Peak Color

Gary Hart Photography: Twin Peaks, Mt. Cook (Aoraki) and Mt. Tasman, New Zealand

Twin Peaks, Mt. Tasman and Aoraki / Mt. Cook, New Zealand
Sony α1
Sony 24 – 104 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/11
.6 seconds

The first time I visited New Zealand (way back in 1995), I was surprised not just by the number of mountains, but also by their size. New Zealand’s mountains reminded me very much of the Eastern Sierra peaks I visit every year for the way their serrated profiles tower above the surrounding landscape. And while the east-side view of the Sierra Crest is truly spectacular, the New Zealand mountain experience also includes glaciers, rainforests, and an assortment of massive, glacier-carved turquoise lakes that are so pristine, locals drink straight from them.

It’s no coincidence that Don Smith and I concentrate our annual New Zealand winter workshop in the Southern Alps, the backbone of the South Island and home to all 20 of New Zealand’s 10,000+ foot peaks and all of its glacial lakes. We choose winter not just for the Milky Way’s prominence in the night sky, but also to maximize the snow on the Southern Alps.

Fox Glacier on the South Island’s West Coast is the farthest north our groups get. Our stated reason for being here is our heli-hike on Fox Glacier (we helicopter onto the glacier for a guided hike and an intimate view of its crevasses, caves, pools, and seracs), we’ve come to appreciate many other features of this segment of our workshop—specifically, the (aptly named) Blue Pools as well as the various waterfalls of Haast Pass, and the spectacular views of New Zealand’s two tallest peaks, Mt. Tasman (on the left in this image; 11,473 feet) and Aoraki / Mt. Cook (12,218 feet).

Dark Sky Dreams, Lake Matheson, New Zealand

Our Lake Matheson hike during our stay in Fox Glacier (also the name of the town where we stay) is a particular highlight because of its mirror reflection of Tasman and Aoraki/Cook. But on our last morning in Fox Glacier, we photograph sunrise on the two peaks from Fox Glacier Vista, an underrated vantage point that’s a great way to wrap up our stay.

Given all the sights we see throughout the 10 days of this workshop, it’s easy to overlook this brief stop before our long drive to Aoraki / Mt. Cook National Park on the other side of the Southern Alps (less than 30 miles as the crow flies, but nearly 300 (breathtaking) miles as the Mercedes Sprinter Van drives). But the view here is nice, even during an ordinary sunrise, and always worth the stop.

The sunrise on our Fox Glacier departure morning in 2022 was anything but ordinary. We always depart for this shoot expecting a nice shoot, but usually my mind is more on the long drive ahead and I’m content to stand back an drink in the view. But this morning we could tell from the instant we arrived that the ingredients were in place for something truly special: Right at our feet, a frosty glaze covered the meadow and spread all the way to the trees, and in the distance, layers of broken clouds hovered above the peaks, which in the crystal clear air appeared etched against the horizon.

Read about the science behind sunrise/sunset color

Though it was still fairly dark, hints of color were already seeping into the clouds behind the Southern Alps. This was Don’s and my first visit following two years lost to COVID, and I immediately saw that the vista we knew so well had been expanded and upgraded, something I initially found disorienting. While the rest of the group rushed to set up at the most obvious vantage point, I took a couple of minutes to explore along the short trail to make sure we weren’t missing something new, before returning confident that we were indeed in the best place. (I was so focused on the view during this little jaunt that I failed to notice a small piece of jutting root that aggressively reached out to send me sprawling in the dirt—my skinned knees and bruised ego were only slightly comforted by the knowledge that no one actually witnessed my face-plant.)

In these situations, when spectacular conditions rival the scene I came to photograph, I try not to get too cute with my compositions. If there’s an obvious complex option that doesn’t distract from the natural beauty of the moment, I’ll take it, but generally I prefer to let the scene speak for itself by keeping my composition as simple as possible.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to the entire scene. In this case we were limited by a fence between us and the meadow, and since I already knew the view, I concentrated on simple framing. With the combination of matching snow-capped Tasman and Aoraki bookending the closer Craig Peak, and parallel horizontal layers throughout the scene, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to identify an opportunity for what I call “aggressive symmetry.” The pair of larger foreground trees, while not perfectly in balance with the rest of the frame, were close enough to symmetrically arranged that I was pleased with their (unavoidable) inclusion.

Given the way the color was progressing as the sun brightened behind the mountains, I worked out my composition long before it peaked, clicking every few seconds while saying to myself each time, surely this must be maximum color. But it just kept intensifying—the thrill of witnessing it was matched only by the thrill of listening to the rest of the group react to what we were seeing.

As I clicked, I couldn’t help think that this was turning out to one of those sunrises (or sunsets) with color so vivid that I know people viewing the images won’t believe they’re real. Fortunately, from sunrises/sunsets to wildflowers to auroras, photographers know that there’s nothing subtle about color in Nature, and that when Mother Nature wants to, she really can dial the vivid up past the point of credibility. The best way to describe these moments is that to me it feels like the atmosphere possesses a physical component that penetrates my skin and pretty much everything else it touches until I feel like the entire world is actually humming with color.

You never know when Nature’s little (or big) surprises will happen, but their possibility is the thing gets me out of bed in winter darkness, keeps me out well past dinnertime, and makes all the cold, rain, snow, or whatever other hardships Mother Nature wants to throw my way, tolerable.

Join Don and me in New Zealand