Everyday—almost without fail—I throw a leg over my bike and begin a 90-minute loop around what might be one of the most beloved urban trails in America: the Ann and Roy Butler Hike-and-Bike Trail. It’s a ten-mile ribbon of gravel and pavement that hugs the edge of Lady Bird Lake, right through the heart of Austin, Texas. Though, calling it a lake is a bit of a misnomer. It’s technically a man-made reservoir—a slow, wide stretch of the Colorado River dammed and repurposed. But honestly, that’s not the story I’m here to tell.
Because when I ride this trail, I’m not chasing geography. I’m chasing feeling.
Most people, when they talk about photography, talk about what things look like. They obsess over sharpness, dynamic range, megapixels, perfect exposures. But the deeper I go into this craft—and I’ve gone damn deep—the more I realize I’m not interested in what the world looks like. I’m interested in what it feels like.
That’s a big shift. And it changes everything.
There’s something otherworldly about riding that trail latye afternoon. The air is cleaner—almost shy. The dogs are out with their people, the rowers are slicing through the glassy water like shadows. It’s a pocket of time and space that feels suspended from reality. It’s not performance. It’s presence.
And every so often, I bring a camera. More specifically, I bring my iPhone 13 Pro Max. Not always the latest. Not always the best. But it’s light, reliable, and familiar. I tuck it in a small pouch behind my saddle and pull it out when the moment stirs me.
Here’s the funny part: I don’t use the native Camera app. Not on these rides.
Instead, I shoot with an app called Firstlight, developed by the original makers of FiLMiC Pro—that once-legendary video app before it was sold to a European company whose name I never remember. But what I remember are the filters. Especially one drawer tucked inside Firstlight called Infrared.
Now, let me be clear. These aren’t true infrared filters. This isn’t IR film or converted sensors. This is faux infrared—digital simulations meant to mimic the strange, surreal palette of color infrared film from back in the day. But even knowing that, even knowing it’s fake… it works for me.
Inside that tab are four distinct infrared presets:
Roxa: A dreamy wash of lavender and purple. Like you’re riding through a Prince music video from the ‘80s.
Via: A bold, high-contrast black and white. Not documentary. Not moody. More like memories etched in charcoal.
Callais: Teal and brown tones. Cinematic. Deserted. Slightly post-apocalyptic in the best kind of way.
Redscale: Deep reds and burned shadows, like the world is warming from the inside out.
I don’t use these filters because they look accurate. I use them because they don’t. They bend reality. They fracture it. They open a door into what it feels like to ride through a city that’s both pulsing and paused.
And that’s the secret, isn’t it?
Photography isn’t just about documenting. It’s about translating experience.
I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: the best photographs aren’t always the sharpest, the most colorful, or even the most technically perfect. They’re the ones that make you feel something. They reach past your eyeballs and pull at your chest.
And sometimes, to create that kind of image, you have to let go of the idea of being a witness and start being a translator. That’s what these infrared filters do for me. They allow me to stop showing the trail as it is and start showing it as it feels.
These are not “look at that tree” photos. These are “feel that freedom” photos.
These are not “that’s what the skyline looks like.” These are “this is what solitude tastes like.”
These are not “that’s where I went.” These are “this is where I went.”
What I find especially interesting is how few people ever ask why I shoot this way. When I post these images, I often get comments like, “What app is that?” or “How do I get that look?” or “What filter is that?”
But almost no one ever asks, “What were you feeling when you shot this?”
That’s the question that matters.
That’s the question I wish we asked more.
There’s a temptation in photography—and maybe in life too—to explain everything. To tidy it up. To point and label and measure. But sometimes, the best thing you can do as a photographer is to suggest rather than show. To imply rather than spell out. To hint at a feeling instead of hammering it home.
Infrared imagery helps me do that.
It removes me, just enough, from the literal world.
It shifts the spectrum just enough to let wonder in.
It suspends disbelief.
It whispers instead of shouting.
And maybe most of all, it gives me permission to be a little lost, a little dreamy, a little ungrounded.
Because I don’t always want to document the real world. Some days, I want to float above it.
Here’s the thing: you don’t need to use faux-infrared filters. That’s just my jam. But I do challenge you—whoever you are, however long you’ve been photographing—to think less about what things look like and more about what they feel like.
Ask yourself:
What emotion does this scene stir in me?
How can I enhance that feeling, not just record the facts?
What tools—filters, apps, angles, edits—help me move from description to expression?
Because if we’re not trying to express something, what the hell are we doing?
I’ll leave you with this:
The trail isn’t just a trail. The ride isn’t just a ride. The photo isn’t just a photo.
It’s a portal.
And when I shoot this world in faux-infrared, I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing permission. Permission to feel something. To bend the rules. To tell a more poetic truth.
So when I say, show me what it feels like—I’m not just asking you to show me a photo.
I’m asking you to show me you.
Dream on, baby. Dream on.
Click.
Jack.
