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.
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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
Making the Scene
Posted on March 18, 2025
Natural Window, Skutafoss, Iceland
Sony α1
Sony 16-35 GM
10 seconds
f/16
ISO 50
Every photographer loves creating unique images. Planning workshops more than a year in advance, I always try to maximize my groups’ chances for macro events might enable my group to capture something special—things like Horsetail Fall or a moonrise in Yosemite, lightning at Grand Canyon, the Milky Way in New Zealand or Grand Canyon, and the northern lights in Iceland. (I’m not complaining,) but this life puts me at the same locations year after year—if I’m not careful, after a few visits, even images featuring these spectacular macro phenomena risk looking the same.
Of course even the most rigorous advance planning can’t guarantee success. Ultimately, photographers are beholden to the ephemeral micro-conditions, the play of weather and light, to set our images apart. Whether it’s a workshop or a personal trip, whatever condition cards I’m dealt, my job is to read them and get the most out of every shoot. And I’ve come to realize that I enjoy the image building part of photography as much as I enjoy the scenes themselves.
Meanwhile, back in Iceland
Don Smith and I schedule our Iceland workshop for January or February for the long nights that maximize our northern lights odds, and also because in general we find Iceland’s winter photography so extraordinary. But winter in Iceland also means working within the constraints of potentially extreme conditions. As much as we try to avoid taking our groups to locations we’ve never visited, or even taking them to familiar locations at unfamiliar times, sometimes it’s unavoidable. And sometimes it just works out.
For example, Don and I have always had great success photographing Vestrahorn at sunset, so that’s always how our schedule is laid out when we start. Similarly, we like doing the Vatnajökull (glacier) ice cave before sunrise on the next morning after Vestrahorn because it allows us to get out there up to an hour before the crowds (think Antelope Canyon in blue). But when we saw extreme wind (extreme even for Iceland) forecast for our planned Vestrahorn afternoon, our guide, Siggi, suggested we flip the ice cave and Vestrahorn shoots—we’d take advantage of the shelter provided by the ice cave during the windiest part of the afternoon, then do Vestrahorn for sunrise the next morning. (This is why we always have a local guide.) Vestrahorn, Siggi pointed out that Vestrahorn can be just as nice at sunrise as it is at sunset, and to sweeten the pot, he told us the new plan would enable us to photograph Skutafoss, a little waterfall (that we’d never heard of) just up the road from Vestrahorn.
Since Skutafoss was just a last-minute bonus brought by our decision to move Vestrahorn to morning (rather than a featured location important enough to build our day around), I knew we couldn’t be strategic about our arrival time—we’d just have to take the conditions as we found them. But, regardless of the conditions, we rationalized that at the very least we’d be getting our eyes on a new location, and the group would have another waterfall to add to their Iceland portfolios. And our ice cave and Vestrahorn shoots were so successful, by the time we wrapped up at Vestrahorn, we knew anything else would be a bonus.
We found the sky at Skutafoss filled with fast-moving, saturated clouds that stood out against a translucent stratus layer. The overcast infused the entire scene with soft, low-contrast light, ideal for photographing flowing water. And it didn’t take long to appreciate that the darker clouds were interesting enough to be actual compositional elements by themselves.
Before pointing us to the short trail to the fall, Siggi pointed out that overnight rain had expanded the main cataract into three distinct falls, one more piece of good fortune. Heading upstream through sparse snow flurries, I made note of a couple of nearby peaks that might provide balancing elements for my foreground subjects. Despite no strategy going into the timing of our arrival at Skutafoss, things were starting to look promising. Nevertheless, my enthusiasm remained tempered until I rounded a corner and spotted a broad cave, about 20 feet deep, next to the fall’s primary stream. Instantly, I started mentally strategizing ways to position myself in the cave and using the walls to frame the scene.
Skutafoss, Iceland
Of course others in the group had similar thoughts (I started to point it out, but they’d already identified the opportunity), so when others beelined to the cave, I spent a few minutes photographing the fall from downstream. Fortunately, there was room for everyone in the cave, and by the time I made my way in, some had already moved on, giving the rest of us more room to roam and build visual relationships.
