Surprise Sunset
Posted on January 31, 2025
Moon and Clouds Reflection, Half Dome, Yosemite
Sony α1
Sony 16-35 GM
1/6 second
F/10
ISO 100
Greetings from Iceland. Running a workshop that starts before the sun and often goes deep into the night doesn’t leave a lot of time for blogging. But I want to share this image from earlier this month in Yosemite, along with a few paragraphs about its capture.
We all long for drama in our landscape images, and I try to time each of my workshops to maximize the chances of a special event. Case in point is my recent Yosemite Winter Moon workshop—winter to maximize the chances for snow and dramatic clouds; moon because photographing a moon rising above Yosemite Valley is a fantastic Plan B when the snow and clouds don’t come through.
Unfortunately, Central California has experienced an exceptionally dry winter so far, and what precipitation has reached Yosemite Valley so far has fallen as rain. Of course this is Yosemite, so it’s not as if my January group had nothing to photograph. And the clear skies forecast were great news for the workshop’s grand finale, a full moon rising full moon peeking up from behind El Capitan right at sunset. I photograph a lot of Yosemite moonrises, but this moonrise (that I’d specifically targeted when scheduling the workshop) was especially exciting to me because usually it rises somewhere south of El Capitan, and I’d never photographed it this far north and so close to El Capitan’s summit.
But that wasn’t until our very last shoot—in the meantime, I had a workshop to run. Even without snow and clouds, we enjoyed some really spectacular photography throughout: rainbows on both upper and lower Yosemite Fall (though spring is when Yosemite Falls gets the most water, winter is when it gets the best light). In addition to all that, several last-minute cancellations meant a smaller than usual group, allowing me to take them to a couple of spots that I feel are too small for larger groups.
Throughout the workshop I obsessively monitored the forecast, checking for the chance of even a few clouds to decorate our skies, each time finding absolutely no reason for optimism. But we persisted, concentrating on being in the best place for the warm early and late light, and the rest of the day on locations that don’t need a great (or any) sky.
Even though the prime moonrise wasn’t until our final night, throughout the workshop the moon would still be overhead at sunset as it approaches full (hanging a little lower each evening until the night it’s full), so I try to pick my sunset spots to provide an opportunity to add the moon as an accent to my chosen scene. Which is how we ended up at this bend in the Merced River near Leidig Meadow, two days before our target moonrise.
After a short walk, we arrived about 45 minutes before sunset, and I was shocked to see actual clouds overhead. Not just everyday, ordinary clouds, but an ordered formation of cumulus puffs marching left-to-right toward Half Dome as if divinely summoned, already reflecting the golden light of the low sun—a beautiful harbinger of even greater things to come. Far overhead floated the waxing gibbous moon, 90% of the way to full. And in front of us drifted the Merced River, wide and slow enough to paint a perfect reflection of the entire scene.
With low expectations for anything new at this scene I’ve photographed dozens (hundreds?) of times before, I’d arrived without my camera bag. Oops. Fortunately, the car was just a five minute walk back and I quickly decided this evening might just be worth fetching my camera.
I’m so glad I did, because the light on the clouds that evening hung in there all the way until sunset, gradually shifting from amber, to peach, to a brilliant pink, before finally deepening and fading.
We all photographed fast and furious, trying to keep up with the changing color, and to get as many versions of the scene as possible. I shot it horizontal and vertical, wide and tight, finally settling on this image to process (though I reserve the right to process more later), a vertical composition just wide enough to include a tiny dollop of moon and its reflection.
The clouds were moving fast, and by the time the light left and we’d walked back to the car, they were already exiting behind Half Dome. I saw no forecast for that day that even hinted at clouds anywhere in California. For all I know, they were the only clouds anywhere in the state this evening, but it’s experiences like this that remind me that forecasts are imperfect, and never a reason to completely shut the door on going out with my camera. In fact, the Iceland workshop group had just one of those experiences last night, but you’ll need to wait a couple of weeks to hear that story….
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A Sunset Collection
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The Best Camera Is…
Posted on January 22, 2025
Framed Reflection, El Capitan, Yosemite
Apple iPhone 16 Pro
24mm focal length equivalent
ISO 64
f/1.8
1/1150 second
… The one that’s with you
Yes, I know it’s a cliché, but like most clichés, this one is founded on truth. Even people like me, who pay the bills with our pictures, don’t carry our “real” cameras 24/7. In those instances, when I see beauty I deem worthy of recording, I’m happy that my iPhone (which is always with me) gives me serviceable images.
Mobile Dinosaur
In my prior post, I listed 10 reasons to become a nature photographer. Number one was saving memories; number three was low-cost start-up, and cited the very good cameras included in every smartphone.
I resort to iPhone photography not to save money, but for convenience in day-to-day living. Virtually all of my iPhone photos are quick snaps of transient life moments, from special family times that I want to save, to quirky observations worthy of sharing (like a dinosaur riding in the back of a pickup on Highway 99), to simply saving things I don’t want to forget (for example, a business card, or a humorous comment on my daily Starbucks drink).
Inner Beauty, Japanese Maple, Portland Japanese Garden
I’m definitely not one of those photographers who actively pursues creative smartphone photography, but I don’t hesitate to pull out my iPhone when natural beauty moves me and my adult equipment isn’t available. Though the resulting images rarely amount to anything, the simple ability to save the moment gives me comfort.
On the other hand, there was that time in May 2023, when my iPhone enabled me to capture the famous maple tree at the Portland Japanese Garden. I’d arrived just hoping to get a simple snap of the celebrity tree, but soon found myself in full photographer mode, switching my phone to raw capture, dropping down to grass level, and going ultra-wide to get an angle that emphasized the web-like canopy and its shadow on the grass. Even though there are already thousands of similar images of this beautiful little tree, my own version turned out to be one of my favorites of the year.
In that case, I was on vacation with my wife and had made the conscious decision before leaving not to take my camera gear, with zero regrets. The situation behind today’s image, that found me with my workshop group a mile or so downriver from El Capitan, was a little different.
It was earlier this month, and I’d taken my group to a view of El Capitan that I’ve photographed so many times, in far more photogenic conditions, that I didn’t expect to find anything new. Given the blank sky, I just left my camera bag in the car and I guided them on the short walk to my spot, fully intending to simply enjoy the view.
I actually have history with this location that goes way back to my earliest digital photography days. One night I was here with my Canon 10D for moonlight photography. Perched 15 vertical feet above the Merced River, I set up my tripod and reached for my 17-40 f/4 L lens, but somehow fumbled it into the dark void below. I couldn’t see a thing, but will never forget the sounds: thump (one bounce off the dirt wall), crack (another bounce off a rock), and splash. Without hesitation, I grabbed my tripod and camera bag and pivoted to the car. The next morning I returned, risking life and limb to scramble down to the river, where I eventually extracted my lens from about 18 inches of water. There was no sign of external damage, but the front lens element revealed water to above the mid-point—enough that if this had been a cartoon, I’d no doubt have seen small fish swimming by.
