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In the struggle lies beauty

Tuesday, April 30th, 2013

One time I saw a tiny Joshua tree sapling growing not too far from the old tree. I wanted to dig it up and replant it near our house. I told Mom that I would protect it from the wind and water it every day so that it could grow nice and tall and straight. Mom frowned at me. “You’d be destroying what makes it special,” she said. “It’s the Joshua tree’s struggle that gives it its beauty.” – Jeannette Walls

I am about a mile away from my car in the Lost Horse Valley in Joshua Tree National Park. Joshua trees are scattered around me, each one seeming as if it’s pointing in a different direction. Are they trying to confuse me? Perhaps it’s their cruel joke. As the sun gets closer to setting, I hear a group of cactus wrens start to raise a commotion about one hundred yards to my right. What has them riled up? Ah, a coyote is trotting along the base of the hill. I wonder if it sees me? Surely it does–they don’t miss much. I can hear cars driving by at the head of the valley, their passengers unaware of the story unfolding out here in the valley.

Over the last week or so I’ve spent quite a bit of time out in the Mojave Desert. During a spring following a wet winter, the flowers in the Mojave can be quite spectacular, however this year things are depauperate to say the least; in southern California we’ve gotten less than twenty percent of our normal rainfall totals this season.

Despite the bleak wildflower viewing, the Joshua tree bloom this year was reported to be the best in recorded history, with trees blooming across their entire range; whether you were in the Mojave National Preserve, the New York Mountains, the Chocolate Mountains, or Joshua Tree National Park itself, the trees were adorned with beautiful white blooms. Mojave yucca were blooming in profusion in places as well, and of course cacti dotted the hillsides with lovely splashes red, pink, purple, and yellow.

Unless something major like a Joshua tree bloom or the once-in-a-decade wildflower bloom is happening, the desert doesn’t get much press. Still, life here persists. Understanding the beauty implicit in the struggle of not only the Joshua trees but of all the plants and animals who live here gives a greater appreciation for the display they put on for the quiet observer. Is there a metaphor here for our own lives I wonder?

After the sun goes down I shoulder my backpack and start walking back to my car. Despite the hot April day, darkness will quickly drain the heat from the dry air, and before I get back to my car I am ready for a sweatshirt. I don’t see the coyote any longer. If it did see me, it certainly didn’t pay me any mind. Crickets are starting to chirp, bats are flitting over my head, hawk moths are visiting the opening evening primrose, and the calls of the cactus wren have been replaced by a poor will in the distance.

Life here persists.

Posted in california, Introspection, locations | 10 Responses »
Tags: Joshua Tree National Park, national parks, sense of place

Potsherds

Monday, March 11th, 2013

I am writing this sitting at a desk that my dad made for my eleventh birthday. In the second drawer is an old pipe tobacco can–Captain Black–filled with Native American potsherds.

My family moved to the Four Corners region in northwestern New Mexico when I was six years old. Many of my earliest memories of New Mexico involve the typical sight-seeing outings families do; I remember going to Chaco Canyon and Mesa Verde. At that age, the significance of these world-class archaeological sites did not really mean much to me. However, I started to draw connections to the ancient residents of this area one September day while deer hunting with my dad; we walked through an area filled with potsherds. I was probably a little bored after several hours of hiking through the seemingly endless piñon-juniper pygmy forest, and the potsherds made for an exciting treasure hunt. We picked up some of the nicer ones and brought them home. Since then, they’ve largely lived inside of the pipe tobacco can inside my desk drawer.

I am not sure how old they are. Some are really lovely bowl rims, with simple triangular black-on-white patterns painted on them. Others are pieces of corrugated bowls. Many of the archaeological sites in that area of New Mexico are Navajo–about 400-500 years old. However, the areas we used to visit do not lie far from Salmon Ruins and the Great North Road. So, it is entirely possible–probable even–that these pieces are much older Ancestral Puebloan potsherds.

Archaeologists say that we learn best about ancient cultures by leaving artifacts in their place, admired but untouched. After all, they tell the stories of the peoples who came before us. Indeed, much science is lost by looking at these pieces of pottery ex situ. However, when I look at them, I think of the people who made them. What were they thinking when they left them? Did they walk away unflinchingly from their home, or did they take a longing look back, thinking they may someday return?