I started with a horizontal frame, positioning the only peak visible (from this perspective) a little left of center to balance the waterfall. Before clicking, I made sure to get just enough rock at the top to make a natural border (but not so much that it overpowered the rest of the scene), and took care not to cut off the pool lapping near my feet. I also dropped my camera low enough to prevent the ceiling from obscuring the scooting clouds. With my frame, position, exposure, and focus set, I used a polarizer to remove the sheen from the water and wet rocks. I adjusted my ISO to vary my shutter speed and achieve different motion effects.
After working the horizontal composition to death, I thought I’d try something vertical. For the horizontal compositions, I’d positioned myself so the peak was offset enough to balance the fall, but switching to vertical, I moved to the right to align the peak and fall—but not so far right that the big cascade occluded the two smaller beyond. For these vertical frames, putting about the same amount of rock at the top gave me plenty of room to avoid cutting off the pool below. But a narrower vertical frame did mean that I had take care that the left side didn’t cut off the whitewater beneath the fall.
After finishing in the cave, a short-but-steep trail up to the top of the fall revealed more great stuff. In fact, going through my images later, I was pretty pleased with my results from each of the three vantage points I tried: downstream, looking up at the fall with rocks and whitewater in the foreground; inside the cave; and above, where I found a different peak above the small canyon feeding the fall. I chose to start with the images inside the cave because I found them most unique, but I imagine (fingers crossed) I’ll eventually get to the others.
I know when I return to Skutafoss (and I will), the conditions will likely be different, and my process will probably be different as well. But for every location I visit and enjoy as much as this one, I find that reviewing the thumbnails of that shoot, then reverse engineering my scene-building process, keeps the scene fresh in my mind. Not only does this exercise benefit my next visit, it helps keep my scene building instincts fresh. (And it’s a lot of fun, too.)
More Waterfalls
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Twin Peaks
Posted on March 7, 2025
Blue Hour Reflection, Vestrahorn, Iceland
Sony a7R V
Sony 12-24 GM
1/6 second
F/10
ISO 125
In the canon of iconic Iceland mountains, Vestrahorn is rivaled only by Kirkjufell, the much-photographed wizard-hat on Snaefellsnes Peninsula. While Kirkjufell’s acclaim is much deserved, as a photographer, one thing in particular that distinguishes Vestrahorn from Kirkjufell for me is its variety of compositional options.
Winter Chill, Kirkjufell and Kirkjufellsfoss, Iceland
Kirkjufell is arguably Iceland’s most visually striking mountain, but the vantage points from which to photograph its distinctive outline are for the most part limited to the trail that starts at the parking lot, climbs briefly to a small bridge, then circles down a short but steep slope. I’ve never been there in summer, but in winter it’s pretty difficult to venture anywhere off this trail.
I can’t discount the fact that Kirkjufell also comes with its very own foreground waterfall, but Vestrahorn (despite lacking a waterfall of its own) has acres and acres of diverse terrain for a creative (and mobile) photographer to explore. So expansive and varied is the surrounding terrain, I’ve been coming here since 2019 and am still finding completely new foregrounds to add to my Vestrahorn images.
Exploring for new foregrounds is probably my favorite part of photographing popular subjects. The first two or three years I visited Vestrahorn, I’d do most of my photography at the beach, where the barely sloping sand stretches far into the distant surf, and the area separating the beach from open ocean is (I estimate) at least a half mile—distant enough that the swells (finally) break on the sand as the smallest, least aggressive waves imaginable.
Vestrahorn Reflection, Stokksnes Beach, Iceland
Once reaching the beach, what these waves lack in height, they more than make up for in length, gently washing up a hundred yards or more onto the black sand, before running out of gas and slowly sweeping back. In their wake is an ephemeral mirror that, when timed right (before the water percolates into the sand, or is overrun by the next wave), paints the bottom half of any image with an inverted duplicate of Vestrahorn and its surroundings. And because these waves are so low and slow, it’s possible to safely stand in the approaching surf wearing mid-calf waterproof boots, and keep your socks completely dry.
