What Would Tom Cruise Do?
Posted on May 31, 2025
Rising Crescent, Grand Canyon
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 400
f/11
.6 second
As you might imagine, at the bottom of Grand Canyon the sleep schedule syncs with the sun. In May, that means flopping into our cots to await the stars around 8:00 p.m., then rising around 5:00 a.m. On a typical day, the morning pace is fairly leisurely, providing time for packing up our campsites, coffee, relaxed chat, breakfast, and even a little photography. While all this happens, the guides clean up breakfast and pack up the kitchen and toilets, then let us know when it’s time to queue up for the 5-minute fire-line that loads the boat. By 8:00 a.m. we’re on the water.
But this was not a typical day. The plan this morning, my annual Grand Canyon raft trip’s final full day, was to compress all that morning activity into one hour so we could beat the crowds to Havasu Creek, and catch the best light there. Photographers love clouds, but when clouds aren’t in the forecast, we go for the next best thing: shade. We formulated the Havasu shade strategy the prior afternoon, then sold it to the group at dinner that night. Though some were dubious of our seemingly impossible mission, the guides assured us it was doable if everyone bought in and worked together. And it didn’t hurt that, unlike the trip’s prior nights, this campsite wasn’t positioned with the view toward the southern horizon necessary for a sleep-interrupting Milky Way shoot.
Turns out I actually had a pretty good sleep that night, waking about 4:45 and instantly springing fully rested from bed, very much geared up for the morning’s tight schedule. The first thing I did was pack my cot and walk it down to the staging area in front of the rafts, greeting a few still groggy fellow rafters on the way. But after depositing my cot, I glanced up upstream and did an actual double-take….
Before continuing, I should probably let you know, or at least remind you, that I’m something of a moon fanatic—which I guess would make me quite literally, a “lunatic,” given that the word derives from the Latin word for moonstruck. I’ve always believed that the moon’s presence enhances pretty much any scene, and work hard to include it whenever possible.
Which is why, more than 20 years ago, I started plotting the moon’s potential arrival upon, or departure from, every scene I hoped to photograph, going to great lengths to capture this arrival or departure whenever possible. In fact, many photo trips and workshops are scheduled specifically for a landscape/lunar confluence. And even when the moon isn’t a prime objective, it’s a rare photo trip that I don’t at least know the moon’s status before departing, its phase and daily rise/set positions and times, just in case.
But since the primary celestial goal of my Grand Canyon raft trip is the Milky Way, and it requires moonless nights for the absolute darkest skies possible, I always schedule this trip for the moonless nights around a new moon. Not only that, given that we spend the entire trip in the shadow of vertical walls soaring up to a mile above us, including the moon in my Grand Canyon raft trip images is never a consideration—I simply don’t think about it.
So imagine my surprise when that casual upstream glance revealed a thin slice of moon suspended in the pre-sunrise gloaming, perfectly framed by the canyon’s towering limestone layers. Overcoming my disbelief, I reflexively shouted, “Look at the moon!,” then ran like Tom Cruise to grab my camera gear and race back to the best view. (I also do all my own stunts.)
For about 10 minutes I photographed in rapturous frenzy, completely forgetting our compressed morning. I composed horizontal and vertical, recording many versions of the ever-changing moon, clouds, color, and light. Given the weight restrictions on this trip, my longest lens was a 24-105, but I didn’t stress and (correctly) reasoned that I have more than enough resolution to crop my images down to the tighter compositions the scene called for.
By the time the crescent ascended behind the south wall and I put my camera away (and remembered the departure deadline I’d lobbied the group so hard for), my adrenaline was ramped so high that I had no problem packing the rest of my stuff and catching the last raft out of camp. (Okay, there are only two rafts and we depart together—I’m reasonably confident they wouldn’t have left without me, though I imagine I’d have had to endure a fair amount of good natured abuse.)
I’m fully willing to acknowledge that my passion for moon photography is extreme, a fact confirmed by the fact that most of the group didn’t join me photographing the moon this morning. But that’s okay—we each have our own relationship with the natural world, and my own deep interest in all things celestial predates my interest in photography by more than a decade. The fact that today’s technology (finally) enables me to combine these loves is a true blessing I will never take for granted.
One more truth was with me as I photographed that morning. All week I’d been fully aware that this was my final Grand Canyon raft trip. Drifting downstream, bouncing over rapids, and hiking to so many familiar spots, I’d spent the week silently saying goodbye to all the scenes that had moved me so profoundly on my ten visits. As I composed and clicked, I couldn’t help feel overwhelmed by the realization that this magic place had bestowed a divine parting gift.
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Grand Canyon Raft Trip Collection
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Navigating the Path to Exceptional
Posted on May 20, 2025
Bridalveil Fall and Dogwood, Valley View, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 800
f/4
1/250 second
Who doesn’t love being exceptional? Exceptional among your friends, or in your camera club, among your peers, or even in the world. Though I suspect the happiest photographers are simply content with being the best possible photographer they can be without measuring themselves against others, what fun is that?
Once upon a time, capturing exceptional images required little more than being at the most beautiful spots during the most spectacular conditions, and having a general sense for composition and metering. Today? Not so much. While there’s nothing wrong with chasing beautiful locations and conditions, these days when you work hard to get someplace special at just the right time, there’s a pretty good chance you won’t be the only one there. (But that doesn’t mean you should stop chasing beauty for beauty’s sake.)
In a world where pretty much everyone carries a camera 24/7, universal access to information makes “expert” guidance just a click away, and there’s virtually no such thing as a “secret” location, I’m afraid the “exceptional” bar just keeps rising. So, instead of settling for beautiful scenes in beautiful conditions (not that there’s anything wrong with that), how can we create images that truly stand out?
Laying the foundation
The key to capturing images that are more creative than cliché starts with understanding the vast difference between your camera’s view of the world and your own. Rather than forcing your camera to see the world as you do, lean into those differences and reveal the world in ways the eye can’t.
Fortunately, the biggest differences between camera and human vision have a corresponding exposure variable to manage them: for depth there’s aperture (f-stop); for motion we have shutter-speed; and ISO gives us control over light sensitivity. Even though you can get a perfect exposure with many combinations of these three exposure variables, there’s often only one combination where all the tumblers fall into place for the perfect combination of depth, motion, and light.
For example, photographing a crashing wave at the beach, (depending on the decisions I make with my exposure variables) the water in a perfectly exposed image could range from individual water droplets frozen in midair, to a homogenous froth of hazy white—or any degree of blur in between. Or, when I photograph a poppy that stands out in a field of wildflowers, my perfectly exposed image could range from every flower sharply defined, to only my subject-poppy sharp and the rest of the flowers some degree of soft—so soft, some are simply shapeless blobs of color.
One more factor to consider before making your depth of field choice, is the difference between humans’ naturally stereoscopic, 3-dimensional view of the world, and the camera’s single lens, 2-dimensional perspective. Even though our cameras can’t render our 3-dimensional world in their 2-dimensional medium, our perspective choices are essential to creating the illusion of depth that elevate an image.