This spot has changed somewhat since then. Directly on the downstream side of a 90-degree bend in the river, 20 or so years of spring high water have eroded the riverbank, at some point taking a fairly large tree with it. Though the route down to the river is still quite steep, it’s no longer as treacherous as it was when I recovered my drowned lens all those years ago. When one of the people in my group found his way down to the river, a couple more followed, and soon I had to climb down to check out the view myself.
I’d never actually photographed from river level here, so it was cool to find a new perspective. As I can’t help doing, even when I don’t have my camera with me, I started composing shots in my head. My eyes went to a nearby pool, mostly walled-off by rocks from the Merced River’s main flow, reflecting nothing but blue sky. But when I got down on my knees and leaned out over the water as low and as far as my body would allow, I found a position that included a mirror reflection of El Capitan’s upper half—definitely photo-worthy. Because I didn’t have my gear, I hailed one of my workshop students and pointed the shot out to him. He came over to check it out, but decided getting his camera in position for the reflection would be a little too treacherous—both for him and his camera.
When he returned to what he’d been working on, I got the bright idea to whip out my iPhone and give it a try. Had I had my own camera and tripod, I might have tried the shot that way, come to the same conclusion my student did, and just forgotten about it. But with my phone, I was able to lie on my stomach, stretch my arm as far across the water as I could, and snap a one-handed picture.
Since I couldn’t actually see the screen while taking that picture, I retracted my arm and reviewed my result. Despite being not straight, and riddled with several other compositional flaws, it was instantly clear that there really was something photo-worthy there. I switched my Camera app to raw capture and tried again. And again, and again, reviewing and refining like this about a half dozen times, until I was satisfied that I’d gotten it right—the last shot I took is the one you see here.
I know people who claim that today’s smartphone cameras rival full frame cameras, and that there really is very little reason to invest in large-sensor mirrorless or DSLR camera systems anymore. And I’ll acknowledge that today’s smartphone cameras are indeed amazing, absolutely worthy of “best” camera status when no other cameras are available. Which is why I’m very happy to have had my iPhone when I came across a view of El Capitan that I didn’t have. For digital display, and even decent size prints, this iPhone image is fine. But at full resolution, when compared side-by-side with this iPhone 16 Pro image, the difference in detail and clarity captured by my full-frame Sony gear is not even close. (Other large-sensor cameras, versus other smartphone cameras, will yield similar differences.) So it should come as no surprise that, for the foreseeable future, I’ll be lugging my full frame cameras, bulky lenses, and sturdy tripod, any time quality is essential.
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Speaking of Seeking Different Views of El Capitan…
Ten Reasons to Take Up Nature Photography
Posted on January 16, 2025
Lunar Peek, Zabriskie Point, Death Valley
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 125
f/11
1/4 second
Recently I was talking to a friend on the cusp of retirement, and while she was looking forward to her impending freedom, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with all her free time. I instantly blurted, “Nature photography!,” then started listing reasons. I surprised even myself with everything I came up with, and how quickly it came, which got me thinking the subject would make a good blog post. So here are my (very biased) thoughts on why nature/landscape photography makes the ideal pastime. (After reviewing the list, it turns out that most of my points apply to many other kinds of photography as well.)
- Save experiences: Ours is a beautiful, dynamic world. Over my lifetime, I’ve been fortunate to have witnessed Nature at its very best, more times than I can count. Though he’s no longer here to thank, for this I’m most grateful to my father—a serious amateur photographer who wouldn’t dream of traveling without a camera—for modeling the importance of recording these moments. It’s no wonder that, almost as soon as I was old enough to make my own major financial decisions, I purchased a 35mm SLR system of my own—mostly because (thanks to my dad) I thought that’s just what adults do. Thanks to my camera, the knowledge that I can revisit Nature’s ephemeral moments any time I want to is a source of great comfort.
- Share experiences: I think my father got as much pleasure sharing his travel experiences as he did recording them. Back in Dad’s time, most non-professional photographers’ images only reached other eyes when (captive?) visitors were sequestered in front a projection screen in a darkened living room (because there was really only one answer to the dreaded question, “Hey, do you want to see the pictures from our vacation?”). And while I won’t pretend Dad never subjected our visitors to the occasional slide show, as a United Methodist minister, he had a whole congregation filled with potential viewers, not to mention access to a large space ideal for sharing. Given the number of people who attended his shows without being compelled or held hostage, I’d say his images were well received. Today, the thrill of taking pictures that please others is as great as it’s ever been, but the opportunities to share them in our digitally connected world have increased exponentially.
- Low start-up cost: Camera gear can be ridiculously expensive, but it doesn’t need to be. Your smartphone will take surprisingly good pictures—good enough to reap most of the benefits listed here long enough to determine whether a bigger investment is justified. And when you do decide you want more serious dedicated photo gear, you can find quality equipment at pretty much any price point. In other words, expense should not be a reason not to pursue photography.
- Flexible income potential: I encounter many people who would like to make a living with their photography. And while there is still excellent money to be made with a camera, nature photography is not among the more lucrative options—not by a long shot (sorry). Fortunately, earning money with a camera doesn’t require you to quit your day job. You can pursue photography as an avocation, reaping the many personal benefits while dipping your toes into selling images (for publication), prints, and services until it grows into something lucrative. That was my path: More than 20 years ago I started doing weekend art shows while keeping my adult job, then gradually segued into workshops, training, and photography-related writing, until I felt confident pursuing photography as a profession. For a while after going fulltime I continued with the art shows, which were both lucrative and fun, but doing art shows and workshops felt like working two different jobs, and the path to a fulltime income with workshops was much clearer, so I dropped the art shows. On the other hand, I know photographers who earn a good living through art and gallery shows. And today, social media has increased the money-making opportunities far beyond what was available when I started.
- See the world (large): Need an excuse, or maybe just a catalyst, to travel? Try photography. It’s easy to get so locked into a day-to-day comfort zone that our dreams of visiting yearned-for locations are never fulfilled. I’m afraid that would probably describe my life were it not for photography. But, going all the way back to when photography was just a hobby, my camera and I have visited remote corners of the globe, enjoyed river rafting adventures in Grand Canyon, and witnessed more celestial and meteorological sights than I ever imagined possible.
- See the world (small): More than just visiting exotic locations, viewing the world with a photographer’s eye enables me to see beauty everywhere, from the distant horizon to right at my feet. I can say with absolute certainty that my own photographer-eyes have become hyperaware of my surroundings, noticing colors, textures, relationships, and minute detail everywhere—not just when I’m actively taking pictures, but pretty much as long as I’m awake: driving, walking, running, or simply sitting still. Not only that, to this day, the more time I spend taking pictures, the more this heightened vision improves.
