We all have our ways of marking time. As a photographer,my life is measured from one story to the next. My oldest son was born in the middle of a long story about the Endangered Species Act. My daughter came along with a pack of gray wolves. Twenty stories later,though,it's the story in Alaska that I'll remember best. It was the story about the loss of wilderness--and the story during which my wife Kathy got cancer. That's the one that made time stand still. I stopped taking pictures on the day when she found that tumor  .Cruelly,it was Thanksgiving. By Christmas,she had become very weak. Some days she was so sick she couldn't watch TV. Early examination saves time. But ours was not early. By the time you can feel it yourself,it's often bigger than the doctor want it to be. Cancer is a thief. It steals time. Our days are already short with worry. Then comes this terrible disease,unfair as storm at harvest time. But cancer also has the power to change us,for good. We learn to simplify,enjoying what we have instead of feeling sorry for what we don't. Cancer even made me a better father. My work had made me a stranger to my three kids. But now I pay attention to what really matters. This is not a race. This is a new way of life and new way of seeing,all from the cancer. In the end each of us has so little time. We have less of it than we can possibly imagine. And even though it turns out that Kathy's cancer has not spread,and her prognosis   is good,we try to make it all count now,enjoying every part of every day. I've picked up my camera again. I watch the sky,searching for beautiful light. When winter storms come,Kathy and I gather our children and take the time to catch snowflakes   on our tongues. After all,this is good. This is what we're living for. Why did the author decide to stop taking pictures?
To cure his own disease. To spend more time with his wife. To seek a better position. To leave the wilderness alone.