These fragmented pieces of pottery tell the story of a people who eeked a living off of the land, who knew the landscape and probably felt a deep sense of place here.

“I looked down upon hillside after hillside of slopes clear-cut for their timber. Traversed back and forth by logging roads, the hills were deeply scarred and patterened. All I could think of were pottery designs. Beginning there, the entire flight was an aerial Anasazi visual feast of basket weaves made of farmland plowing, river ways drawn out like rock art, and cloud patterns resembling rock forms.” – Bruce Hucko, Cave to Cave–Canyon to Canyon

Flying from my home in southern California to Colorado at 30,000′, I can relate to Hucko’s evocative impressions of the Western landscape (Bruce Hucko was the photographer for the Wetherill-Grand Gulch Research Project). I see landscapes–monoliths, cliffs, and mesas–that are part of who I am, so much so that I can recognize them without having seen them on a map, or even visiting them, in years. A floodplain in the Mojave desert, the Grand Canyon, the Vermillion Cliffs, Navajo Mountain, Cedar Mesa, Mesa Verde, the San Juans, the Sawatch, and finally we touch down in Denver. Terra firma.

Two hours in the air filled with fragments of landscapes that conjure memories–in the same way those broken pieces of pottery tell the story of a people, these landscapes are my potsherds of the American Southwest. This is where I have spent my life and I’ve had adventures with friends and family; these stories would fill a hundred books.

It has been over 25 years since my first visit to Chaco Canyon, but it feels like many more. It’s a sunny and warm December afternoon, and many of the other tourists have left, leaving the halls of Chetro Ketl and Pueblo Bonito quiet and a little lonely and the moon is rising over Fajada Butte. I sit for a while, watching the reflected winter light bounce through the rooms, which are now open to the sky. For what feels like the hundredth time, I find myself thinking about the journey of the people who lived here, and of their great road north toward my childhood home, near Salmon and Aztec ruins. Potsherds lie across the high desert for nearly 100 miles; the stories of these travelers are being told in fragments.

So it is that we tell our own stories in broken, scattered pieces. Our own beautiful stories are being shared and discovered by the people in our lives, just as we discover our own pieces of others. If we are lucky we find an entire, unbroken, pot now and then.

Posted in california, Colorado, ethics, New Mexico, Personal, southwest, utah | 11 Responses »
Tags: black and white, introspection, sense of place

January Trips

Wednesday, January 30th, 2013

Straight as an arrow, or very nearly so, the road crests the mountain range, beginning its descent into the valley. After what feels like only a few minutes, it will start up the next rise, repeating this pattern again and again.

Basin and range. Ascent and descent. This topography–narrow, steep mountain ranges separated by deep valleys–very nearly defines the West. John Muir’s Sierra Nevada is the westernmost “range;” the province then extends eastward, one towering mountain range after another, and would reach all the way to eastern Colorado if the Colorado Plateau didn’t get in its way.

Four years ago, my Dad and I began the somewhat informal tradition of making a January photography trip somewhere together. I think it started mostly as an excuse to be outside and hike around together, hopefully making a few images along the way. Last week, I found myself in his truck with him cresting the Amargosa Range thus beginning the descent into Death Valley.

Death Valley National Park typifies the Basin and Range Province; the Inyo, Panamint, and Amargosa mountain ranges rise like the vertebral columns of colossal ancient dinosaurs, and the valleys between them (Death Valley included) cut through the earth separating them. The changes in elevation are dramatic and impressive, even to someone not well-versed in geology. As the park brochure will tell you, it is indeed a land of extremes.

We spent the next few days hiking around some places I had been to before, and some I had not. As one must sometimes do in a national park the size of Connecticut, we also drove a lot. The arrival of a winter storm gave a unique patina to the desert: landscapes we normally associate with hot lifelessness were transformed–beautifully–by clouds and fog.

I don’t normally get to photograph über-dramatic light, and honestly I am okay with that. My eye naturally tends to find compositions in subtle light and delicate form, which is exactly what this storm gave us. This year I celebrated my birthday on our trip, and the light was a perfect birthday gift. So, not only was it a time to enjoy being outside, it was also a time of celebration.

The last four Januarys with my Dad have given me milestones by which to watch him get older as well. He is not in failing health, but with each passing year I see him–both of my parents–getting older. My rational brain is accepting of that, but the little boy in me isn’t quite ready for the aging process to begin–in them, or in myself. Over the last couple of days, I’ve been thinking a lot about aging, mortality, our ability to experience a place, and the creative process; I think a common thread runs between all of these things.