Putting it all together
All of these factors should inform the decisions you make in the field. Instead of settling for the obvious, the path to “exceptional” requires conscious awareness of front-to-back relationships in your frame, and careful, deliberate exposure variable choices to manage the scene’s depth, motion, and light.
Which brings me to this image from last month’s Yosemite Waterfalls and Dogwood photo workshop. For good reason, Valley View (aka, Gates of the Valley for Yosemite purists) is almost certainly second only to Tunnel View on the list of most popular Yosemite photo spots. Which of course is somewhat problematic for those of us seeking to be exceptional.
Pulling into the parking lot here, before you’re even out of the car your eyes are slammed with a view of El Capitan, Cathedral Rocks, and Bridalveil Fall, with the Merced River in the very near foreground. And because the most obvious beauty is very first thing you see at Valley View, many photographers head straight down to the river to claim their version of this classic shot without first considering the other great options here.
For starters, there are three primary places to photograph Valley View: the first, and most obvious, is the view directly in front of the parking area that I just described; next, is the view slightly downstream where, instead of photographing across the river, you can photograph upstream and make El Capitan your prime subject with more foreground options; finally, there’s the view of Bridalveil Fall and its reflection, found just upstream from the parking area.
Each time I arrive at Valley View, I survey the conditions before deciding where to set up. Sometimes the whole scene is fantastic and I stay in front of the parking lot for my version of the shot that’s been taken a million times. But when El Capitan is getting the best light, I usually head strait downstream and try to build a foreground from the rocks, rapids, logs, and grass mounds. And when I want to feature Bridalveil Fall and Cathedral Rocks, I go (just a little) upstream for reflections and maybe a few protruding or submerged rocks. Regardless of my choice, I’m rarely more than 100 feet from my car, but my results are completely different.
Wherever I am, every time I compose a scene, I try to find a foreground that complements my background, or vice versa. At Valley View, my primary subject is almost always in the background (some combination of El Capitan, Cathedral Rocks, and Bridalveil Fall), so I’m usually trying to find a complementary foreground. Looking at the gallery below, you can see that sometimes I succeed, and sometimes I simply settle for a beautiful scene.
Bridalveil Dogwood, Yosemite
What sets today’s image apart in my mind is that my primary subject is in the foreground. I have the dogwood to thank for that. In fact, even though the results are entirely different, this is the very same tree I used for one of my oldest (and still favorite) images.
When I took my original Bridalveil Dogwood image, I visualized the concept (close dogwood subject, soft Yosemite icon background) on my drive to the park, then spent the day driving around until I found this scene.
Since then, that experience has made me very aware of the relationship between this dogwood tree and Bridalveil Fall, and I can’t help checking it out when the dogwood are in bloom. But, aside from the fact that I wasn’t interested in repeating myself, I couldn’t have duplicated that image even if I wanted to, because so much has changed in the last 20+ years.
First, the conditions were completely different. In the original scene, I benefited from clouds that provided softbox light, and a gentle rain and sprinkled water droplets everywhere. This time I was working with a mostly clear sky that, while less than ideal in many ways, made the backlit flowers (technically bracts, but I’m sticking with flower) and leaves light up as if illuminated from within.
The other significant difference was the tree itself, which had grown so much that my once clear line of sight from the flowers to Bridalveil was now clogged with branches, leaves, and other flowers. So instead of getting super-close to one flower, I identified an inverted v-shaped branch sporting a collection of backlit flowers.
Moving back, I shifted until Bridalveil Fall was framed by the flowers. Then I zoomed my 24-105 lens tight and open the aperture wide for maximum background softness. The flowers swaying in a slight breeze, I bumped my ISO to 800 to ensure a fast enough shutter speed. I took a half-dozen or so image, each with micro-adjustments to the composition, until I was satisfied.
Disclaimer
Is this picture “exceptional”? I have no idea. That really isn’t even my call. In fact, many of my images that feel exceptional to me barely register a reaction from others; then I’ll share an image that feels pretty ordinary to me, and people will rave about it. So who knows? But since chasing other people’s definition of exceptional can make you crazy, I just think I’ll call any image that makes me happy exceptional (in my own personal Universe) and leave it at that.
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Valley View: Variations on a Scene
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Yosemite and the Joys of Spring
Posted on May 15, 2025
Tree and Bridalveil Fall, Bridalveil Creek, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 200
f/16
1/5 second
Probably the number one question I’m asked about Yosemite is, “What’s the best season for photography?” My response always sounds as if crafted by a waffling politician, but I swear I just don’t have the absolute answer everyone wants. And since I get to photograph Yosemite far more than the average photographer, and have for many years, my priorities are quite likely different than those of the average photographer.
I can say that my least favorite season is summer, because that’s when the waterfalls dry, the sky suffers from a chronic case of the blues (great for tourists, not so much for photography), and tourists swarm the park like ants to ice cream on pavement. But even summer offers beauty not possible any other season, mostly in the form of High Sierra splendor. Closed by snow most of the year, (usually) by late spring the high country roads to Glacier Point and Tuolumne Meadows have opened vehicular access to the exposed granite, wildflower-sprinkled meadows, gem-like lakes, and all the other pristine joys of Yosemite’s incomparable backcountry. And while Yosemite’s high country isn’t quite the respite from crowds it once was, its wide open spaces make solitude still much easier to find.
My own personal favorite season for creative photography is autumn. Though the waterfalls have dried completely or (at best) dwindled to a trickle, in autumn Yosemite Valley’s abundant assortment of deciduous trees throb with yellow and red. Adding to this varied color are mirror reflections in the Merced River, which has been slowed to a crawl along the length of the valley. As an added bonus, by the time the color arrives (mid/late October), dry waterfalls also mean most of the crowds have disappeared.
Winter is probably Yosemite’s most photographically variable season. Show up on a blue sky day in the midst of an (not uncommon) extended dry spell, and you’ll likely find brown meadows, trickling waterfalls, and dirt instead of snow. But arrive during or shortly after a snowstorm, and you’ll enjoy Yosemite Valley at its hands-down most beautiful—arguably one of the most beautiful sights anywhere on Earth. And since winter is the heart of California’s rainy season, the swirling clouds of a clearing storms are never more likely—even when the temperatures aren’t cold enough in Yosemite Valley to turn the rain to snow. Winter (specifically, mid/late February) is also when Horsetail Fall might turn molten red at sunset. Then there’s the rising full moon, which aligns most perfectly with Half Dome only in the winter months.
Yosemite in spring is all about the water—the season when the vertical granite can’t seem to shed the winter snowpack fast enough. Not only are the spring views dominated by well known Yosemite, Bridalveil, Vernal, and Nevada Falls, a seemingly infinite supply of ephemeral falls appear as well for a few weeks or months each spring. Rainbows on the waterfalls, dogwood everywhere, and reflective vernal pools decorating the meadows offer enough beauty to thrill tourists and photographers alike. All that water, paired with fresh green foliage, make spring the time I recommend for first-time visitors—it’s simply the season most likely to live up to expectations, and the least likely season to disappoint.
