These words were taken from an interview with Krystle
Wright.

The

The
first camera I fell in love with was a Kodak disposable. I
grew up on the Sunshine Coast in Australia, where most of my
childhood summers were spent on family camping trips. Every time we
went away, my siblings and I would each be given a disposable
camera to take with us for the holiday.

One summer I was given a Kodak Stretch 35 – a panoramic
disposable that only had 12 exposures. I remember wanting the
camera to last the whole trip, so I rationed myself to four
precious photos a day, each picture more carefully curated than the
last. I found such joy in the simplicity of that camera, from the
thrilling click of its shutter to the satisfying scroll of its
little plastic winder. I’ve been hooked on the art of photography
ever since.

My first assignment as a professional adventure photographer was
on Baffin Island in the Arctic Circle, where I spent a month
camping on a frozen fjord with a small crew. We were completely
disconnected from the outside world, which forced us to be present
in each and every moment. Needless to say, we all got to know each
other very well.

The experience was a world away from anything I’d known in
Australia. There was something so meditative about the vast, stark
white landscape. I found myself drawn to its stillness. I slept
with my camera next to my sleeping bag, keeping a watchful eye out
for polar bears at night before zipping up my tent. That was the
moment I fell for the romanticism of expedition-style travel.

I’m driven by curiosity, so I love never knowing what’s going to
happen next when I’m on the road on an assignment. One of the most
beautiful things about being a travel photographer is that each
trip is genuinely unique. Photography has been my ticket to see the
world – I’ve paraglided across the Karakoram mountains in Pakistan,
swum with sperm whales in the Azores and tracked penguins in
Antarctica, all with a camera in hand.

In 2010 I bought a one-way ticket to the US, where I lived on
the road for 10 years before moving back to Australia for the 2020
lockdown. Just before I returned home, I directed a short film on
storm-chasing in the American midwest with photographer Nick Moir.
On our first day, we got caught in a ferocious dust storm. Sand was
being blasted everywhere, so neither of us could see a thing. Being
in the eye of the storm, we were at the mercy of mother nature at
her most powerful – it was terrifying and mesmerising in equal
measure.

On the same trip, we caught sight of a tornado while in the car.
We drove back and forth, frantically trying to work out where it
would drop, while everything in the sky swirled above us in a dark
haze. It was a hypnotic, otherworldly formation to witness. All I
wanted was for the moment to last that little bit longer. I guess
that’s the addiction with storm chasing – you just want to see more
and more.

I’ve been lucky enough to spend most of my working life
travelling the world. Most of the time I travel on my own, so I’ve
become very good at being by myself. I like to operate at my own
speed, whether that’s getting up at 4am to catch the sunrise or
waking up slowly with a leisurely cup of tea. Travelling alone as a
woman has taught me a huge amount about my own resilience, as well
as my ability to adapt to situations beyond my control. My number
one piece of advice to solo female travellers? Trust your gut in
every situation.

In the past I’d assumed that I’d be bored if I wasn’t always on
the move, but now that I’m back in Australia I’ve found beauty in a
slower pace of life. I don’t take my camera everywhere because I
value switching off, although I can’t help but keep an eye on the
light wherever I am. It’s something I’m constantly enamoured
with.

When I’m at home in the evening, I like to sit on my balcony and
watch the light resonate. My favourite time of day is when the
horizon begins to fade, just as the sun casts its final light into
the sky before nightfall. I find there’s too much pressure to
capture every moment in our modern world, so I like to stay present
and take in the memory for myself instead.