But the experience at the beach isn’t all about reflections. Each wave deposits, or repositions, an assortment of shells and smooth stones. After tiring of photographing reflections, I’ll often switch to these transient elements for my foreground. Other times, I’ll make my foreground all about the waves themselves, capturing the intersecting lines and arcs of waves arriving at different times and angles, or playing with long exposures to blur the leading or trailing edges advancing or receding water. And depending on how I time these shots, it’s also possible to create single frames that include reflection, shells/stones, and wave effects.
As much as I enjoy playing with all the visual elements at the beach, a couple of years ago I decided I should spend more time in the dunes. I’ve photographed the dunes of Death Valley and White Sands quite a bit, but these dunes are completely different. For starters, they’re black. They’re also much smaller, and capped with patches of grass like blonde toupees. But their small size, easy navigability, and distinctive curves are ideal for strategic juxtaposition, allowing me, with careful positioning, to assemble them into strong foreground elements that guide the eye elegantly to the mountain and sky beyond.
Winter Twilight, Vestrahorn and Dunes, Iceland
And then there are the components that vary with each Vestrahorn visit: clouds, light, snow, and ice. On last year’s visit, we didn’t have a lot of snow and ice, but the sunset light was off the charts, allowing me to capture one of my favorite Vestrahorn images that used an ultra-wide lens to fill my frame with the nearby dunes and colorful clouds, while shrinking the massive mountain to a small, distantive centerpiece.
Don Smith and I have been bringing our Iceland photo workshop groups to Vestrahorn for as long as we’ve been visiting Iceland. It’s always been a sunset spot, but one thing we’ve learned after many years photographing Iceland in winter is the need to constantly monitor the weather and stay flexible. Which is why we rely heavily on our Icelandic guides, and almost always follow their experience-based advice. This year’s Vestrahorn visit was a perfect example.
Our original plan was Vestrahorn for sunset, and the ice cave for the next morning. But this year the threat of extreme wind on our Vestrahorn afternoon caused us to flip-flop our sunset/sunrise locations so we’d be in the sheltered ice cave when the wind was strongest. This ice cave worked out great, and the next morning we traveled to Vestrahorn for our first-ever sunrise here.
Our group arrived in the blue hour and scattered almost instantly. Though Vestrahorn gets nice light at both sunrise and sunset, this time it wasn’t sunrise light or color that excited them, but rather, the spectacular clouds swirling about the peak, As I made my way around to check on everyone in the chilly twilight, I soon found myself beyond the dunes to an area of shallow pools I knew of, but had never photographed. Usually these pools are frozen, creating intricate patterns that make excellent foregrounds themselves, but this year, instead of ice we got blue-gray reflections of the mountain and clouds, framed by frozen sand.
Blue Hour Reflection, Vestrahorn, Iceland
Walking the perimeter of the largest pool while helping one of my workshop students identify a suitable foreground, I pointed out a mini-cove that seemed to cradle Vestrahorn. After my student finished with his shot, I stepped in to try a composition of my own. After working the scene for a couple of minutes, I was so excited by what I saw on the back of my camera, I walked around herding as many in my group as I could find over to this spot. Unfortunately, not everyone made it before the clouds descended and obscured much of the peak, but by that time it seemed that most of the group had found something that pleased them before the mountain went away.
My point is not that Vestrahorn is “better” than Kirkjufell (or vice-versa). But based on the photos shared by others, it does seem that Kirkjufell gets more attention than Vestrahorn. And I will say that if the joy you get from photography is found in creating unique images rather than collecting icons (not that there’s anything wrong with that), you might just be happier at Vestrahorn.
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Twin Peaks
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Shock and Awe
Posted on February 27, 2025
Night Lights, Snaefellsnes Peninsula, Iceland
Sony α1
Sony 14mm f/1.8 GM
ISO 3200
f/1.8
5 seconds
That night at dinner, one person in the workshop group asked if there was a chance we’d see the northern lights, or if he could safely have another beer. I laughed and told him, while I can’t predict the future, I’d be shocked if the northern lights happened this night and to just go ahead and have that beer. I’ve never been happier to be wrong (and that my advice didn’t ruin his evening).