- Commune with Nature: For many people, myself included, few things are more soothing than quiet time with Nature. This enhanced relationship with the natural world can be active or passive. When I’m immersed in a natural environment, away from the din of “civilization,” all of my senses intensify and seem to work in synergy, providing peace I don’t feel at any other time. But there’s more—even when I’m stuck inside, my life as a photographer inspires me to pursue deeper understanding of my subjects that helps me appreciate them even more.
- Ideal solitary activity: Are you an introvert who recharges by being alone? Nature photography has you covered. I think most of us have times when we just need to dial down the pressures and sensory dissonance of daily life. I can think of no better way than full immersion in the serene sights and sounds of the natural world, completely absent the need to please, impress, or in any other way interact with the rest of the world. When I’m alone in Nature, time seems to stand still, my senses amplify, and my connection to my surrounding is never stronger.
- Ideal group activity: Are you an extrovert who recharges by being around others? Nature photography has you covered. Some of the most memorable experiences of my photography life were made that way because I was able to share them with other like-minded individuals. The joy of these moments is contagious, at times amplified enough by the presence of others to move me to tears.
- Cultivate your creative and analytical brains: I can think of few endeavors that more perfectly blend the right and left brain than photography. Some photographers are drawn by photography’s creative opportunities to view and express the world; others love the technical aspects of managing exposure and focus with their camera’s many controls. While it’s possible to take pictures with just one side of the brain or the other engaged, most people who take up photography are surprised to learn that there is indeed life on the other side of the brain.
About this image
Lunar Peek, Zabriskie Point, Death Valley
The Zabriskie Point moonset is always a highlight of my Death Valley Winter Moon photo workshop. Often we get no clouds, making this sunrise moonset a no-stress event for me. This time (January 2024), when clouds threatened to wash out the shoot entirely, was not one of those events.
The moon was visible above the clouds when we arrived, but the sky was much too dark to capture lunar and foreground detail with one click (my personal requirement). When the moon dropped into the clouds and disappeared completely, I tried to rationalize that at least we’d have nice clouds for our moonless sunrise, but I used all the positive energy I could muster to will the clouds into parting.
Though it lasted for only a couple of minutes, the moon did indeed slip into a small opening long enough for everyone in the group to get a few frames before being swallowed for good. Though only had time for a handful of frames with enough moon to be worthwhile, I think most photographers would take quality over quantity any time.
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The Joy of Nature
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Happy 2025!
Posted on January 1, 2025
I’ve spent the last couple of weeks compiling my favorite images from 2024. It’s an exercise I always look forward to as the year winds down—of course for the opportunity to revisit special moments past, but just as much for the reminder that more special moments await me in the coming year.
As I assemble these highlights, I resist ranking them, or labeling any single image as “favorite.” There are just too many criteria I could use: should it be the one I like most today (always a moving target), the one everyone else likes most (rarely the same thing), or should it be the one that carries the best memories?
I hope you take the time to browse and enjoy my gallery of 2024 highlights below, and that you can see why I’m especially thrilled by the variety of scenes I found in 2024, from expansive landscapes to intimate portraits, from serene reflections to explosive lightning, from brilliant sunbursts to inky night. And even though I can’t choose a favorite, I love hearing the favorites others choose.
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2024 Highlights (ordered randomly)
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2024 In the Mirror: The Night Sky
Posted on December 30, 2024
Silent Night, Milky Way Above Lake Wakatipu, New Zealand
Sony a7R V
Sony 14mm f/1.8 GM
ISO 6400
f/1.8
13 seconds
This is my third and final post looking back at my 2024 photography experiences. Next up: 2024 Highlights—my favorite images of the year.
My relationship with the night sky predates my photography life. In fact, for most of my photography life, cameras weren’t even capable of capturing dark skies well enough to do them justice. That changed with the advent of digital capture, and the evolution of digital sensors that continues to this day.
My love for astronomy was powerful enough that I made it my major when I entered college—and also why I decided to change that major as soon as I found myself actually resenting the quantification of concepts that I simply wanted my mind to be boggled by (I’m fairly good at math, but not astrophysicist-good). Since then, I’ve been much happier simply gazing skyward and pondering the incomprehensible time and distance each pinpoint of starlight represents. Turns out, photography enhances the night sky experience. Not only do my cameras reveal detail and color my eyes can’t see, night photography’s multi-second exposures provide ample time to gaze and ponder.
Though every year includes many night sky experiences, 2024 was especially memorable for a couple of reasons. First, it included each my favorite night subjects: Milky Way, northern lights, the moon, and (especially) a comet (!). The other thing that made my 2024 night sky photography extra special was that my (non-photographer) wife joined me for my two favorite shoots: the Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS shoot above Mt. Whitney in October, and my Milky Way shoot at Tasman Lake in New Zealand in July.
Northern Lights
Northern Lights and Big Dipper, Vik, Iceland
The northern lights shoot happened in February, midway through this year’s Iceland workshop that Don Smith and I partner on. Even though the aurora is the top priority for this workshop, it’s also the least reliable of my night sky “big four.” While every night shoot requires clear skies, unlike the other celestial phenomena I target, an aurora is about as reliable as the weather—I can plan a workshop a year or more in advance knowing exactly where the moon, Milky Way, and sometimes even a noteworthy comet, will be, but with the northern lights we just have to schedule and hope. Hope that solar activity tickles the magnetosphere, and hope the skies are clear if it happens.
In the half dozen or so times Don and I have done this trip, we’ve only been shut out once, but for a while it looked like this year would be number two. The aurora forecast was decent—the weather? Not so much. But on the day of our longest drive, from Snaefellsnes Peninsula to Vik, both forecasts improved slightly. After three days of clouds and snow flurries that were about to transition into a major storm, the new forecast promised a small window of clear sky that might last into the beginning of the aurora window. Instead of going straight to dinner upon our arrival in Vik, we beelined up to a cemetery above town and waited, one eye on the northern horizon, the other on the clouds approaching from the south.
As you can see, the clouds held off just long enough. And while we didn’t get the dazzling full-sky display of some prior trips, the lights did dance enough to thrill.
Moonrise/Moonset
Moonrise, Half Dome, Yosemite
My two favorite moon shoots also happened early in the year, first with a moonset in Death Valley and the Alabama Hills in January, followed by a couple of February moonrises in Yosemite. Since I’m no stranger to photographing the moon in these locations, for me the highlight of these experiences was sharing the with my workshop groups.
That said, both the Alabama Hills and Tunnel View shoots were especially nice this year. In the Alabama Hills, my Death Valley workshop group watched a waning gibbous moon, still nearly full, slip behind Mt. Williamson (California’s second highest peak) just as the sun’s first rays pinked up a gauzy layer of clouds.