As photographers, and particularly as landscape photographers, our ability to create art is rooted in how we perceive the world: our ability to see light and distinguish shapes, and to integrate that sensory experience with the smells and sounds around us is the cornerstone of our craft. The most evocative landscape photography I have seen is that which is sensed, not only with my eyes, but inside of the nucleus of every cell in my body.

Our senses are rooted in our biology, which changes as we age. If our senses are changing, it is no surprise that our artistic vision would change as well. Ideally, it would mature along with everything else! I wrote in my last blog post about my own journey back in time, exploring my favorite images from the last half decade. My artistic vision has changed, certainly. Matured, perhaps. Practice, study, and introspection have no doubt played a part in this, but perception–the way my senses tell me about the world–is a huge part of that.

Do we perceive the world with more clarity as we age? Do my aging parents somehow see things more clearly than I do? In some ways, I’d like to think they do. It is somewhat macabre, but looking all the way to the end may help answer that. Turning to my “other” field of comparative physiology for a moment, the great Canadian physiologist Peter Hochachka wrote only days before his own death in 2002, “I have noticed how the mind seems to clear when one’s time is up and current life is near an end…instead of anger, bitterness or even sadness, there can be interest and increased clarity.”

Basin and range. On my birthday this year, this landscape gave me not only light, but hope as well. Hope that in 30 years, I will see this landscape differently, and with more clarity, as perhaps my Dad did standing next to me on this trip. Hope that I will still be creating images then, images that are personal, unique, intimate.

Posted in california, creativity, Personal | 16 Responses »
Tags: basin and range, death valley, introspection, landscape photography, mountain light, sunrise photo, sunset photo

On being busy and the creative life

Saturday, November 17th, 2012

It is funny how life can get away from you sometimes. For the past few weeks I’ve been so busy I have not have much time to write and even less time to pick up my camera to make new images. Over the last few nights, we’ve had some amazing sunsets here in southern California, as well as some very welcome winter weather; combined, this has all made me miss my camera and the outdoors so much more. So, a few days ago, when I realized I had an entire day for a hike, I took advantage of it.

A recent storm had given the mountains and foothills a slight dusting of snow; I liked the juxtaposition between the desert ecosystem (one we usually consider to be ‘hot’) and the coldness of the snow. The canyon I chose to hike up felt frigid, with several hours remaining before the sun would find its granite walls. It was nice to feel the cold air on my skin as I moved up the canyon; after what felt like a scorching summer, I welcomed the chill.

Winter in the desert, November 2012

As the day progressed, the long light of fall gave a lovely feeling to the day: autumnal perfection. Although the snow is sure to melt without another storm, it hung gracefully in the shadows while the sun warmed my bones. I couldn’t have written a more perfect day if I had tried; it was exactly what my soul and mind needed.

| |, November 2012

During my hike, my thought process centered on art, photography, and creativity. I had brought my camera with me, and I tried making some images; some succeeded. I went hiking with the intent of getting a good workout and enjoying some time outside, photography was admittedly secondary. I can’t help but feel, however, that natural pattern, light, and beauty are all around us–art is all around us. There is a lot of discussion over exactly what art is. . As landscape photographers, we spend a lot of time (and money) traveling to the “best” locations at the best times of year to make beautiful images…then we try sticking a label on it (and worry about what others think). I wonder if, we are limited only by our ability to see the art that is all around us?

A ponderosa pine tree standing in a fresh dusting of snow

Last rays, November 2012

We are all on a personal journey to create art. How do you go about that? How would you tell someone to embark on their own journey? Brooks Jensen recently gave some of the best advice for creating moving art here; this is the strongest statement I’ve seen on the subject:

Produce your work to the very best of your ability. Send it out into the world. Listen to feedback, but measure it against your instincts. Learn from the feedback, but don’t supplicate yourself to it. Produce more work to the best of your ability. Be honest with yourself. Strive for deeper understanding and expression with all you’ve got. Give your work and yourself time to mature. Finish things so you can let go and move on. As has been so often said, even a fool who persists may eventually become wise. Then produce more work and plunge deeper into the process of awareness and expression. Soon, you will no longer care about the terms used to describe your work — snapshot or “Fine Art.” Do not confuse the map with the territory.