I stress about the conditions for my students before every workshop, but spring is the least stressful season for me because in Yosemite, there’s just no such thing as a bad spring day. Even though this is a relatively down year for the snowmelt that feeds the falls, last month’s Yosemite Waterfalls and Dogwood got a firsthand taste of all the joys of a Yosemite spring: plenty of water in all the falls, still pools dotting the meadows, and dogwood approaching peak bloom. And despite more clouds than usual, we had enough sunlight to photograph waterfall rainbows from four locations: three from different views of Bridalveil Fall, and one at the base of Lower Yosemite Fall.
One spot I never miss in spring is Bridalveil Creek, which offers an infinite number one-0f-a-kind scenes despite being in the heart of one of the most photographed locations in the world. Autumn is my favorite time to photograph Bridalveil Creek because I can add colorful leaves to the chain of cascades and pools beneath the fall, spring is a close second. While the creek in autumn seems to linger between each cascade, in spring it’s in far too much of a hurry to dally among the rocks.
Because of the intimate setting, its lack of a single obvious subject, and the sheer number of compositional elements begging to be composed into an image, I usually wait until the final day to bring my groups here. By then, everyone has refamiliarized themselves with their cameras, benefited from several days of training and image reviews, and had ample opportunity to get their creative juices flowing.
As usual, I started this group’s final morning at Bridalveil Creek, arriving just as the sky brightened ahead of the rising sun. Because this is an area to wander rather than stick together and photograph as a group, I began with a pretty thorough orientation, then set everyone free. I spent nearly an hour without my camera bag, just walking around trying to reach everyone to answer questions and make sure they were happy. Satisfied that all was well, I walked back to my car and grabbed my camera bag to see what I could find in the nearly one hour remaining.
I often head to the third bridge and work my way to some larger cascades (or small waterfalls) upstream; other times, especially when the group seems to require more help, I just shoot from one of the bridges. But this time I took advantage of a new gap in the trees that opened a new view of the fall just upstream from the third bridge. I’d been especially drawn to a young tree with brand new leaves, and envisioned juxtaposing it against the explosive white mist at the base of the fall. Three or four others in the group were working this scene, so I worked around them and finally ended up with the composition I’d visualized earlier.
With my 24-105 lens I started quite a bit wider, and gradually tightened my compositions as familiarity with the scene’s nuances enabled me to eliminate things. The patterns at the base of the wall changed continuously, so once I found a composition I liked, (true to form) I photographed it more than a dozen times, at several shutter speeds, to give myself a variety of water patterns and blur effects.
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The Joy of a Yosemite Spring
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Ruminating on my Workflow—Both Digital and Analog
Posted on May 10, 2025
Spring Sunset, Half Dome, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 50
f/16
2 1/2 seconds
In one of the training sessions during last week’s Yosemite Spring Waterfalls and Dogwood photo workshop, someone asked about my digital workflow. During my (riveting) file management summary, I mentioned off-handedly that I never delete a raw file, regardless of its content. The amount of push-back I got surprised me, but it caused me to consider more closely my reasons for doing something I never imagined could be so controversial.
For starters, in addition to my primary reason for never deleting my raw files which I’ll get to shortly, I can cite several valid secondary reasons:
- Processing improvements might someday render a previously unusable image salvageable. For example, once considered a pipe dream, the ability to sharpen previously soft images has arrived, and capability continues improving. And today’s noise reduction software has allowed me to process images I once deemed so unprocessable that I would never have considered keeping them.
- I often use images from past shoots for information. Keeping each camera’s timestamp accurate (by adjusting it before each shoot) enables me to return virtually to prior locations and determine things like the time sunlight strikes a particular feature, or (by checking against past moon/sun rise/set image) the number of degrees a peak or mountain range rise above a hypothetical flat horizon.
- Applying my click-evaluate-refine-click… approach to arrive the final (“perfect”) image, it’s helpful to me to be able to reference the steps that got me to any given image.
- Knowing that I never delete anything saves me from the inevitable panic that would ensue when I can’t locate image where I expected to find it.
Each of these is a valid reason that, to me, by itself might be enough to justify a no-delete policy. But honestly, the biggest reason I don’t delete images is time. Going through each image one-by-one wastes minutes or hours that could have been spent on more productive endeavors; accelerating the image purge process by deleting large groups of images in one fell swoop, risks inadvertently expunging something important.
The most common arguments I hear in favor of culling images are organization and storage space. To which I say, locating any image isn’t a problem if you have an organized import procedure—mine is quite simple, involving a folder for each year, embedded with folders for each of that year’s shoots, then letting my Lightroom import rename each file to something descriptive. And storage space? Consider that on my desk is an 18 TB hard drive that cost me around $300. Not only does it contain every digital original (jpeg for a year or two, then raw ever since) I’ve captured since I transitioned to digital more than 20 years ago (2003), it’s still is only a half full. In other words, storage is cheap—really cheap.
I’m not advocating for my approach as much as I’m explaining it. As with pretty much everything else in photography, and despite what you might hear from self-proclaimed experts, there is no universal “best” way to do something: choose the workflow that’s best for you.
Awkward segue
“Workflow” has become something of a buzzword in the photography world, generally apply to image management. But really, it can describe the processes that guide any task from start to finish. Thinking about last week’s Yosemite dogwood workshop, it occurs to me that I also have an analog workflow for running my workshops, developed over the past 20 or so years (has it really been that long?).
A workflow is only as good as its ability to handle the unexpected or uncommon: flexibility. In my image management workflow, flexibility includes (among other things) multiple and redundant backups, including at least one offsite backup, to safeguard against any imaginable threat to my images. But that flexibility should also factor in the ability to quickly locate and access any image quickly, and in multiple ways, whether I’m at home or the road.
In my Yosemite workshops, flexibility starts with my lifetime of accumulated Yosemite knowledge that enables me to structure each workshop on the fly, based on the conditions. (FYI, I’m not trying to portray myself as the only photographer with this kind of intimate knowledge.) I start with a (mental) A-list of locations I want to get my group to no matter what, and a B-List of locations that I tap based on the conditions. And whether a photo spot is the A- or B-list, the when of each location visit is always determined by the conditions.
Last week’s workshop was a perfect example of why I never want to get too locked into a plan. We enjoyed conditions that were equal parts beautiful and challenging, requiring a lot of quick thinking and abrupt shifts to take full advantage. The fickle weather included low clouds (we didn’t even see all of Half Dome until the third day), high clouds, blue skies, light drizzle, torrential downpours, lightning and thunder, and a short-lived but generous dose of hail. Compounding the complications for me were especially unreliable weather reports that at some points felt downright random.
In a blue-sky Yosemite workshop, we may only get to Tunnel View once or twice, but when we enjoy actual weather, each visit to Tunnel View provides a completely different look. In this workshop, we made it to Tunnel View at least a half dozen times. And in a typical (more benign weather) dogwood workshop, I try to give my group time to get themselves in their creative zone by holding off on the serious dogwood shoots until day three (of four). But this time, the conditions on days one and two were so perfect for photographing dogwood (peak bloom, dense clouds, no wind), we started photographing dogwood on our first afternoon, saving the larger views for later in the workshop when the weather forecast promised that there would be fewer clouds obscuring Yosemite’s monoliths.