The Yosemite moonrise looked like it was going to be erased by clouds—especially disappointing as this moonrise aligned so perfectly with Half Dome. But much to the thrill of everyone, the offending clouds thinned and parted at just the right time.
Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS
I’ve written about this shoot already, both shortly after it happened, and again in the first post of this series.
Milky Way
Silent Night, Milky Way Above Lake Wakatipu, New Zealand
Usually I get a couple of Grand Canyon Milky Way experiences each year, first on my raft trip in May, then again in my monsoon workshop in summer. But this year clouds wiped both of those out. That loss was more than made up for on the Puna Coast in my Hawaii workshop, and (especially) in New Zealand. You can read about the Hawaii Milky Way experience here.
Of all my annual Milky Way shoots, the one that excites me most is New Zealand, my only opportunity to view the spectacular Southern Hemisphere sky. In addition to the unique sky, pristine air and minimal light pollution makes New Zealand an inherently great place for Milky Way photography, and this year was especially memorable. I’ve already written about the amazing night my wife and I spent with the Milky Way above Tasman Lake, so today I’m sharing a new image (above) from the last night of the New Zealand South Island workshop Don Smith and I do each year.
From the aurora in Iceland to the Milky Way in New Zealand, you have no idea how much Don and stress about delivering celestial phenomena completely out of our control. In New Zealand we have a number of go-to Milky Way spots throughout the workshop. Since it’s winter, clouds are fairly common, but we also nine nights, so when clouds rule one night, we just cross our fingers and hope the next night will deliver. But this year we struck out all the way up to our final night, so our stress level was peaking. (We go no push-back from the group—they understood that we have no control over the conditions and appreciated how hard we were trying to make it work. This was all self-induced stress.)
The workshop’s last full day had a lot of clouds and a little blue sky, but nothing if not optimistic, we were going to give the Milky Way a shot no matter what. After our sunset shoot, we drove straight to our Lake Wakatipu spot and waited for the sky to darken. By the time we arrived the clouds had cleared wonderfully, and I knew it was just a matter of time before our group would understand that all my raving about the New Zealand night sky isn’t just hyperbole.
New Zealand Night, Milky Way and Small Magellanic Cloud, Tasman Lake (2024)
These nights, when I know it’s just a matter of time before the sky delivers and there’s absolutely nothing to stress about, are some of my favorite times with my workshop groups. Waiting for the sky to darken, we just stand (or sit) around chatting and laughing—especially on the final evening of a 10-day workshop, when genuine friendships have formed—watching the landscape fade and the stars slowly pop out. The camera will “see” the Milky Way before we do, so every few minutes I click a frame to monitor its progress. At some point I’ll tell the group it’s time to start shooting, and not long after that it becomes dark enough for the Milky Way to be clearly visible to our eyes too.
For a while after we can see it, the Milky Way seems to get brighter and brighter against the still darkening sky. In New Zealand, I always keep a lookout for the Magellanic Clouds, two small satellite galaxies, bound by gravity to our Milky Way but not visible in the Northern Hemisphere. When they appear, I know the darkness is complete.
Since most of my time during these shoots will be occupied helping people, by the time everyone has started shooting, I have my composition in place, my camera focused, and my exposure set. That way I can just click a frame each time I pass my camera on my way to help the next person. This also frees me to just gaze and ponder, as I’ve always done when the sky is dark and stars are out, and as I will forever do.
Experience the New Zealand night sky for yourself
2024 After Dark
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2024 in the Mirror: More Experiences
Posted on December 22, 2024
Evening Glory, Lake Wakatipu, New Zealand
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 50
f/18
15 seconds
I’ll be compiling my favorite 2024 images very soon, but before emphasizing my images, I’m trying to acknowledge the experience that went with their capture. In my previous blog post, I described three especially memorable 2024 photography experiences; today I’ll share two more. This time, instead of specific shoots, I want to celebrate my ability to visit two countries that are as beautiful as they are different, and distant, from one another.
New Zealand
My first experience of New Zealand came in 1995, when, while working for a company that sold a programming language, I traveled to Christchurch to train programmers how to code in our language. I was there in August (winter), staying in the rural countryside outside this beautiful city. My 7-mile run before traveling to meet my class each morning started in darkness and continued through sunrise. So beautiful was my route, I actually started carrying my camera to record it.
I interrupt this blog to bring you a funny story…
Approaching the Christchurch airport terminal to start my long trip home, I encountered a police roadblock. We were told in no uncertain terms to stay in our cars, and it soon became apparent that the parking lot was filling with people fleeing the terminal. This was pre-911, back when airport security measures were more of an afterthought for passengers, so I had no idea of what could be going on. Fire? Gas leak? Kiwi infestation?
My questions were answered when my car was rocked by a loud explosion that launched a swarm of brightly colored clothing that wafted like oversized confetti onto the pavement. Crisis averted, the road and terminal reopened and we all made our way inside. There we learned that a rogue suitcase had been discovered in the terminal; when authorities found no one to claim it, they decided the prudent thing would be to detonate it (because who wouldn’t pass on the opportunity to legally blow something up?). Only then did they learn that nothing nefarious was afoot—and some traveler’s wardrobe had been suddenly and significantly depleted.
I return you now to your regularly scheduled blog post…
After those two weeks, most of which were occupied with work more than sightseeing, I harbored dreams of someday returning to New Zealand, but never found the opportunity. That is, until Don Smith and I got the idea to partner on a New Zealand workshop. After a couple years of research and scouting, Don and I have done at least one, and sometimes two, New Zealand workshops every non-Covid year since 2018. To say I’ve fallen in love with this country would be an understatement—not just for its spectacular scenery, but also for its friendly people, surprisingly delicious food, pristine air and water (and cities!), and mesmerizing night sky.
Our New Zealand trip is always in June or early July—winter Down Under. In addition to avoiding tourists, winter offers the best potential for interesting weather. The potential for harsh conditions of course creates a real wildcard element, but photographers have more pressing priorities than comfort—like good pictures. Difficulties attributed to harsh weather are usually more than made up for by spectacular scenes only possible in the wildest conditions. For each shoot wiped out by rain, snow, or fog, we enjoy multiple shoots significantly enhanced by dramatic light, clouds, and weather phenomena.
For example, the snowy peaks and crimson sunset that blessed the first evening of this year’s New Zealand workshop. In July I shared one image from this sunset, but suffice to say, it wasn’t the only picture I took. (You can view that slightly tighter version in the gallery below.) Today’s image from that evening is similar, but composed wider to include more sky and foreground.
Scenes like this just demand to be composed wide, but I was inhibited by a few obstacles: specifically a railed vista to my right (where many in our group were set up), and a steep slope covered with dense shrubs to my left. After a little searching, I found a spot on the other side of the railing and a few feet down the slope that stayed out of everyone’s frame, kept me above the shrubs, and was as far as possible from the vista.