I think, ultimately, the landscape photographer has a choice: to create images that simply are what they are, or to let the “reptilian scales” be peeled from their eyes and truly see what is around them, perhaps in the process creating images that truly move the viewer.

Posted in california, locations | 6 Responses »
Tags: california, fall color, landscape photography, sense of place, snowfall, winter

Returning to the sea

Monday, October 22nd, 2012

While I normally don’t think of myself as a desert rat per se, when I do some serious self-examination, that is where I find my imagination wandering. Deserts can be funny places; you can sit all day in the shade of juniper a tree without so much as seeing a lizard flit across the sand, yet you can observe the diversity and health of the ecosystem all around you. Most people–myself often included–don’t often have the patience to sit and wait for something (anything) to happen here. This is the wilderness after all, and action can be a bit hard to come by.

So it was that I recently found myself at Montaña de Oro State Park, on California’s central coast. Far away from my much-loved desert, I spent several hours exploring the rocky coastline, climbing on the rocks and looking for a spot to photograph sunset. Waves crushed the rocks along the beach relentlessly, finding their way into every cove, crack, and crevice, over and over again. As soon as one wave left, another would come, inflicting its wrath on the rocks. For millions of years this has been happening, shaping the shoreline into what it is today.

Waves rushing into a sea cave at Montaña de Oro

Carving out a cave, October 2012

There is something mesmerizing about being near the ocean. Maybe it’s the rhythmicity or the the ability of the waves to drown out the voices in my head, I don’t know. Whatever it is, I feel calmed and soothed, regardless of whether I walk along a calm beach or next to a violent shoreline being battered by relentless waves.

I often imagine what it would be like to be alone on a kayak far out at sea. The thought frightens me a little bit, the feeling of loneliness that would accompany that could easily be overwhelming. I suspect the hours would pass slowly, just waiting for something (anything) to happen, and it would feel like a million miles away from the seemingly busy shoreline. In this context, it should become obvious that the ocean is wilderness too, and should be celebrated as such. However, just like our terrestrial wildernesses, the ocean is being exploited, overfished, polluted.

“Fifty million buffalo once roamed the rolling green prairies of North America. Gunners reduced them to near extinction. Now, hunters are at work on the rolling blue prairies of the sea, and already, the big fish – including miracles like thousand-pound, warm-blooded bluefin tuna – are 90 percent gone. What we regret happening on land, may again happen in the sea. Those who care about wildlife should get to know about oceans.”

–Carl Safina, Comes a Turtle, Comes the World

Seascape, October 2012

From a photographic point of view, beaches have been called the easiest places to put together a compelling composition. I can’t argue, but I definitely don’t believe that oceans (or beaches for that matter) are simple places. They are beautifully complex, life-giving, and they need to be celebrated by everyone, whether they’ve set foot in an ocean or not. Sitting at Montaña de Oro, I am reminded that I need the sea as much as I need my beloved desert.

Posted in california, locations | 15 Responses »
Tags: big sur, california, california state parks, landscape photography, pacific ocean, sunset photo

All That Glitters

Thursday, September 6th, 2012

With kids, practicality often wins out over idealism. When I camp, I would much rather be completely alone on a sage flat or next to a small mountain lake than in a campground choked with campfire smoke, people on cell phones, and car alarms gone wild. However, with a 4-year-old, having a flush toilet and running water is sometimes just…well…easier.

So we found recently found ourselves in said campground on an end-of-summer trip to the Sierra Nevada. I had plans to photograph a few locations nearby that I scouted earlier in the summer and was excited to be back in the Range of Light. But, pulling into our campground, I was distracted by a large group of my favorite tree–aspen–on the hillside above our campground.

It will be a month or so before photographers descend by the hundreds on the eastern Sierra, but I didn’t really care that these trees weren’t yet showing their golden set of leaves. Aspen groves have a distinct smell; something about the trees, the grass, and the leaves on the ground gives a very unique and comforting fragrance. After dinner on our first night, my wife and son went to bed early so I walked alone for a long time, enjoying the different “sections” of the grove–interspersed with sagebrush–each one idiosyncratic, each one with its own personality. I made some images, trying to capture the temperament of the trees, whether they were twisted and weather-beaten, or growing straight and true towards the sky. Visiting this grove felt almost like visiting an old friend.

