Photo of Carolina mantid by Pat Folley

When the weather is just perfect, it is almost impossible to stay inside. So it is perfect for taking your camera for a hike. If you know a grade-school age kid or two, take them along. Then it is only necessary to find a neglected garden, a vacant lot, or a trail in one of the parks. My preference is Lake Thunderbird State Park or the woods around the pond here at home.

The reasons for taking a child are two: first, they are delightful company; second, they see much better than we do, and see it sooner. For most children, there is another reason: they are not allowed to do this alone. I understand the reason for that, and deplore it. My childhood was spent in the creek bottoms within a mile or two of my home in Oklahoma City. The house I lived in was for sleeping and eating and doing homework. I was never threatened, never frightened, never lost, always enchanted.

The reason for taking a camera is just one: you will want to bring home "trophies" of your discoveries. Some of them will be found alive, like the Carolina mantid in the picture. (If it is printed in black and white, no matter: it is naturally in shades of gray instead of the greens worn by the praying mantis). Some of your trophies will be trees or ponds or tiny foot-high waterfalls banked with moss and lichens. A photo, even one taken with your cel-phone, will help bring back those discoveries when the weather prevents your returning to them.

For a long time, I didn't take pictures: prints were never satisfactory, and they were never printed to display what I was seeing. Then, about 30 years ago, I discovered color slides. Popped into a projector, they became larger-than-life, vibrant with color, and evocative of the scents and sounds that accompanied them in life. Mostly I took pictures of flowers, because that is my passion. Sometimes when the slides came back from the processor, they contained surprises: a snake's nose and eyes emerging from the dark shadows around the lovely plant, or a jewel-colored bee gathering honey while I admired the flowers.

Years later, I find the accidental lichens, rock formations, cloud formations and tree-trunks are as interesting as the presumed subject. That is always in the center of my pictures, because I take them for records instead of artistic composition. Once in a while, art happens while the subject poses. The mantid was eating a small bug from the head down, like an ice-cream cone.

Now, of course, the expensive and time-wasting process of sending film off for someone else to develop has almost entirely disappeared. The miniature Nikon I carry in a coat pocket plugs into the computer when we get home, and Photoshop makes it easy to bring up on the screen the exact shade of green, the degree of sunlight, and the orientation of the picture.

Almost as wonderful as doing your own "developing" is getting a file clerk with it. While my study has boxes of slides carefully stacked in every corner and on shelves, a computer tower the size of one file box holds all the digital photos, and praise be, remembers where it put them. When I have to take a break, an automatic program brings up a slide show that randomly shows off my treasures.

That's just the support system, of course. The real object of keeping photographs of your adventures is that you get to relive them, when and as you wish. And don't forget those children: put your file on a CD for them to enjoy as well. Even if they don't appreciate them now, they will treasure them in years to come. And, of course, treasure as well the companionship you shared while you walked in the natural world in a time well-remembered.