I couldn’t avoid a couple of nearby tripod legs, which allowed me to go just wide enough to include a small pool in the foreground rock that I noticed was reflecting the sky’s otherworldly color. Fortunately, the tripod legs were simple to remove in Photoshop without altering the scene in any visible way. With the mountain portion of the lake reflection disturbed by gentle undulations, and the reflection on the near shore beneath me even more wind-whipped, I added a Breakthrough 6-Stop Dark Polarizer to smooth the water with a long exposure.
This sunset was only the first of many off the charts scenes this year’s group enjoyed. Rain forests, snow-capped peaks, glaciers, fiords (the New Zealand spelling), glacial lakes, waterfalls—what’s not to love? Here’s a gallery with just a few of the sights we enjoyed this year.
Iceland
When Don Smith and I first considered offering an Iceland workshop, our primary goal was the northern lights. We had no idea that we’d make it an annual thing, and even though the northern lights turned out to be even more breathtaking than we’d imagined, it’s the scenery that keeps us coming back to Iceland. Given our new infatuation with New Zealand, it would be easy to mentally pit the two islands against each other. But much like picking a favorite child, doing so would be both unfair and impossible.
The things I love most about Iceland are also the things that differ most significantly from New Zealand. Though both islands are ribbed with snow-capped peaks, New Zealand’s beauty skews to lush and verdant, while Iceland’s beauty is stark and monochrome.
Iceland is a volcanic island that first emerged from the North Atlantic around 18 million years ago. Countless eruptions since have expanded the island with layers of hard black lava, building mountains that continue growing only slightly faster than the harsh conditions can wear them down. In winter, all that’s green on Iceland has died or been covered with snow and ice, creating a landscape that’s mostly white with black accents (or, in low-snow years, black with white accents).
But it’s the binary color palette of Iceland’s frosty, volcanic terrain that makes its (surprisingly frequent) ephemeral color especially stand out: The northern lights for sure, but also the glacial rivers and streams, sapphire ice caves, and, thanks to a winter sun that never rises higher than 10 degrees above the horizon, two-hour sunrises and sunsets. All this, plus the relentless pounding by violent surf, makes Iceland hands-down the most dramatic landscape I’ve ever photographed.
Check out this small gallery with an assortment of images from my 2024 Iceland visit.
Visiting these two contrasting islands, even once, is a gift. But doing it year-in and year-out has not only enabled me to appreciate their beauty more, my love for the people and their culture grows with each visit.
New Zealand and Iceland Through the Years
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2024 In the Mirror: ‘Tis the Season…
Posted on December 16, 2024
Night Moves, Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS and Mt. Whitney, Alabama Hills (California)
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 1600
f/5.6
5 seconds
… for reflection and appreciation.
It’s that time of year again, when the business/creative side of my life shrinks into the background and I get to enjoy quality time with family, and (for the next few weeks) my blogs become less frequent and/or shorter. It’s also the time of year when my photography focus shifts to my rearview mirror, as I start looking back on the rapidly diminishing year.
If my social media feeds are any indication, it appears that 2024 might turn out to be the tipping point when AI and other artificially created images made it into the mainstream consciousness. This saddens me because, as far as I’m concerned, photography is as much about the experience of capture as it is about the images produced. Not only my own experiences witnessing a special locations and moments in Nature, but also the connection I feel to other photographer’s images knowing that their special moment was real.
One of the most frequent defenses I see for artificial images is some version of, “But it’s still beautiful.” Since beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder, that’s an argument I can’t win. But I can say that I don’t see any beauty in an image with no connection to some literal or personal truth. Which is why I, and thousands of other photographers, insist on experiences our creations.
With that thought in mind, starting with this post, my next two or three blogs will focus on a few of my favorite memories of 2024. Rather than simply sharing my own favorite images of the year (that’s coming too), I want to share the experiences that made 2024 special for me. Some of these memories center on specific shoots, while others are associated with trips that provided a variety of special moments impossible to separate into one experience.
October: Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS
Some years I have a hard time choosing a single most memorable experience, but 2024 isn’t one of those years. In October my wife and I drove 8 hours to the Alabama Hills for a 30-minute view of Comet Tsuchinshan–ATLAS before it slipped behind Mt. Whitney. You can read about this trip here:
At the top of this post I share a newly processed image from that night. Captured nearly 15 minutes earlier than the other two images, the amount of extra light in the still darkening sky is obvious in the image. Also, the rising moon was much lower than it was in the later images, and you can see that difference in illumination of the Sierra granite. Since these differences weren’t visible to my eye, I spent (wasted) a lot of time trying to process the new image to look closer to the other two. I’m embarrassed to admit how long it took me to realize I can’t get there from here, but as soon as I recognized that the light was in fact significantly different, I changed my processing to account for that and am (finally) pleased with the result.
February: Yosemite clearing storms
A clearing storm is the Holy Grail of Yosemite photography. In February I had two workshops, one centered around Horsetail Fall, the other featuring a full moon, and each enjoyed its very own clearing storm experience.
Having photographed countless Yosemite clearing storms, I never tire of the unique personality of each. While a clearing storm can happen any time of day, each of these came at sunrise. The first clearing storm featured mostly empty skies above shifting tendrils of low fog and a light dusting of snow in Yosemite Valley; the second came with a brooding sky and more low fog than its predecessor. I honestly can’t tell you which one I enjoyed more.
Here are the stories:
August: Grand Canyon lightning show
The Southwest summer monsoon offers spectacular clouds, vivid rainbows, and colorful sunrises and sunsets, but for most of my workshop students, the primary goal of my Grand Canyon Monsoon photo workshop is lightning. Usually we get it—sometimes a lot of it—but not always. This year turned out to be one of those “not” years, but for those in the group who were able to to hang out for a few hours after the workshop’s final shoot (about half the group), a classic monsoon storm sprung up across the canyon, allowing all present to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
Check out the details:
I’ll be back in a few days with more memorable 2024 experiences. And keep a lookout for my annual Highlights post, where I’ll share my favorite images of 2024 (including some from this post). In the meantime, remember that photography’s greatest gift isn’t the images it produces, it’s the experiences that go with them. I hope you have a joyful Holiday season.
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It’s Not All Skill and Hard Work
Posted on December 7, 2024
Molten Churn, Kilauea, Hawaii
Sony a7R V
Sony 100-400 GM
ISO 800
f/5.6
1/1250 second
There’s not a nature photographer alive who hasn’t heard someone exclaim about a coveted capture, “Wow, you were so lucky!” And indeed we are lucky—but that sentiment completely discounts the time and effort that put us in the right place at the right time.
Louis Pasteur’s assertion that chance favors the prepared mind has been co-opted by photographers—mostly, I suspect, to reclaim some (much deserved) credit for capturing Nature’s ephemeral beauty: vivid sunrises/sunsets, rainbows, lightning, the aurora and other celestial displays, volcanic eruptions, and on, and on….