Vertical pan blur of aspen trees (Populus tremuloides)

Aspen Grove I, September 2012

As I wandered further from my campsite, I thought about how the eastern Sierra is crawling with photographers year-round, yet I did not see another set of tripod legs or hear any clicks of the shutter anywhere around me. Again, in about a month, that won’t be the case here. ”Why are these poor trees ignored for most of the year,” I wondered to myself.

Then I thought that perhaps this is the gift these trees have given me. If for only one night, I can stand among them, or lay in the grass watching the stars overhead and be completely alone–completely welcomed by the calm and the silence–even if I do have to camp in a “real” campsite.

There is refuge here, and I’m not talking about refuge from a few rogue campers. There is refuge for the soul.

Stars over an aspen grove in the Sierra Nevada mountains

Aspen Grove II, September 2012

Posted in california, sierra nevada | 14 Responses »
Tags: aspens, california, landscape photography, night photography, populus tremuloides, sierra nevada

Climbing Mountains

Friday, August 10th, 2012

I recently did a solo backpack into southern California’s San Bernardino Mountains. My primary goal was to climb San Gorgonio Mountain (11,503′), the tallest point in southern California; my secondary goal was to escape the searing heat in the valleys below. On August 11, I’ll have lived in southern California for ten years (as a somewhat macabre coincidence, August 11 is also the ten-year anniversary of Galen & Barbara Rowell’s death), and I decided it was finally time to climb this formidable mountain.

Over the past decade or so, I have not really climbed mountains for the sake of climbing mountains. In college, I used to drive down to Colorado and climb 14,000′ peaks a few times a year, but I seem to have gotten away from that. I suppose the time period that I stopped doing long hikes was also the time I got into photography. In some ways, the two don’t really dovetail well–long hikes require early starts and the pace can be, “go go go” for hours on end; when you’re in the mountains, a 16-hour day isn’t uncommon. Photography, on the other hand, calls for quiet contemplation. It can be a tough balance.

San Gorgonio Mountain, 11,503′, January 2011

This disconnect has bothered me, and like so many other insignificant problems, I’ve let it stay on my mind longer than it really should. I’ve largely solved the problem by carrying with me a small point-and-shoot camera that can capture images in RAW format, still giving me the ability to edit them, but also giving me the flexibility to pursue more difficult and athletic outdoor pursuits. There is, of course, the tradeoff of image quality when you use a point-and-shoot over a DSLR, but it is one I was willing to make.

When I was in college, I read Robert Pirsig’s, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I’m not sure I completely understood it, and even if I reread it today, I’m not sure I would. It’s pretty far out there, and it’s deep. However, the theme of the book–quality–has been on my mind since. Every time I go into an outdoor store, I drool over all the sexy new gear, and sometimes I succumb to advertising, but I pride myself on my really old equipment. For instance, I’ve been using the same backpack for over 20 years now, and it’s still going strong, after 1,000s of miles. I used my nifty point-and-shoot camera to for some self-portraits to highlight the pack in action on my recent trip to San Gorgonio Mountain. Despite my allegiance to my gear, the specter of consumerism hovers near me most of the time.

A backpacker in the San Gorgonio Wilderness of southern California

20 years old and still going strong, self-portrait, August 2012

(click on the diptych to see it full size)

“All that matters is that you spare yourself nothing, wear yourself out, risk everything to find something that seems true.” –Tony Kushner

To summit San Gorgonio Mountain, I got up at 3:30am, and was on the trail by 3:45. From my campsite, I was able to summit at 5:30am, just before the sun came up. I used the self-timer on my camera for a few self portraits, and then headed back down to my campsite for a cup of tea before packing up and heading back to my car. The morning was cool, and I forgot how long the Earth’s shadow and Belt of Venus seem to hang in the sky at this elevation. Even though I could see the megalopolis of southern California stretching below me, I had this mountain completely to myself.

Predawn light, San Gorgonio Mountain, August 2012

On my hike down I thought about the physical act of climbing mountains as well as the mountains we climb within ourselves. ”Like those in the valley behind us,” wrote Robert Pirsig, “most people stand in sight of the spiritual mountains all their lives and never enter them, being content to listen to others who have been there and thus avoid the hardships.” I thought about my point-and shoot camera, my 20-year-old backpack, people in my life, and the mountains we all find ourselves challenged by every day.