But photographing El Capitan and Half Dome requires El Capitan and Half Dome to actually be visible (not my first Yosemite rodeo)—since they usually disappear into the clouds when it rains, I grew increasingly concerned when the forecast for our final day started trending toward rain. One week before the workshop, our last day was “Mostly sunny, with a 10% chance of showers”; by the time the workshop started, the final day forecast was “Party sunny, with a 30% chance of showers.”
Forecasts are important because I plan locations based on conditions—not just conditions now, but my expectations of conditions later in the workshop (an inexact science at best). For my A-list locations especially, I don’t want to risk missing one entirely because I delayed until later in the workshop, only to find conditions deteriorated more than I’d expected.
For several reasons, I like finishing my Yosemite workshops with a sunset view of Half Dome from a peaceful bend in the Merced River on Yosemite Valley’s the east side. Though it’s a personal favorite that I visit a lot on my own, I also love sharing this spot with my groups. But when the workshop’s penultimate day presented a nice mix of clouds and blue sky, and the rain forecast for the final day had increased to 60%, I upended my preferred workshop workflow one more time and bumped my planned last-day Half Dome shoot to that evening.
I can’t say that my decisions always work out this well, but the personal validation is sure nice when they do. We arrived about an hour before sunset and found beautiful conditions from top to bottom. I love the fresh green of Yosemite’s brand new leaves each spring—I’d been to this spot with my moonbow group earlier in April, but the green was just starting then. This time the trees had completely leafed out and the difference was glorious. In autumn we can get mirror reflections here, but with peak spring flow swelling the Merced River, the reflection was a nice abstract of color and shape instead. And to top it all off, the clouds above Half Dome changed by the minute, making the sky much more interesting than the boring blue that’s so common in Yosemite.
Still, despite all this, my camera bag stayed on the ground nearby as I worked with my group, pointing out composition opportunities and encouraging them to find foregrounds and maybe try a neutral density filter to enable a long exposure that might reveal hidden (to the naked eye) patterns in the flowing water. As sunset approached and the light faded, some started packing up their gear. I told them not so fast: Half Dome can get light up to five minutes after sunset, and we have no way of knowing whether there’s an opening on the horizon for the sun to slip through. In other words, we’ll just sit tight for a few more minutes.
As if on queue, almost immediately I saw some of the highest clouds start to brighten and warm, so I opened my camera bag and extended my tripod, just in case. Within a minute or two the clouds above Half Dome started to pinken and I had my camera out and mounted within seconds.
There’s no time for creativity and experimentation when I’m with a group, but I’m extremely familiar with the many composition options here and went straight for my go-to good sky and reflection framing: vertical, Half Dome slightly right of center, just wide enough to include all of the best parts of the clouds (more specifically in this case, the color) and their reflection. You could call this compositional workflow (there’s that word again) that enabled me to get a nice image as quickly as possible.
Focus was easy since everything was at infinity. I wanted to emphasize the water’s motion with a long exposure, but didn’t have time to retrieve and screw on a neutral density filter. Fortunately, it was late enough that I was able to get a 2 1/2 second shutter speed using ISO 50 and f/16.
The pink only lasted a minute or two, and the direct light never reached Half Dome, but no one complained. As it turned out, our final sunset the next day was completely washed out by an electrical storm that swallowed Half Dome and El Capitan, and included some of the heaviest rain I’ve ever seen in California (and at one point chased me into the Wawona Tunnel to escape marble-sized hail).
One more thing
Going back to this compositional workflow I idea, in general I’m opposed to formulaic composition because it stifles creativity, but every image doesn’t need to break new ground, and like I said, nothing in photography is absolute…
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Variations on a Scene: Images From This Location Through the Years
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Stupid Things I’ve Done
Posted on May 2, 2025
Sunset Moonrise, Bridalveil Fall, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/9
1/4 second
Wearing the mantle “professional” saddles pro photographers with an image that isn’t necessarily justified. For example, consider the perception that we never make stupid mistakes. Well, I’m here to disabuse you of that notion, at least as far as this professional photographer is concerned.
Stuff happens. No photographer, no matter how proficient, is immune to those little mental hiccups that dog our daily photography lives: lens caps get lost (then magically reappear in a pocket you checked four times), alarms get set for PM instead of AM, batteries don’t get charged, and media cards fill at just the wrong time. In the big picture, these are all relatively inconsequential and quickly forgotten.
Then there are those embarrassing self-inflicted mishaps that might cause you glance around to see if anyone else noticed. Things like shooting an entire sunrise using the ISO used for last night’s Milky Way shoot, or suddenly learning that a tripod leg wasn’t quite as secure as you believed—by the sound of camera gear impacting pavement (the worst sound known to humankind). Guilty, and guilty.
But I suspect that most (all?) photographers, from green beginner to seasoned pro, have made even bigger mistakes that they’re reluctant to share. And I’m afraid too many inexperienced photographers, unaware that they aren’t alone in their self-inflicted misfortune, are too quick to label themselves “stupid” for the kinds of mistakes we all make. So, as a public service, here are some of mine.
The two foolish moves that instantly come to mind are “chasing the shot” moments infused with an urgency that dulled my judgement. First, there was the time while running late for a sunset at Mono Lake, I ended up on the wrong road and drove into a creek that turned out to be too deep for my Toyota Tacoma. The second one was being so confident that in my knowledge of Maui’s most remote road, I drove my rental car onto an overgrown trail and got stuck in the mud at the bottom of a steep hill.
But those two mishaps notwithstanding, I have to say that my signature move seems to be driving off without my gear. I don’t mean just leaving it in the closet in my office (though there was time I drove all the way to my Death Valley workshop before I realized I’d forgotten my computer…), I mean actually leaving valuable camera gear in the wild while I headed off to the next location. Just to be clear, this propensity is not so strong that it would pay you to follow me and snatch whatever gear I’ve left behind (sorry), but in my 20+ years as a professional, I can cite maybe five times that some or all of my gear has been left behind. Usually (if you’ll permit me an excuse) it’s been while working with a workshop group, and I just forgot that I’d even gotten my gear out in the first place.
But even that excuse falls apart when you learn that my worst abandoned gear offense can’t be blamed on workshop distraction. That was the time, on the day following my Grand Canyon raft trip, I hopped into my Uber out front of the Las Vegas Convention Center Marriott and left my camera bag (including still unloaded cards with all the images from the trip) on the sidewalk. I’m happy to say that all of these mishaps had happy endings—either I discovered my mistake quickly and returned to find my gear exactly where I’d left it, or someone else had found and secured my stuff until I could return.
