered and worn, asked visitors to photograph and report any sightings to the parks service. Despite the faded illustration, we kept our eyes peeled.

On our way back, Corey excitedly pointed out a slug. I eagerly bent down to snap photos, thinking we'd found the protected species. We hadn't—but hey, here are some slug photos anyway!

I included some fun facts about them below, as they really are fascinating creatures.

What I thought was a jumping slug… I was wrong.

The classic 🍌 slug

Bright Yellow Colour: Banana slugs are usually bright yellow, resembling a ripe banana, but they can also be green, brown, or spotted based on diet and environment.

Size: Among the largest terrestrial slugs, they can grow up to 10 inches (25 cm) and squeeze through tight spaces.

Slow Movers: They move at about 6.5 inches (16.5 cm) per minute and use their slime trails to navigate and mark territory.

Nature's Decomposers: They recycle nutrients by decomposing plant material, fungi, and animal droppings, playing a vital role in forest ecosystems.

Mucus: Their slime helps them move, prevents dehydration, deters predators, and can numb attackers' mouths due to its anesthetic properties.

Hermaphroditic: As hermaphrodites, they have both male and female organs, allowing them to mate with any other banana slug, increasing reproductive chances.

Lung-less Breathing: They breathe through a small hole called a pneumostome, which regulates gas exchange and moisture.

Colour Change with Age: Younger slugs are brighter, while older or stressed slugs fade to brown or green.

Absorbent Skin: They absorb water and oxygen through their skin, requiring moist environments to avoid dehydration.