Mud and Tides and Bears, Oh My!

One photographer completely stuck in the mud. Then another. And another…Here we were, providing the morning's entertainment while the tide kept rising and we kept sinking.

And our audience? A bear sitting on the beach, scratching behind his ear with what I can only describe as amused interest, watching our predicament unfold like he had bought front-row tickets to the best comedy show in Alaska.

Some days, God decides to use His creation as comedy writers. And sometimes, if you're really blessed, you get to be the punchline.

“He[God] sits in the heavens and laughs..." (Psalm 2:4)

Let me explain how I ended up providing this particular muddy lesson in humility.

We had already spent a couple of successful hours on a different part of the mudflats, photographing bears happily clamming in the shallows. But as we traveled down the beach looking for new opportunities, the tide had shifted and was rushing back in. Time was running out for mudflat photography when we spotted something puzzling in the distance—a bear standing in water that looked far too deep for clamming.

Was he stuck? What was he doing out there in water that deep? Curiosity got the better of us, and with time quickly running out as the tide rushed in, we made a fateful decision: we would rush out to investigate. Apparently, God has a sense of humor about people who think they can rush through His creation.

"Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall." (Proverbs 16:18) - and boy, was I about to get a muddy lesson in that truth.

That's when I noticed something that should have been my first clue about the wisdom of rushing: the bear we'd been watching, the one I thought might need help, was now making his way toward shore with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. If I had been paying attention to his unhurried, deliberate movements instead of calculating camera angles, I might have learned something about mudflat navigation. But have you ever experienced that tunnel vision that comes with chasing the perfect shot?

That's exactly what the mudflats had been waiting for.

It happened so fast I barely processed it. One second I was walking confidently toward my dream photograph, [with not one, but two cameras in hand] and the next—

Wait. What's happening to my feet?

My knees slammed into what looked like solid ground, then kept going. And going. Both legs disappeared into mud that gripped like wet concrete, my body twisted at an impossible angle.

For a split second, my brain couldn't compute what was happening. This is fine. I can just... push up. Right?

I tried to push myself up. Nothing. The mud held me in an iron grip that tightened with every movement.

Oh. OH. This is not fine.

Around me, I could hear the sounds of other photographers meeting the same fate—expensive cameras held high like sacred offerings, voices calling out in alarm and embarrassment.

"I'm stuck!"

"Me too!"

"This isn't good!”

One photographer completely stuck in the mud. Then another. And another. And the bear I thought might be stuck? He was now making his way in, headed straight for us. I mean STRAIGHT for us—his captive audience trapped in the mud like sitting ducks.

Did he think we were fish flapping in the mud, making us an easy catch? Or was he now the curious one, wondering what in the world we were doing playing in the mud like that? He came surprisingly close to check us out, studying our predicament with what seemed like genuine interest.

I swear I could see him thinking something like: "Oh, they're going for clams too. Huh. That's... not how I do it. Are they all stuck? I've never had that problem."

Then, as he walked away from our foolish dilemma, I swear I heard him chuff - that distinctive bear laugh. He settled onto the beach with what could only be described as satisfaction, positioning himself for the continuing entertainment at our pride's expense.

He had that look of someone who had just discovered the most amusing thing he had seen all day and wasn't about to miss what happened next.

And here's the thing—we photographers weren't panicked. Well, maybe a little when that bear was approaching so close, but mostly we were all laughing at the absurdity of our individual but common circumstances. Here we were, supposedly professional wildlife photographers, trapped like children who had wandered into quicksand while chasing a butterfly.

That's when Adam transformed from photographer guide to professional human-extractor—apparently a skill they don't teach in any workshop I have ever attended. How he managed to navigate the same treacherous mudflats without getting stuck himself remains a complete mystery to me. One by one, he began the delicate work of freeing us from our muddy prison, and I watched him approach each trapped photographer with the methodical precision of someone who had clearly done this before.

When my turn came, I had complete trust in Adam, but I wasn't prepared for what rescue would actually feel like. He positioned himself carefully, gripped my arms, and began to pull. What started as mild discomfort quickly became something much more surprising—with my feet locked deep in the mud at an unnatural angle, my knees and hips were forced to twist in ways they definitely weren't designed for. It wasn't intense pain exactly, but the strange, necessary contortion required to break free from the mud's grip was far more uncomfortable than I had expected.

"I need to pull you higher," Adam said, and I could hear the concern in his voice.

Higher meant more pain. Higher meant being stretched beyond what felt natural. Higher meant trusting someone else's judgment about how far I needed to be lifted to break free. But even through the discomfort, I understood something profound was happening. This wasn't punishment—this was the inevitable cost of being pulled out of a place where I was never meant to stay. It reminded me of David's words:

“He [God] lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand." (Psalm 40:2)

With one final, determined pull, Adam lifted me completely free of the mud's grip. Rescued, shaking and muddy but I was standing on solid ground again. And through it all, our bear observer maintained his position as the world's most entertained audience member.

As we gathered ourselves together—equipment checked, dignity somewhat restored—our friendly bear made his final commentary on our adventure. He stood, shook himself off with regal composure, and ambled away down the beach, but not before casting one last glance in our direction that seemed to say, "Same time tomorrow?"

Standing there in my muddy waders, cameras miraculously unharmed, I started laughing. Not at the ridiculousness of our situation—though it was pretty ridiculous—but at the profound lesson hidden in this comedy of errors. I had come to Alaska to capture stories of God's wild creation, and instead I had become the story, with one very patient bear serving as God’s comedic assistant and commentary provider.

Here is what our audience member taught me about God's sense of humor: He [God] doesn't laugh AT us in our mudflat moments. He laughs WITH us, through the gentle eyes of His creation that knows exactly where the solid ground is and watches with patient amusement as we learn the hard way. It brought to mind Solomon's wisdom:

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength. Proverbs 17:22

The bear understood something I as a photographer had temporarily forgotten: wisdom recognizes dangerous ground before stepping on it. But grace provides rescue even for those of us foolish enough to get stuck chasing the perfect shot. Our patient bear knew something I am still learning—that sometimes God uses the most unexpected teachers to deliver His most important lessons.

What strikes me now is how perfectly this captures our relationship with God. We march confidently across what we think is solid ground, focused on our own goals, missing all the signs that those who actually know the territory could teach us. We get stuck in places we never saw coming, trapped by our own overconfidence, sinking slowly while the tide of consequence rises around us.

And God? He has got the patience of a bear on a beach, watching our predicament with gentle amusement, already knowing exactly how to pull us free—even when the rescue hurts more than staying stuck, even when we need to be lifted higher than we think we can bear.

The real comedy isn't that I got stuck—it's that I thought I wouldn't. The profound truth isn't that I needed rescue—it's that rescue was already on the way, in the form of a patient guide who knew exactly how to pull me free.

Somewhere out there, our wise bear is probably still taking his morning spot on the shore, waiting for the next group of overconfident humans to provide his entertainment. He's got front-row seats to God's ongoing comedy show, where the punchlines always come with profound truth attached.

What about you? Where are your mudflats—those places where your confidence exceeds your actual knowledge? What would that bear see if he were watching your approach to the tricky ground in your life? Maybe it's time to ask the real Alaskans—God's creation—where the solid ground actually is. They've been watching this show a lot longer than we have. As Job learned:

"Ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you." (Job 12:7)

Just be prepared for the possibility that their lessons might come with mud on your boots and a story that gets funnier every time you tell it. Our bear critic wouldn't have it any other way.