Yes, it was indeed very lucky when that rainbow appeared, or the sky turned crimson, or the clouds parted to reveal a rising full moon—at just the moment I happened to be there with my camera. Most of those times, despite insinuations to the contrary, my presence wasn’t a total fluke and I’d like credit for it thankyouverymuch.
On the other hand…
Let’s not forget that two things can be equally true. I fear that some photographers become so defensive of the effort they put into capturing a special moment, they fail to appreciate that there was indeed luck involved too. But conceding our good fortune doesn’t diminish our skill and vision, it just acknowledges that we are never in complete control of Nature’s fickle whims. Not only that, appreciating the luck involved helps bolster the sense of wonder and awe a nature photographer must have.
As hard as I try to anticipate an outcome, and the number of times that effort has succeeded, I have to admit that sometimes my presence for a beautiful moment was an absolute fluke. I mean, I still had to know how to work my camera and frame a composition, but what I witnessed was not part of the original plan.
For example, scheduling my 2013 Maui workshop more than a year in advance, I had no inkling of Comet PanSTARRS. When I did learn about the approaching potential naked-eye comet, and that it would be paired with a crescent moon on possibly the best day for viewing, I checked my schedule and discovered that I’d be on Maui for a workshop. In fact, the day the comet would appear closest to the moon just happened to be the day I’d planned to photograph sunset from the summit of Haleakala—coincidentally, the site of the very telescope that discovered PanSTARRS more than a year earlier.
Another special experience I can’t take much credit for was morning I got to photograph the most active, longest lasting Grand Canyon lightning display (that included a rainbow right at sunrise) I’ve ever seen. Based on that morning’s weather forecast (clear skies, 0% chance of rain), and the 12-hour drive home following the shoot, I’d probably have stayed in bed had there not been a workshop group counting on me.
I’m thinking about these unexpected blessings because recently I’ve been going through old, unprocessed images and came across this one (of many) from the September 2023 Kilauea eruption. I’d love to be labeled a Pele-whisperer capable of anticipating a Hawaiian eruption early enough to get myself to the Big Island, blessed with prescient insight into the ideal vantage point before the lava fountains appear. But alas….
I’ve been leading a Hawaii Big Island workshop every year since 2010 (minus the 2020 COVID year). Since Halemaʻumaʻu (Kilauea’s summit caldera) had been erupting continuously since 2008, for the first eight of those years it was easy to take Kilauea for granted. I’d show up, take my group at least one time (often more) to the spot I’d found that perfectly aligned the eruption with the Milky Way. As long as the clouds didn’t deny us, I’d have a workshop full of thrilled photographers.
But in 2018 Pele sent a “don’t ever take me for granted” message, providing a dazzling, 4-month pyrotechnic display before rolling over and going to sleep less than a month before my workshop started. Since 2018, Kilauea has stirred only periodically, so scheduling workshops more than a year in advance has made it impossible to time my workshops to coincide with an eruption.
Putting a positive spin on it, that has made the good fortune of the eruptions we have witnessed even more special. For example, I completely lucked out in 2022 with a nice, albeit distant, eruption that included lava fountains and an opportunity to get the caldera and the Milky Way in the same wide frame.
And then there was 2023. As the workshop approached, things appeared to be back to business as (post-2018) usual. After a couple of minor eruptions over the past year or so, Kilauea had been quiet for several months leading up to my September workshop. Though it had been showing a few signs of stirring, by the day before my workshop, nothing seemed imminent. There’s so much more than enough to photograph on the Big Island, so this wasn’t a big concern, but it was still a minor personal disappointment because I never tire of viewing an erupting volcano.
With the workshop starting Monday, my brother Jay and I had arrived the Friday prior to check out all my workshop locations. We spent Sunday afternoon out of cell phone range, scouting along the Puna Coast, our final area before the workshop. Entering the relatively isolated Puna region, Kilauea was quiet when my phone went dark—so imagine my surprise when we emerged from the cellular void a few hours later to see two notifications from the USGS in my inbox. When I saw Kilauea in the subject line, my heart jumped, but when I opened the first e-mail and saw that it started with, “Kilauea is not erupting,” I scanned the message enough to see that it report signs of increased activity. Okay, then what’s this second message about?
The first sentence grabbed my eyeballs and I didn’t bother to read further: “Kilauea is erupting.” I instantly punched the gas detoured straight to the volcano. The eruption had started at 3:15 p.m., and at exactly 5:00 p.m. we were rolling up to the Visitor Center. There we learned that we could view the eruption right across the street, from Volcano House.
Racing over there, we joined the crowd oooh-ing and ahhh-ing at the billowing smoke, orange glow, and occasional bursts of lava that jumped high enough to be visible the steep crater wall. Rather than photograph from there, I decided to see if there might be a better view. We found more of the same at the steam vents: spurts of lava, lots of smoke, and a distinct orange glow. But while there we ran into a couple who told us the best view was at Keanakakoi, on the other side of caldera. So off we went.
At Keanakakoi we snagged one of the last parking spots, grabbed our camera bags, and bolted down the trail (a paved road now closed to non-official vehicles). After a brisk (understatement) one-mile walk, we made it to the vista about 10 minutes before sunset.
I’ll never forget the sight that greeted us. On the caldera floor clearly visible directly below us were at least a two-dozen lava fountains of varying size, churning among a honeycomb of just-cooled black lava that appeared etched by thin, glowing cracks. Splitting this fiery orgy was a broad lava river, and several narrower streams. We quickly joined the throngs who had jumped the improvised rope that had not doubt been placed to prevent us gawkers from plunging to our deaths (safety-schmafety).
What followed was a clicking frenzy. I started with my 24-105 lens, eventually switching to my 100-400. (I also snuck in a couple of quick iPhone photos—the lava field was close enough to fill the frame without cropping). Monitoring my RGB histogram, I quickly determined that an exposure that completely spared the red channel skewed the rest of the histogram far to the left, which of course made perfect sense and was no problem because pretty much the only thing that mattered in this scene was the orange lava.
So focused was I on scene below me that it was a couple of minutes before I registered that I was working in what might be the windiest conditions I’ve ever photographed in. I’ve probably experienced stronger gusts (I’m looking at you, Iceland), but this wind was steady, brutal, and relentless. So strong in fact that it nearly ripped the glasses of my face, and forced me to actually keep one hand on them most of the time.
Given the rapidly approaching darkness, with most subjects this wind would have been a significant problem. But because my primary (only?) subject was imbued with its own built-in light source, and was in constant, frenetic motion that required an extremely fast shutter speed anyway, I found it all quite manageable—I was actually more concerned about getting blown into the maelstrom than I was about camera shake.
