Earlier this month, I spent a couple of nights tiptoeing through the pitch-black woods of the Smokies, guided by the brilliant Dr. John C. Maerz, during an Amphibians and Reptiles field course. With my headlamp angled low, I tried to photograph a salamander without blinding it or myself.

Amphibians and reptiles are secretive by nature. Seeking them out in complete darkness, without even moonlight filtering through the trees, was an entirely new kind of photographic challenge. Fireflies at least have the decency to glow. Herps? They wait for you to slow down, play hide and seek, and shine the spotlight on them.

The Dark Art of Slowing Down to See

What struck me most wasn’t just how different the lighting had to be, but how different I had to be. Slower. Quieter. More deliberate in how I moved and where I looked. Faster once I found them. That same attentiveness is what helps me most as a photographer: reading a landscape with patience, spotting subtle patterns, and learning how not to disturb what I’m hoping to witness.

The Great Smoky Mountains are home to over 80 species of reptiles and amphibians, including the highest diversity of salamanders in the world. Many of these creatures are nocturnal or burrowing, making them nearly invisible unless you’re looking with the right kind of curiosity. Spotting a camouflaged slimy salamander or gray treefrog trains your eye in a way that directly benefits macro photography and “slow seeing.”

As I learned more about their adaptations, behaviors, and roles in the ecosystem, I found myself wanting to get each image right, not just technically, but respectfully. Amphibians, in particular, are considered bioindicators because their permeable skin and sensitivity to environmental changes offer early warning signs about the health of a habitat. Photographing them with care felt like part of the responsibility of telling their story.

Dr. Maerz was an extraordinary teacher, his passion for herpetology and ability to make complex research feel accessible had me completely absorbed from the start. One moment of unexpected connection came when he shared that he’d helped advocate for turtle crossing signs along the causeway to Jekyll Island, Georgia. I vividly remember seeing those signs when we lived in Georgia and visiting the Sea Turtle Center on the island. It was a full-circle moment I didn’t expect.

I learned that I arrived with a few lingering, culturally-conditioned fears around snakes. The goal is to find snakes at night. We were looking for them. And yet, despite trying to find them, when I finally did see a copperhead calmly staring back at my as I probably blinded it with my head lamp, I still let out an instinctual “quiet” scream and gripped and squeezed my friend’s arm next to me (sorry Jon!).

Shifting from Fear to Respect

However, time with these creatures develops comfort. I left the class with a sense of calm and respect for every copperhead we encountered along the trail. Now, I feel more confident wandering on a trail in complete darkness with my camera and a small beam of light, when the forest feels like its own quiet dimension.

As photographers, it’s common to find ourselves alone in the dark, starting a pre-dawn hike or descending a trail after sunset. The more I understand about the creatures that share those spaces, the more comfortable I am. And the more aware I become of how to move through those environments with care.

If you know any nature-curious teens, Dr. Maerz also helps lead a wonderful program through the Society for the Study of Amphibians and Reptiles. It supports students in herpetology and can even lead to scholarships to attend their annual conference. You can learn more about it here or encourage a young person to apply if they might benefit.