I am happy that I finally ventured into the San Bernardinos to climb San Gorgonio Mountain.

Mt. San Jacinto as seen from San Gorgonio Mountain, August 2012

Sunrise on the flanks of San Gorgonio Mountain

Krummholz, Jepson Peak, and the Earth’s Shadow, August 2012

Posted in adventure photography, california, creativity, ethics, locations | 19 Responses »
Tags: california, introspection, national forest, san bernardino mountains, san gorgonio, southern California hiking, sunrise photo, wilderness

Revisiting the White Mountains

Friday, July 27th, 2012

Just a few posts ago, I mentioned how I spent several summers working in the White Mountains of eastern California when I was in graduate school. The Whites are an interesting mountain range. Comprising the eastern border of the Owens Valley, they are certainly imposing, with California’s 3rd highest peak (White Mountain Peak, 14,252′) as well the highest point in Nevada (Boundary Peak, 13,147′), but despite their prominence, the Whites are visited far less than the nearby Sierra Nevada.

The Sierra is a relatively wet mountain range, receiving anywhere from 20-80 inches of precipitation a year (for the arid west, that’s wet). The Whites, in the rain shadow of the Sierra, stand in stark contrast, fully embodying the characteristics of the Basin and Range province, to which they are included–dry, windy, desolate, and strikingly beautiful.

In the Details, July 2012

I have always loved the Whites, primarily because the lower elevations remind me of my home in northwestern New Mexico: piñon-juniper scrubland and sagebrush dominate the landscape, giving way to primarily lower-growing sage above about 8,000 feet. Deer, coyotes, wild horses, pika, and marmots are common here. However, the real draw–accounting for the bulk of visitation–is the presence of the Great Basin bristlecone pine (Pinus longaeva). With the exception of organisms that self-replicate (clones), bristlecones are the longest-living organisms on earth. One tree in the Whites, Methuselah, is estimated to be 4,500 years old. If the Whites have a persona of incredibly difficult growing conditions, then the bristlecones fit that quite well. Their gnarled trunks and otherworldly shapes are a favorite of photographers.

Great Basin bristlecone pine (Pinus longaeva) and summer storm clouds

Weathering the Storm, July 2012

After nearly seven years away, I recently returned to the White Mountains. Walking around in the ancient bristlecone pine forest is an act of humility. Before leaving on my recent trip, a friend and I had a conversation about life and the value of living in the moment. This conversation was heavy on my mind as summer storm clouds moved through the Whites at sunset, giving these grand trees an equally grand backdrop.

Of all things on earth, these trees have given their best shot at living forever, and even they can’t quite do it. Once they die, the dry air preserves them leaving funky skeletons on several hillsides. What advice would they give, after 4,500 years, to someone just starting out? Would it be to live in the moment, to not let the little things get you down, and to hold close the things in life that make you deeply happy?

I’m anthropormorphizing a little bit more here than my contract allows, so I’ll stop. Suffice it to say, I think that’s pretty good advice.

Great Basin bristlecone pine (Pinus longaeva) and storm clouds, California

The Sentinel, July 2012

We spent one night at 11,000′ in the bristlecones, and I was reminded of a few things that have kept the White Mountains on my mind all these years:

Yes, it can snow in July in California. Even if only for a few minutes.
The White Mountains are the only place I’ve ever experienced altitude sickness (manifested by trouble sleeping). I attribute it to the dry air.
The warm-toned trunks of the bristlecones contrast very nicely with stormy skies.
Everyone should experience quiet like the Whites afford once in their lifetime.
Everyone should experience a night sky like the Whites afford once in their lifetime.

From a photographic point of view, I find it amazing that several images can come out of one place in a short amount of time. This is probably due to luck, inspiration, and visualization, but I have been updating my portfolios with new images and have added several from the White Mountains. Please visit my Mountains and Intimate Perspectives portfolios to see these and other new images.

It’s funny how some places can be a huge part of our lives, exit for several years, and then re-enter. I guess they never really leave us.