I’m reminded of all this because the image I share today was preceded by my most recent gear abandonment event. It was the last day of my April Moonbow and Wildflowers photo workshop early last month, and my group and I had just wrapped up a really nice poppy shoot in the Merced River Canyon. We were wrapping up the workshop with a very special full moonrise over Bridalveil Fall, the only time of year when the moon aligns perfectly with a swollen Bridalveil. But with a little time to kill before the moonrise, I decided to take my group to one more location.
I don’t usually take groups to that relatively unknown view of El Capitan because there isn’t a lot of room for an entire group, but we’d had some attrition (which sometimes happens as people depart early to catch flights home on the workshop’s final day), so I decided to reward the remaining participants. I don’t shoot a lot in my workshops unless I think I can get something special, but since I like this spot and don’t get there often, just in case I grabbed my camera bag from the car before making the short walk to the view. I ended up just setting my bag on the ground beneath a tree while I worked with my students, then never thought about it again.
So, imagine my surprise when I opened the lift-gate of my Outback and saw an empty void where my camera bag should be. The sight disoriented me so much, at first thought I’d left it at our poppy location, the last place I’d actually taken any pictures, but someone in the group reminded me that I’d taken it out at the El Capitan view too. I wanted in the worst way to instantly retreat to rescue my bag, but was also aware that I was responsible for my workshop group. So I was extremely grateful that they unanimously (and enthusiastically) insisted that I go, that they’d be fine without me. I didn’t need to be told more than once.
I’d been looking forward to this moonrise all workshop, and building it up to the group as a great grand finale, but before leaving I saw that a persistent cloud bank threatened to erase the moon entirely. Nevertheless, before departing I told them when to start looking and pointed to the spot the moon would appear if the clouds parted, then promised to be back as quickly as possible. Honestly, given the late hour and location where I’d left the bag, I was more concerned about missing the moonrise than I was about losing my bag.
I made record time and was back in 20 minutes, camera bag in hand and a smile on my face. My smile widened when I saw that my group was happily clicking away at the rising moon. I love photographing the moon’s first peek above the horizon with an ultra-long telephoto, but my blunder shot that plan in the foot, so I went straight to my 24-105. With so little time remaining, and plenty of vertical versions of this scene from previous years, I just concentrated on horizontal compositions. Going horizontal also enabled me to eliminate most of the canyon and compose tighter than I usually do (85mm), making the moon bigger.
As we shot, the moon ascended through the clouds, intermittently disappearing and peeking out. Eventually it disappeared completely and I was afraid it might be gone for good, but when a couple of small gaps opened, just as the last light colored the clouds and highest granite, I was able to get a few more frames. Shortly after I clicked this, it was gone again and we were done.
The point I’m trying to make is…
In my workshops I see a lot of people beating themselves up for mistakes, big and small, that they have no idea others do all the time. Doing stupid things doesn’t make you a stupid person—I’m not stupid (despite appearances to the contrary), and neither are you. Be kind to yourself.
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Moon Over Yosemite
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Happy Earth Day: Scenes from my Favorite Planet
Posted on April 22, 2025
The definition of “beauty” is subjective, but however you define it, natural beauty surrounds us. I became a photographer, and created this blog, to share the beauty that resonates with me. Not just visual beauty, but also the natural processes responsible for the things I find beautiful. Thanks for viewing, and Happy Earth Day to you!
Scenes From My Favorite Planet
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No-Excuse Photography
Posted on April 17, 2025
Wildcat Fall, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/16
5 seconds
“Many of us would probably be better fishermen if we did not spend so much time watching and waiting for the world to become perfect.”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It
I haven’t fished in years. But then, Norman Maclean’s words really aren’t about fishing anyway. I’m reminded of this quote every time I see photographers frozen by minutia, mired in the moment by small distractions that matter very little on the path to their grand objectives (better pictures), or who dig deep for excuses to stay home or to keep their camera holstered. Tell me if you’ve ever heard yourself proclaiming, mumbling, or simply thinking things like: “The light was better yesterday,” “The light will be better tomorrow,” “This lens is too soft,” “I don’t like that rock/tree/shrub/log/sky/foreground/background,” “I need a camera with more resolution/dynamic range/low light vision,” “It’s too hot/cold/wet/windy,” “I’m too exhausted/sleepy/hungry,” (I could go on, but I think you get the point) before settling down in the recliner, or doing an about face for home.
There’s nothing wrong with your camera (or mine)
Near the top of photographers’ list of self-imposed obstacles seems to be insecurity about their gear. Instead of doing what photographers do (photograph), many spend far too much time online reading reviews, scouring specifications, checking prices, and abusing the social media posts of other photographers. Whether these photographers’ are trying to validate the status of their current equipment, justify the purchase of the next life-changing camera, or maybe lament the expense a long coveted tripod, each of these easy rationalizations betrays an underlying need to define their worth by their equipment.
The most perplexing manifestation of photographic insecurity is the irrational obsession with the technology choices of other photographers: camera, computer, software, mobile phone, or whatever…. When I switched from film to digital in the early aughts, the biggest technology battles were Canon vs. Nikon and Apple vs. Microsoft. Later that decade we saw the first salvos in the iPhone vs. Android wars that persist to this day. Then in the teens came the mirrorless vs. DSLR skirmishes that flamed up for a few years before being settled in favor of team mirrorless. Sadly, the other battles persist to one degree or another.
But whatever side of whatever technology argument you find yourself on, let me reassure you that it’s very unlikely that anyone’s technical choices, yours or theirs, are a significant enabling or limiting factor. The best photographers make the best of whatever gear is available, because “lousy” gear doesn’t make you a lousy photographer, any more than great gear makes you a great photographer.
One way I try to convey to my workshop students (and anyone else who will listen) that inferior gear can still create superior images is by sharing my own images captured more than 20 years ago, with my 6 megapixel Canon 10D, using non-L (amateur) lenses. Not only does this equipment pale in every way when compared to today’s most basic camera systems, it wasn’t even considered pro-worthy at the time.
“Inferior” Images From My Canon 10D
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- Bridalveil Dogwood, Yosemite
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- Champagne Glass Poppies, Merced River Canyon, California
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- Sunrise, Drake’s Bay, Point Reyes National Seashore
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- Redbud, Merced River Canyon
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- Poppy Lanterns, Merced River Canyon
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- El Capitan Reflection, Yosemite
Still not convinced? Or perhaps you believe these images are the product of some Photoshop shenanigans. Then you should know that each was captured as a jpeg, then printed and sold long before I learned how to process raw files.
If I were shooting with that 10D today, I’d probably be crazy-frustrated with the camera’s 6 megapixel, 1.6 crop sensor, its postage-stamp size LCD, poor low-light performance, and limited dynamic range—but that doesn’t change the fact that I got great images from that now ancient beast, images that I’ve enlarged and sold as prints up to 24×36 to people who walked right up and scrutinized each pixel. In fact, a 24×36 print of the dogwood image hangs prominently in my office. In other words, if the images I got from that DSLR dinosaur and entry-level lenses are still usable, there’s no reason whatever “less-than” camera equipment you might own qualifies as a valid excuse to not do what photographers do—take pictures!