Throughout the evening I varied my exposure settings, shooting wide open with shutter speeds varying between 1/500 and 1/1500 second, and ISOs ranging from 800 to 3200. Focal lengths ranged from fairly wide (wider than 50mm at the start) to 400. In fact, many of my 100-400mm frames were closer to the 100mm range so I could include groups of fountains. I tried to time each shot for peak explosiveness in whatever fountain or fountains I’d targeted, but honestly, since these peaks came every second or two, that wasn’t much of a challenge.
Every once in a while I got a strong whiff of sulfur, a reminder of the risks of being so close to a volcanic eruption. It seemed like we’d been out there at least an hour when I was aware of shouting behind me. I turned to see rangers running around shoeing us from the edge. At first I thought all of us who had crossed the rope barrier were in trouble, but it turns out we were being evacuated—and they meant business. A review of the timestamps on my images showed that what seemed like more than an hour was in fact only 33 minutes.
How close were we to the eruption? I calculated later that we’d been only 1/2 mile away from the lava field, but it seemed much closer. Unfortunately, the closure that caused us to be evacuated wasn’t lifted until the eruption ended, so I wasn’t able to take my group out there. But I did learn about other vantage points that were nearly as good, and got my group out there two more times.
How lucky was I (and my workshop group)? This eruption that started the day before the workshop started, was finished the day after the workshop ended.
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Lucky Shots
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One Night, Two Moons
Posted on November 27, 2024
Through the Clouds, Tunnel View Moonrise, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/10
1/3 second
I wrapped up this year’s workshop schedule at the beginning of this month and am now enjoying a much anticipated Holiday breather before my schedule ramps up again in January. This isn’t exactly a vacation, because the end of the year is when all my permit reporting and next year’s permit applications are due, and my 2025 workshop prep starts to ramp up, but my schedule does get a bit less frenetic when the travel (and all its prep and recovery) is over.
As I often do when my travel schedule eases around the Holidays, I prioritize family over photography. That doesn’t mean no new pictures, but it does mean that most (all?) of the new pictures I share over the next couple of months will probably be pictures captured months, or even years, ago, but never got around to processing.
Going through my vast repository of unprocessed images is something I started doing while isolated during the early months of the pandemic (has it really been 4 1/2 years?!). I’d always been aware that I had lots of untapped gems languishing on my hard drive(s), but was nevertheless surprised by how much I enjoyed searching them out. Sometimes I’ll start by randomly picking a photo trip and scanning the Lightroom thumbnails for something that stops me, but the most productive approach has been going through my collection of already processed favorites to identify particularly special shoots, reasoning that there must certainly be more there. (I write more about this in my Back to the Future blog post.)
It always surprises me how much I enjoy revisiting past photo trips and workshops. Not only does the experience revive memories of special moments in Nature, lots of the best memories are of the people I was with. Sometimes that’s been other photo buddies, but since so much of my photography is centered around my workshops, the majority of those memories are actually my workshop groups.
Moonrise, Half Dome, Yosemite
Case in point: The seed for this “new” image was my “Moonrise, Half Dome, Yosemite” image from my February 2024 Yosemite Winter Moon workshop. Going through this workshop’s image folder, all the cloud-induced stress surrounding this particular moonrise came flooding back. And with it also came memories of the euphoria we all felt when the clouds opened just enough, at exactly the right time, to reveal the Half-Dome/moon/sunset alignment I’d been thinking about for more than a year. (Read the details here: Moon Swoon.)
Within minutes, the moon had climbed into the rapidly thickening clouds, and it looked like the show might be over—until, shortly before darkness was complete (or at least too dark to photograph the moon and foreground in one frame), it rose into a patch of slightly thinner clouds and briefly reappeared.
My strategy for moonrises is to go long until the moon separates from the landscape, then go progressively wider as it rises. This evening I’d set up two tripods, one with my Sony α1 and 200-600 lens, the other with my a7RV and 24-105 lens. So when the moon made its brief return, I was instantly ready to start clicking.
I chose a vertical composition to emphasize the foreground and minimize the lateral aspects of the scene. I also tried a few that were wide enough to include more of El Capitan, but ultimately decided to process this one to avoid shrinking the moon too much with a wider focal length.
Viewing these two images together provides a fantastic opportunity to make a point I’ve tried to make many times before: how to photograph a large moon. Thanks to the continued emphasis (and hype) focused on the largely irrelevant “supermoon” phenomenon, many people seem to believe the size of the moon in the sky is the most import part of a large moon image. It’s not.
The size of the moon in any image is almost entirely a function of the focal length used, not the relatively small difference between a “regular” size moon and a supermoon. Compare the size of the moon in these two images, noting that they were captured from the same location, on the same night, less than 10 minutes apart. For the big moon image, I used a 450mm focal length that magnified both Half Dome and the moon and eliminated everything else. For today’s smaller moon image, I chose a 50mm focal length that enabled me to fit far more of the surrounding beauty, but also shrunk the moon.
I should add that as far as I’m concerned, the absolutely best light for photography is the shadowless light that starts 10-15 minutes after sunset. I captured my (wide) image about 15 minutes after sunset. To my eyes, the scene appeared much darker than what you see in the image. I had to be careful with the exposure to avoid blowing out the moon, making the foreground in my raw original nearly black, but by monitoring my histogram and knowing my camera, I knew that the shadows would be recoverable. And I think the thin clouds helped subdue some of the lunar highlights, enabling to give the scene a little more exposure.
I still have a few openings in my 2025 Yosemite photo workshops
The Moon Large and Small, from Full to Crescent
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Do You Really Need a New Camera?
Posted on November 22, 2024
Dancing Aspen, North Lake, Eastern Sierra
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 800
f/16
1/3 second
I had an idea germinating for this week’s blog post, but when Sony announced the brand new α1 II Tuesday, I pivoted to an experienced-based public service message. (You’re welcome.)
As you may have noticed, a new camera purchase is a significant investment. Nevertheless, for many photographers the new camera decision seems more emotional than rational. Case in point: Me. That is, once upon a time (okay, as recently as a couple of years ago), I’d have been all over this week’s Sony announcement, and by now almost certainly would have already ordered my new camera—regardless of how great my current camera is.
This new-camera purchase reflex takes me back to my first grown-up job, working for a small independent vehicle leasing company in the San Francisco Bay Area. “Independent” meant we were not affiliated with any auto manufacturer or dealership, which enabled us to offer our customers any make or model of vehicle and freed me to make honest recommendations rather than push a particular model. Handling every kind of car imaginable, from Toyota to Porsche to Rolls Royce, I soon noticed that many of my leasing customers seemed to be intent on replacing their perfectly excellent car (or truck) that still had lots of useful years remaining. It seemed they’d become so blinded by the allure of “new” that they’d lost contact with rational thought. Though their lease payments would persist for years after the car’s “new” wore off, they seemed to believe that driving this new Whatever would somehow make their life complete—trying to talk them down was fruitless. Sigh.
