Stay Wild in Big Bend National Park
It started like any other midday doom scroll, eyes glazed, thumb on autopilot, searching for something I couldn't name. I was restless, craving a real adventure, knowing I wouldn’t find it staring at a screen. But then, a flicker of curiosity: a simple Instagram story ad from a group I’d never heard of, Wild Creative, offering a free artist retreat in Big Bend National Park. Hiking, camping, creating, all with a group of strangers? Too good to be true. And yet… something about it felt right.
I’ve seen my share of curated retreats with price tags as lofty as their promises, but this one was different. It asked for nothing but a willingness to show up. Gear in hand, heart open. So I did. I submitted my bio, uploaded a photo, and crossed my fingers. Over the next month, more creatives signed up. Each passing day, we were introduced individually in a private group chat—twenty strangers, all eager to step out of our urban worlds and into something wild. The anticipation was electric. We couldn’t wait to embark on this unusual adventure.
The drive to West Texas has always stirred something in me, an awakening. With my camera gear packed, meals prepped, and tent rolled tight, I set out under the heavy pull of excitement. Our first night in Terlingua was warm and welcoming. We exchanged names and stories over dinner, and our hosts, Jay Kazen and Alan Tomassetti, offered a brief preview of what the next few days would hold, partnered with expectations of the group. Before bed, we climbed a rocky road to our first campsite and dove straight into the cosmos for a night of astrophotography.
Photograph by Jay Kazen. Terlingua, March 2025.
I’d rented a Sigma 20mm f/1.8 from my favorite camera shop in Austin, Precision Camera & Video, determined to capture the Milky Way with my Canon 90D finally. But that night, the stars were just out of reach. Something misaligned. Settings, sensor, spirit? I wasn’t sure. So I tucked the camera away and wandered over to another creative’s camp, content to share warmth and conversation under the stars. Just before we all settled in our tents and cars beneath the blanket of stars, Jay had a beautiful idea to do some light painting in the darkness. It easily became a favorite among the group.
Photography by Jay Kazen. Terlingua, March 2025.
We had a full day ahead, and sunrise at Santa Elena Canyon was calling. It was nearly impossible to get comfortable; we were all drawn to what was coming our way.
There’s a stillness to Santa Elena that speaks in whispers. I pulled out my sketchbook, hoping to dive deeper into a medium I had only experimented with a few times in my life. I wanted to creatively express myself differently, and this was the perfect place to explore that place within myself. I tried to translate the hush within the Rio Grande River, sketching until the canyon walls felt like old friends.
That afternoon, we hiked toward Mule Ears in the heat of the Chihuahua Desert, every footstep building more than just sweat and blisters. I’ve experienced much of the park in the past, but Mule Ears was distinct from the rest of the park. Its peaks are sharp and drastic, comparable to those of the Chisos Mountains and canyons of Santa Elena and Boquillas. As we made our way to the dried-up oasis, we were all made aware of each other’s abilities—physically and creatively. We shared stories. We connected.
Photography by Jay Kazen. Mule Ears, March 2025.
Back at our group campsite in the Chisos Basin, the bonding felt effortless. Some cooked, some laughed, others sat in silence, while others played games or created between the peaks. There was a kind of magic in the stillness—an invitation to rest, to breathe, to finally set down the weight we didn’t realize we were carrying. In that quiet pause, we weren’t chasing summits or trails. Instead, we discovered a different kind of adventure, the kind found in shared presence. As the clouds shifted above us, so did our stories. With no need to perform or impress, we let our walls down. Vulnerability came naturally, not forced, as we passed around plates and conversations. In the rhythm of resting together, we became more than just a group; we became a small, chosen community suspended in the soft wilderness of trust.
For golden hour, we packed into fewer cars than before and headed outside the Chisos walls for one final creative session. This moment was special for me as it gave me one of the most impactful images I’ve taken. A silhouette of the Chisos glowing in the desert’s final light. It was so stirring, I scribbled a poem about chasing light right there in my journal. Just a few days after returning home, I curated one of my favorite entries about being Born to Chase the Light.
Born to Chase the Light. Big Bend National Park, March 2025.
The rest of the trip followed the same rhythm: sunrise to sunset, moving through wild places and shared spaces. We listened. We wrote. We created. We howled with laughter. We opened up about grief and joy and the strange journey that brought each of us here. Our stories braided together into something new, something whole.
For over a year, I’d been yearning for a community like this. Not just artists, but artists who get it, who carry both boots and notebooks, who trade in wonder and seek out wilderness as part of their process. Turns out, many of us live within reach of each other. But others came from afar—Florida, Colorado, Michigan—all drawn here by the same whisper: this is where you belong.
It was my third visit to Big Bend, but each time, the park gives me something entirely new. Saying goodbye was tough, but we left with plans to stay connected, whether on trails or through texts, until we meet again beneath desert skies.
Before I left, I made one last attempt to communicate with the cosmos. Just outside our campsite, one of the creatives had her tent light still glowing, its warmth a perfect anchor beneath the Milky Way. With Casa Grande’s silhouette rising in the distance, I adjusted my settings and let instinct take the lead. This time, it worked. I captured my first real astrophotography image. One that felt alive with the energy of that ancient landscape.
Under the Milky Way. March 2025.
Standing there, and thoughout each passing of Casa Grande, I thought about the landmark’s significant history, its strength, and its resilience. I thought of the people who once called this land home, how they must have looked to those same stars for direction, for comfort, for belonging. I wrote about it once, after my first visit to the Chisos. The howling winds in the basin carry stories if you’re still enough to listen. (Read here.)
To our hosts, to this wild creative family, and to the force that keeps leading me exactly where I need to be—thank you. This retreat was more than just a weekend. It was a reminder that adventure doesn’t just call from mountaintops; sometimes, it whispers through strangers who quickly become kin.
Photograph by Jay Kazen. Big Bend National Park, March 2025.
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