Rip off the bandaid
Even those photographers who haven’t succumbed to technology paralysis aren’t immune to other “not today” maladies. There are a million excuses not to go out and take pictures, usually based on some version of physical hardship. But the best photographers, the ones who always seem to somehow find Nature’s most spectacular moments, have adopted a rip off the bandaid approach that forces them out when the conditions are harshest.
I do this by reminding myself that the majority of my most memorable photography experiences—memorable both for the experience of being out there, and for the images that resulted—happened when the urge to stay inside was strongest, and my expectation of success was lowest. Part of that is the simple fact that the best conditions for photography are usually the worst times to be outside: wild weather, when the urge to stay warm and dry is almost irresistible; sunrise, when the tug of that warm, soft bed is strongest; sunset, when dinner beckons; and after dark, which can be cold, difficult to see, and (potentially) unsettling or even downright creepy.
But no less significant is the euphoria that ensues when seemingly impossible conditions give way to something truly special. It’s these times that whatever discomfort I might have been feeling magically melts away and I’m reminded why I do this photography thing. Even though success is never guaranteed, and I often return with no reward at all, the times when the magic does happen makes up for the failures many times over.
Glad I Didn’t Stay Home
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- Three Strikes, Lightning and Rainbow from Bright Angel Point, Grand Canyon North Rim
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- Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS and Mt. Whitney, Alabama Hills, California
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- Sunrise Mirror, Mono Lake
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- Autumn Snow, El Capitan and Three Brothers Reflection, Yosemite
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- Infinity, Lake Wanaka, New Zealand
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- Double Rainbow, Tunnel View, Yosemite (2009)
Overcoming expectations
And finally, and perhaps most insidious, are the reasons not to photograph even after you’ve made it to the scene. These excuses tend to be conditions-based, usually because we arrived with preconceived expectations that weren’t met: a moonrise (or sunrise, or sunset, or…) blocked by clouds, a potential mirror reflection whipped by wind, a trickling waterfall, and so on….
These are the times to remember that photographic success is limited only by your creative vision, and just because you don’t see a shot, doesn’t mean one isn’t there if you cast your net a little wider. This simple fact is proven over and over in my workshop image review sessions, when everyone in my group shares an image from a location we all photographed together. Not only are my students surprised over and over by what someone else found at a location they photographed too, I often find myself envious of something someone else in my group saw that I missed.
Digging Deep
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- Sunset, Hopi Point, Grand Canyon
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- Lily Reflection, Hawaii Tropical Botanical Garden, Hawaii
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- Frozen Sunset, Vatnajökull Glacier Ice Cave, Iceland
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- Simple Elegance, California Poppy, Sierra Foothills
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- Floating Leaves, Merced River, Yosemite
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- Autumn Swirl, Half Dome, Yosemite
Landing the metaphor
Wildcat Fall is a small, ephemeral cataract tumbling down vertical granite just west of Yosemite Valley on Highway 140. Though it isn’t far from the road, you really can’t see it from your car as you drive by (a higher section is visible if you crane your neck at just the right time and know exactly where to look). The fall runs reliably only a few months each spring, but in wet winters, or after good rain, can spring to life for a few days or weeks. And while I doubt there’s much fishing here, the photography is pretty good.
Despite the quality of this photographic fishing hole, I must confess that I don’t make it to Wildcat Fall very often—there really isn’t enough room for even a moderate-size workshop group to work comfortably, and brilliant sunlight leaks through the leafy canopy for much of the day. (Yes, I know I’m in the midst of a blog post preaching about avoiding excuses such as lousy light, but its proximity to Yosemite Valley means there’s almost always something better to photograph nearby when the light at Wildcat is poor.)
When I arrived at Wildcat Fall on this gray January afternoon, I expected to find the scene I remembered from my previous visit many years earlier. What I found instead was an obstacle course of downed trees, a lot of brush interfering with my preferred photo position, and a huge log embedded the middle of the scene. Faced with all this, I had to decide whether to fish or cut bait—as tempting as it would have been to move to a more promising fishing spot, I decided to wet my line here for a while anyway.
The first thing I did was work my way back across the creek and over a large bolder near the small pool at the base of the fall. From here it became clear that there was really no way to eliminate the photobombing log, so I just leaned into it and made the log the foundation of my foreground. Then I shifted among the boulders until I found an angle that worked, eventually ending up directly in front of the fall. To minimize the (abundant) peripheral busyness, I chose a vertical orientation and framed it tight. I went with f/16 and focused near the middle of the log ensure front-to-back sharpness. And with every square inch of my scene wet and glazed by distracting glare, carefully dialing my polarizer was a significant improvement.
Given the dense overgrowth, late afternoon dimness, small aperture, and maximum polarization, I knew freezing the plummeting water would be impossible at any reasonable ISO. And since the motion blur difference with any shutter speed longer than 1/2 second was pretty much indiscernible, I just went with my camera’s native (best quality) 100 ISO and let the shutter speed fall where it may.
I’ll fully admit that this catch isn’t the grand eye-popper that will make me rich, but working hard to reel in something that pleases me is far more satisfying than any big one that might jump right into my boat.
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More Intimate Waterfalls
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Speaking of Highlights…
Posted on April 12, 2025
Frozen Canyon, Fjadrargljufur, Iceland
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/11
1/50 second
Fjadrargljufur, Iceland
In our annual Iceland photo workshop, Don Smith and I start with an assortment of must-see locations we’d be remiss to pass on: Kirkjufell, Glacier Lagoon, Diamond Beach, and Vestrahorn, to name a few. These Iceland highlights are well-known and photographed enough that they probably had much to do with the workshop students decision to sign-up for the workshop in the first place. But Iceland’s winter conditions, though not as cold as you might expect, can be quite harsh and unpredictable. So each, using the insights of our local guides, Don and I work to identify “new” (to us) highlights that enable us to pivot our original plan when conditions dictate. With several new waterfalls explored, this year had already been especially productive in the new options department when we explored Fjadrargljufur.
Fjadrargljufur is a short, narrow canyon carved into ancient lava flows by the Fjaðrá River. Just inland from Iceland’s rugged South Coast, access to Fjadrargljufur is via a steep (-ish), but well maintained, trail that offers several vantage points to catch your breath as you gaze up or down the canyon. After hiking a little less than a mile, you reach the trail’s end and are rewarded for your effort by two waterfalls and multiple vantage points from which to photograph them.
While not as well known as many Iceland natural icons, Fjadrargljufur is far from anonymous, so we weren’t the only ones there. But instead of the crowds that can clog some locations, the other visitors here were a complete non-factor. Last year, on our first visit to Fjadrargljufur, dense fog, snow flurries, and an icy trail prevented us from venturing far enough up the canyon to view the waterfalls. Nevertheless, we saw enough to know that this was a spot worth returning to and we were happy to make that happen this year.