Each winter Don Smith and I do a winter workshop in Iceland. There are many reasons to visit Iceland in winter, but for most of our workshop students, at the top of the list is the northern lights. Because northern lights success doesn’t just happen, each day Don and I powwow with our Iceland guide to assess our odds for aurora success that night, and to plan our strategy to be there when it happens. We base these decisions on forecast aurora activity, expected cloud coverage, dark sky (no light pollution) views of the northern sky, and the experience we’ve gained from prior northern lights shoots.
Our second night on Snaefellsnes Peninsula (the workshop’s third night), the expected KP-index (the universally accepted 0 to 9 scale of aurora activity) was a very disappointing 1—about as low as we ever see in Iceland. Worse still, an incoming storm had already started to spread clouds, further reducing the night’s aurora expectations.
But regardless of the target (aurora, lightning, Milky Way, and so on), past surprises have taught us to never not have a plan in the event of the unexpected, so at dinner this evening we laid out the bad news to the group, but promised to keep an eye on the sky and notify them if anything changes. Though the incoming storm meant we wouldn’t be able to drive to another location if the aurora surprised us, we told the group that just across the road from our remote hotel was an unobstructed, dark-sky view of the northern sky above snowy peaks—perfect for the northern lights.
With a plan in place, everyone retreated to their rooms for the night with the lowest of expectations. At about 9:30 I was still up, answering e-mails and doing other boring business stuff, when I glanced at my phone and saw at least a dozen notifications from the WhatsAp Iceland group thread. Well that’s interesting…
It seems that Siggi, our exceptional Icelandic guide, had gone outside at around 9:15 and discovered clear skies and aurora. Without bothering to read all the other exclamations from the group, I bundled up, grabbed my gear, and rushed out as fast as I could. I expected something similar to the aurora display we had over Kirkjufell the prior night—enough to show up in the camera, but not bright enough for our eyes to register—but as soon as I stepped out into the cold and looked up, I spotted a soaring shaft of light that told me tonight would be different. Much different.
I hurried to the outline of photographers assembled across the road and quickly trudged through two feet of snow to set up at barbed wire fence. Out here, away from the hotel’s lights, it was even more apparent that something special was underway.
Don, Siggi, and I had prepared the group for photographing the northern lights, but with any type of night photography, there’s no substitute for experience. Since this was the first aurora experience for many in the group, I spent my first few minutes out there moving around, helping get people up to speed. While focus is always tricky at night, aurora focus is no different than any other night scene. The greatest challenge for aurora first timers, even those with lots of night experience, is the need to constantly monitor the rapidly changing exposure. An exposure bright enough to reveal foreground detail and aurora color one minute, might completely blow out the aurora the next. And a 15 second exposure might be fine when the aurora is changing slowly, but it blurs intricate detail when the aurora’s activity ramps up. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for everyone to settle in, and soon my instructions were down to occasional shouts reminding everyone that the brightness had changed, or to point out a different area of the sky that had ramped up.
The WhatsAp notice had gone out to everyone, but I soon realized it had only been a fluke that I’d noticed, so after a few minutes I decided to take attendance. Easier said than done in the extreme darkness, especially since there were a few people out there who weren’t in our group, and everyone was bundled head-to-toe. But I did determine that Don wasn’t out there, and one other person in the group (turns out there was a second person missing, but we didn’t realize it until the next morning). I called the missing workshop participant first, but that call went straight to voicemail—then another person in the group said she’d called him and he’d decided to pass (apparently he’d been asleep and regrettably wasn’t thinking rationally when he got that call). Don, on the other hand, was especially grateful for the call and made it out in record time.
An aurora show is special anytime, but it wouldn’t be an understatement to say this one truly shocked me by its unexpected splendor that ranks right up there with the very best I’ve seen in my half dozen years of photographing Iceland in winter. It was very bright, covered most of the sky, and was infused with lots of red, but what stood out most for me this evening was the dancing waves and shafts that twisted and fold right before our awestruck eyes.
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Iceland Aurora Collection, 2019 – 2025
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Eloquent Images by Gary Hart 