Sunset in the Patriarch Grove of Bristlecone Pines

Pastel sunset, July 2012

Posted in california, inspiration, locations, Nevada, updates | 14 Responses »
Tags: california, inyo national forest, landscape photography, sierra nevada, white mountains

A Bird’s Eye View

Monday, July 9th, 2012

My family and I just returned from a trip to Wyoming. The primary purpose of the trip was to visit family, so I did not have a lot of extra time for photography. However, one of the photographic highlights of the trip was our flight from my home in southern California to Denver. The flight path covers some fantastic topography and it’s always been fun for me to see how many formations I can recognize. On this flight, I decided to try and do a black and white series of the landscape 35,000′ feet below me.

Can you figure them out? Some are super easy…others are not. Images are posted in the order you would see them flying from southern California to Denver.

Hills in the Mojave Desert of southern California

Mystery Landscape #1

Mystery Landscape #2

The Vermillion Cliffs in northern Arizona

Mystery Landscape #3

Mystery Landscape #4

Mystery Landscape #5

Mystery Landscape #6

Mystery Landscape #7

Feel free to post your guesses in the comments section. I will post the locations in a few days. I do not know every detail of each image, but am pretty sure I have the locations correct…maybe you can pinpoint some better than I can.

There were some challenges that degraded image quality in these files. First, I got lucky with a pretty clean window on the airplane. A dirty window would make these sorts of images difficult. Second, the glass plane window and interior plexiglass also make focusing difficult. There are some odd things that happened to some of the files because of my high tech “plexiglass filter.” You can probably see a few things on some of these files…

I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts on these, as well as your guesses!

Posted in Arizona, california, Colorado, locations, utah | 15 Responses »
Tags: black and white, landscape photography

Braced against the wind

Friday, January 6th, 2012

In Medicine Bow, Wyoming, they say the wind doesn’t blow twenty four hours out of the whole year. Even in July, the wind is cold, noisy, all-consuming. One morning, my friend, hiking in the wind near Medicine Bow tripped, and at the last second looked down to see a small prairie rattlesnake strike right between her legs; if she hadn’t stumbled, she would have been bitten. The wind silenced the snake’s warning rattle.

The wind can be harsh, cold, brutal, and at the same time it can be life-giving, sustaining. It shapes who we are, and what we have yet to become. If you’ve lived with it for any period of time, you know what I’m talking about. It may be much more tangible to see how the wind shapes the landscapes we love so much. I’m excited to present four new images (See the portfolio here, as well as below) from two of our national parks–Bryce Canyon and Death Valley–that are devoted to the wind that shapes these beautiful, mysterious, and awe-inspiring places.

Bryce Canyon National Park is hugely popular, being part of the “Grand Circle” of the Southwest, and its no wonder why. Bryce’s hoodoos–formed by the brilliantly colorful Claron Formation–simply glow like no other rock in southern Utah. In concert with water, the wind shapes the hoodoos into various shapes–from hammers, to broken palaces, to entire cities. Jagged and raw, Bryce inspires imagination and creativity, and as Ebenezer Bryce pointed out, “its a hell of a place to lose a cow.”

Contrast Bryce’s ruggedness with Death Valley’s seemingly endless sand dunes. The wind shapes the sand into sensuous, almost erotic, curves that perhaps could be an abstract nude study rather than a grand landscape. The light plays on the dunes on both a micro and macro scale, providing endless shapes and forms.

Hoodoos in late afternoon light, Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

Bryce Canyon #1, 2011

Bryce Canyon #2, 2011

Ibex Dunes, Death Valley National Park, California

Death Valley #1, 2011

Death Valley #2, 2011

These images signify–in part–the forces that have shaped our national parks. To help with the continued protection of our public lands, I’ll be donating 25% of the profits from the sale of these prints to the Wilderness Society, which works to make visits to our national parks more meaningful and inspiring. This is not a limited-edition series of prints, and this offer doesn’t expire–I’ll make the donations forever. Finally, I am offering special pricing for the purchase of all four of these prints, in any size. Please visit my purchase page, or contact me for more details.

“The truest art I would strive for in any work would be to give the page the same qualities as earth: weather would land on it harshly, light would elucidate the most difficult truths; wind would sweep away obtuse padding. Finally, the lessons of impermanence taught me this: loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness; despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life.” –Gretel Ehrlich

Posted in california, inspiration, national park, utah | 14 Responses »
Tags: black and white, Bryce, death valley, fine art, landscape photography, natural phenomenon

Alpenglow Images

Landscape and Nature Photography by Greg Russell