On this visit we found a little snow and ice on the ground, but the trail was in much better condition. In locations like this, with well-defined trails and no forks to cause confusion (and especially when a lot physical exertion is required), we usually give everyone a be-back time and set them free to explore at their own pace. So, following a brief orientation, the group spread quickly—some didn’t venture beyond the closer (and less physically demanding) vistas, but about half of the group made it all the way to the waterfall reward at trail’s end.
I spent most of my time at Fjadrargljufur photographing the waterfalls, but as I started the walk back, I was stopped by the down-canyon view. The dense clouds that had been with us all morning had thinned, pouring sunlight into the canyon and illuminating rich green moss hugging the rocks. And the clouds that earlier had spread a homogenous, gray blanket overhead, were suddenly suffused with personality that shifted by the minute.
Surveying the scene for a composition, I knew that any camera would struggle to capture the extreme difference between the darkest shadows in the canyon and bright clouds. I also knew that my camera (Sony a7R V) would be up to the task, but only if I took extreme care with my exposure.
I digress…
In difficult exposure scenes, the single most important concern is sparing the highlights. First, since the human eye is always drawn to the brighter areas of an image (the brighter it is, the greater the attraction), blown highlights will be the first thing viewers see. If your subject is in shade surrounded by sunlight, you’re there at the wrong time. (Yes, I know that, like everything else in photography, there are exceptions, but they’re few and far between.) And second, dark shadows are usually easier to recover than bright highlights in post-processing.
This seems like a good time to mention the single biggest mistake I see workshop students make: Using the LCD preview image to make exposure decisions, instead of using the histogram. The LCD image is for composition; for exposure, you have to use the histogram. In fact, in a high dynamic range scene (a scene with dark shadows and bright highlights), if the image looks good on the back of your camera (the LCD image preview), you have almost certainly overexposed the highlights or underexposed the shadows beyond recovery.
Most common are already-bright sky scenes made impossibly bright by an inexperienced photographer exposing to make the shadows look good—the consequence is a completely white sky, or (at best) a sky with most of its color washed out. Another common rookie mistake is underexposing the sky to 0ver-saturate sunset color—the resulting sunset might look beautiful, but pulling up the shadows later will reveal mushy, detail-robbing noise.
In a properly exposed high dynamic range scene, on the camera the shadows will look a little too dark, and the highlights will look a little to bright, but neither will be too extreme to recover in post-processing (Lightroom/Photoshop for me). The best way to ensure the best possible exposure is to monitor and trust the histogram, regardless of what you see on your LCD. Want to learn more?
So anyway…
Fjadrargljufur Preview and Histogram: This is my original, unedited capture
As I always do in high dynamic range scenes like this, I started by working out my composition, taking extreme care to avoid cutting off the dark cloud that was soaring farther skyward by the second. Since motion and depth of field weren’t a factor in my composition, I just went with ISO 100 and f/11, and focused at infinity (somewhere down the canyon). That left my shutter speed to control my exposure.
With an eye on my live-view (pre-capture) histogram, I slowly lengthened the shutter time (slower shutter speed) until the histogram graph bumped up against the right side. My primary exposure concern was sparing the far more important, and more difficult to recover, highlights—even though the histogram showed my shadows were still slightly clipped, I knew my camera well enough to be confident that I could recover them later.
To illustrate why exposure decisions should never be based on the camera’s LCD preview image, I’ve shared the jpeg preview of the original raw file that appeared on my LCD, with the Lightroom version of the histogram. While the canyon looked quite dark, and the sky looked much too bright, my histogram told me everything was recoverable. Had I tried to make an image shadows or highlights that looked good, the other side of the exposure continuum would have been unusable.
Believe it or not, this file was extremely easy to process. With just two moves in Lightroom—pulling the Shadows slider to the right (+100), and the Highlights slider to the left (-100)—the scene instantly looked very close to finished result. After that, most of my processing work was minor refinements and some dodging and burning.
Speaking of Highlights…
When a workshop group spreads as far and wide as we did on this visit, it’s always fun to hear everyone’s report once we’re back on the bus. Even though people were photographing different things on our Fjadrargljufur visit, the enthusiasm seemed pretty unanimous. Of course we keep finding new locations (this year was especially productive), so it’s impossible to say we’ll be able to make it to all of the “keepers” every year, but given Iceland’s changeable and potentially extreme winter conditions, it’s always nice to be armed with more highlights than we can use.
Trusting My Histogram
Breaking My Own Rules
Posted on April 3, 2025
Follow the Lights, Snaefellsnes Peninsula, Iceland
Sony α1
Sony 14mm f/1.8 GM
ISO 3200
f/1.8
6 seconds
My goal is to create images that celebrate Nature, images that allow viewers to imagine a world untouched by humankind. So it makes sense that I avoid including anything manmade in my images. But I also rail against (most) camera clubs for their rule-bound creative constipation, and those strong feelings collided earlier this year on a chilly January night Iceland. I resolved the conflict by reminding myself that any time I’m following rules (even my own rules), I’m not being creative.
Earlier in my photographic life I was somewhat less discriminating with my subject choices. In fact, I’d actively seek any outdoor subject that I found beautiful, regardless of its origins. Though many of my bridge and skyline images from those days were on (or atop) my personal bestseller list ($$$), as my career evolved, I found myself resenting humankind’s intrusion on the natural world and became less inclined to validate that intrusion with a photograph. These subject choices eventually, and pretty organically (not consciously), evolved into my present style: photograph the world untouched by humans, which made the mere presence of a building, fence, path, or human being reason enough to put my camera down.
I don’t think it’s wrong to photograph manmade objects—in fact I enjoy others’ photos of a wide variety of subjects outside my wheelhouse—it’s just that I’m not personally drawn to photograph them. But since I am still a photographer at heart, it’s difficult to pass beauty of any sort. In recent years, I’ve scratched the itch to preserve “unnatural” beauty with my iPhone. Though I rarely do anything with these images spontaneous snaps, somehow knowing I’ve saved the scene makes me feel better.
Since becoming so hardcore about avoiding manmade objects, I have encountered a handful of scenes that tested my resolve. For example, there was that frigid night beneath the Milky Way atop Mauna Kea in Hawaii, when a giant telescope made too perfect a foreground to ignore. And the night, also beneath the Milky Way, at Cape Royal on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, when a SpaceX Falcon 9 rocket photobombed my scene—that time I almost resisted photographing it, and am so glad I didn’t.
But whether it’s a streaking rocket, dilapidated fence, or photogenic bridge, some things are too beautiful not to preserve just because of some self-imposed rule. Most recently, on this January night in Iceland the northern lights outperformed our most unrealistic expectations, but for a little while the best display included a road and our hotel. (I already described that night in my recent Shock and Awe blog post, so I won’t bore you again with the story.)
Night Lights, Snaefellsnes Peninsula, Iceland
For most this night’s kaleidoscope display, the aurora danced beautifully above snowy peaks and pristine snowfields—dark sky and no human intrusion involved. But as usually happens in the most intense aurora shows, the lights weren’t limited to the northern sky, and this evening they seemed to be especially drawn westward, where the “highway” (in the sense that it’s the main route encircling Snaefellsnes—we didn’t see a single car while we were out there) and the lights of our small hotel intruded on any scene I could imagine.
