One hundred yards behind my home is an old wood lot (forest is too formal a name). Every few weeks I put on my boots, hose myself down with tick repellant, put the camera on a tripod and march into the dead falls, decay and general dishevelment that happens without the hand of man interfering. I had thought that the area was long undisturbed but after a few years it is apparent how quickly life returns to the soil. Time waits for no tree. This is not “the forest as nature’s cathedral” (with majestic arbors rendered in lush platinum prints). It is a mess and I like it that way.