You’d think that experience would have immunized me against making similar emotional purchases, but sadly, I too have fallen into the trap of coveting the latest and greatest. In my case it hasn’t been cars (I do love new cars, but I usually wait 8-10 years between purchases, and only when I have enough saved to avoid car payments). No, my irrational exuberance skews more toward technology.
For example, many years ago I got sucked into Apple’s iPhone upgrade program (pay a monthly fee for the newest model, then return it for the next model as soon as it’s released) and so far haven’t been able to extricate myself (this is my weakness—it’s not like leaving Apple’s upgrade program is like trying to cancel a gym membership). And for more than a decade, I replaced my Intel-based Macs every 2 or 3 years. Fortunately, this costly predisposition was cured by Apple’s M processors, which are good enough to prevent me from fabricating any kind of credible rationalization for upgrading. So yay me.
Anyway, back to the camera thing. Earning my living as a photographer, it’s always been easy to justify buying the latest camera model. But despite all the marketing hype to the contrary (this applies to all manufacturers, not just the brand I use, Sony), I realized long ago that I’ll probably notice very little (or no) practical improvement in image quality from the new model—especially since I’m almost always replacing the model immediately preceding the new one. So what was my motivation? Being completely honest with myself, a large part of the appeal was simply the idea of owning the latest and greatest.
Given that my current cameras, a Sony a7RV and Sony α1, are everything I need (and more), my rational mind tells me that simply can’t justify spending $6500 to replace one. This isn’t a new insight, but what is new is that this time my rational mind is winning. In previous upgrade iterations, I’ve sometimes used the “photography needs to make you happy” mantra to rationalize the new purchase. After trying that on for this camera, I had to acknowledge that the is fallacy in my argument is confusing pleasure for happiness: Yes, getting that new camera will indeed give me a great deal of pleasure, but when transient pleasure comes at the price of enduring happiness, the biggest winner is Sony (or whoever your camera manufacturer is).
The truth is, regardless of who makes your camera (they’re all great), today’s (and yesterday’s as well) cameras capabilities surpassed the needs of most photographers many years ago. And no matter how great the marketing promoting the latest upgrade makes the camera sound, most photographers have better things to do with their money.
Am I saying you shouldn’t upgrade your camera? Absolutely not. I’m saying the criterion for springing for a camera upgrade shouldn’t simply be, “Is the new camera better than the camera I have?” (it almost certainly is); it should be, “Will the new camera make an appreciable difference in my photography?” (it probably won’t).
Here are some thoughts to bring to your next camera purchase:
- Filter the hype. Manufacturers are really good at spinning modest improvements into “game changing” essentials. Don’t buy it.
- Never, never, never chase megapixels. I can pretty much guarantee that you already have more megapixels than you’ll ever need, but megapixels sell. Until the photography public gets wise to the fact that adding resolution comes at the cost of image quality (really), manufacturers will keep giving us pixels we don’t need.
- Upgrade your more permanent gear first. Lenses and tripods might not be as sexy as a new camera, but there’s a decent chance you’ll notice more improvement in your images by upgrading your lenses and tripod than upgrading your camera.
- Take a trip. If you have all the lenses you need and already own the tripod of your dreams, consider spending that new camera money visiting locations you’ve always wanted to photograph. (Or sign up for that photo workshop you’ve had your eye on. Just sayin’….)
- And don’t forget, the longer you wait, the better your next camera will be. Seriously, your new camera, no matter how great, will probably be “obsolete” within a couple of years.
I need to make it clear that this is in not a review, or an indictment, of the Sony α1 II. I haven’t seen the camera, and have only scanned the (impressive) specs and (predictably hyperbolic) marketing claims. It looks like a fantastic camera. But as with any new camera, if it doesn’t add something that you believe will make a significant difference in your photography, there are probably better things to do with your money.
So what would induce me to replace one of my cameras? Believe it or not, fewer megapixels. Despite the perception (and marketing claims) to the contrary, megapixels are not a measure of image quality, they’re a measure of image size. Period. For any given technology, the fewer the number of photosites (measured in megapixels), the better the camera’s image quality will be. That camera manufacturers can continue cramming more and more photosites onto a 35mm sensor without sacrificing image quality speaks to the progress of technology. But the only way they can add photosites to a fixed space (like a 35mm sensor) is to shrink them, and/or reduce the distance separating them. Imagine the image quality spike we’d see if instead more photosites, they took the technological advances that enables more photosites without sacrificing dynamic range and high ISO performance, and created a sensor with larger (better light gathering) and more spread out (cooler) photosites.
Of course your priorities may (probably are) be different from mine, so I can’t tell you whether any new camera is right for you and your situation. Just don’t fall into the trap of buying the next model simply because it’s “better,” because where technology is concerned, better is quite possibly not good enough.
I return you now to your regular programming…
Dancing Aspen, North Lake, Eastern Sierra
On my way back to the parking area following an especially nice North Lake sunrise shoot, a stand of aspen grabbed my eye. I knew I was well into the 1o minutes I’d given the group to wrap up and make the short walk back to the cars (the light was changing fast and I had two more stops in mind), but these aspen were just too perfect to resist: backlit leaves at peak fall color, parallel trunks, and pristine white bark.
With the clock ticking (it’s never a good look when the leader is one everyone is waiting for), I’d normally just take a couple of iPhone snaps to preserve a beautiful scene I don’t have the time to do justice with a “serious” image. Even though I rarely do anything with these quick iPhone snaps, I find it hard to just walk away from scenes like this without a record of having witnessed it.
But in this case, my phone was buried deep in a pocket of one of my seemingly infinite layers of clothing. On the other hand, I (for some reason I can’t remember) was carrying my camera (which I usually return to my camera bag when I finish a shoot). So rather than mine for my phone, I turned my camera on, put it to my eye, and squeezed off a couple of frames, before continuing to the cars.
Because I have such a strong (irrational?) tripod bias (click, evaluate, refine, repeat…), I honestly didn’t think about these pictures again for the rest of the workshop. But going through my images after the trip, these aspen images stopped me. Slowly the memory of my quick stop returned, and as I spent more time with them, the more I liked what I saw.
Processing this image, and as much as I liked it, I could also tell that I didn’t give the scene my usual (obsessive) attention to detail, quickly identifying a few things I’d have done differently if I’d taken a little more time. For example, I’d probably have shifted around a bit to see if I could eliminate, or at least minimize, some of the gaps in the foliage, and to get a little more separation between some of the trunks. And I’d definitely have paid more attention to some of the minor distractions on the frame’s border. But despite these oversights, I was surprised by how much I like this image, and how well it captures so much about what I love about aspen.
So I guess the moral of this story is, even though a tripod almost always makes my pictures better, just because I can’t use one doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take the picture.
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More Aspen
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Eloquent Images by Gary Hart 