Nevertheless, I regularly checked-in on the rest of the sky and at one point just couldn’t ignore what was happening in the west. Grabbing my tripod/camera, I hustled to the road to look for any composition that might work. It was immediately obvious that the road would be unavoidable, but I saw that by moving farther west, I could at least eliminate the hotel and a few other minor distractions.
Given that the road was a non-negotiable condition of photographing in this direction, I just decided to lean into it and make the gently curving blacktop into an actual subject that guided the eye skyward. Orienting my camera vertically maximized the aurora and highway, and minimized potential distractions on the periphery. I only took a couple of frames in this direction, and it wasn’t until I saw the results on my camera that I realized how much I like this “unnatural,” rule-breaking image.
Don Smith and I just added a 2026 Iceland Northern Lights workshop
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Human Interference
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If You Can’t Join Them, Beat Them
Posted on March 27, 2025
Frozen Sunset, Vatnajökull Glacier Ice Cave, Iceland
Sony a7R V
Sony 12-24 GM
1/20 second
F/5.6
ISO 100
If you’ve ever photographed the slot canyons of Northern Arizona, you have some idea of the Iceland ice cave experience. Beautiful for sure, but mixing herds of gawking tourists with tripod wielding photographers, in a confined space, is also a recipe for frustration. While I’d say that Upper and Lower Antelope Canyons (the most popular of the Arizona slots) are probably more crowded than the Iceland ice caves I’ve visited (but not by a lot), slot canyons are rarely dark enough to compel visitors to don headlamps in the middle of the day. And as most photographers would agree, the only thing more frustrating than waiting for someone to douse their headlamp so you can start your exposure, is being in the middle of an exposure when someone activates their headlamp.
With larger “rooms” connected by twisting passages that can be small enough to require squeezing through or ducking your head (sometimes both), slot canyons and ice caves have much in common. While these similar features are a big part of the appeal that draws tens of thousands of visitors each year, the similarities don’t translate to the light. In a slot canyon, sunlight pouring through one narrow overhead opening creates bouncing light and dramatic contrast. Conversely, an ice cave is evenly illuminated by translucent ceilings and walls that steep its narrow confines in soft, shadowless light.
The big attraction at the slot canyons (though in my opinion, a little overrated), is the shafts of light that spotlight the red sandstone on sunny days. The fact that these shafts are only possible midday is no secret, which means photographers have to choose between battling nearly incomprehensible crowds, or missing the main event (while enduring simply moderate crowds).
That’s different from the ice cave experience, where consistent light spreads the crowds more evenly across the day. Early in our Iceland experience, Don Smith and I learned that the best way to avoid joining the ice cave crowds is to beat them—no, (tempting as it may be) not with a tripod, with the clock. Since most of the non-photography public has an aversion to going out before the sun (even, experience has shown, when sun doesn’t appear until 10 a.m.), departing for the ice cave early enough to arrive on the front-end of Iceland’s long, gray dawn can provide up to an hour of relative peace before the large vans start unloading. Of course this strategy means sacrificing a sunrise shoot (since we’ll be in the ice cave when the sun comes up), but the trade-off is usually worth it.
We learned this year that beating the crowd doesn’t necessarily mean getting out there before them—it can also mean outlasting them. Turns out another thing tourists hate is being late for dinner. So this year (as I wrote in last week’s blog), when extreme wind threatened our planned Vestrahorn sunset shoot, Don and I flipped our usual beat-the-crowd strategy upside-down and did the ice cave at the end of the day, hopeful for quality time in the ice cave after the tourists cleared out.
As soon as we arrived, we were jolted by all the frustrations inherent in mixing tourists and photographers in a confined space—each time we were lucky enough to encounter an empty space, before the group could set up and start shooting, the next herd of bobbing headlamps would approach from one direction or the other to shuffle through our scene like a slow moving freight.
While deep shadows and brilliant walls make dynamic range the greatest photographic challenge in a slot canyon, in the darkest parts of an ice cave (deep in the glacier, or smothered beneath several feet of snow on the surface), the biggest obstacle is having enough light to compose and focus, as well as the extreme ISO and long exposures an ice cave’s darkness requires. That’s why many photographers augment their ice cave images with artificial light, which of course leaks into each nearby photographer’s frame whether they want it or not. Fortunately, most ice caves have enough bright areas to satisfy those of us who only use natural light.
Much of this year’s ice cave (the location and layout can vary from year-to-year) was large enough, and bright enough, that, while waiting for the crowds to clear, I had no problem identifying lots of natural light scenes to photograph later. In the meantime, I turned my camera and 24-105 lens toward scallops and ridges etched in the cerulean ice overhead. As I worked, groups ambled by in both directions, but after a while I noticed that all of the intruders were moving toward the exit—a very good sign. Before long, we had the entire place to ourselves, with nearly an hour of useable light remaining.
Remembering similar experiences, both in slot canyons and previous ice caves, I relished another opportunity to worship in the cathedral surroundings. By this time, most everyone in the group had dispersed to their own happy places, and I felt free to explore on my own, or with one or two others. At one point I found myself in a large chamber illuminated by a battery powered LED installed by the guides. When I asked our guide to extinguish the light, the room instantly became so dark that even 30-second exposures at 12800 ISO barely registered on my LCD.
With the clock ticking, I quickly returned to the relative brightness of the cave’s main halls and chambers, spending the rest of my time working the scenes I’d identified earlier. Time flew—when the cave started to darken and I saw fewer and fewer people from the group, I started backtracking to the exit (which had also been the entrance).
On my way back, suspecting everyone (myself included!) had memory cards brimming with beautiful images, I started congratulating our decision to forego sunset in favor of the ice cave’s calm confines—who needs a sunset anyway? But when I turned the final corner and saw sunset-gold framed by blue ice, I stopped in my tracks—all this, plus a sunset? It hardly seemed fair.
With the light fading and most of the group already outside, I had to work fast. (I wanted as much time as possible, but it’s never a good look when the leader is the person everyone is waiting for.) So I set up quickly, opting for my 12-24 lens to include as much of the sculpted blue chamber as possible. I dropped as low I could, dialed the lens all the way out to 12mm, and angled up to emphasize the icy blue ceiling over the rocky brown floor (duh).
The exposure was quite tricky, because the light outside was so much brighter than inside the cave. Once my scene was composed and focused, I adjusted my shutter speed with an eye on the histogram, pushing the highlights all the way to the right border. The LCD preview showed a bright (but not blown) sky and nearly black ice cave, but my confidence in my Sony sensor was validated when I processed the image in Lightroom/Photoshop. (As with all my images, this was a single click—no blending exposures.) On my LCD, the only thing visible inside the cave was the sunset reflection on the ceiling, a bonus I hadn’t counted on.
I only had time for a half-dozen or so frames before I heard the approaching voices of the group’s final stragglers and quickly collapsed my tripod to beat them out of cave.
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Ice Caves and Slot Canyons
Eloquent Images by Gary Hart 