Eloquent Images by Gary Hart
Insight, information, and inspiration for the inquisitive nature photographer
Bonus Blog: Eclipse Special
Posted on April 5, 2024
Solar Return, Total Solar Eclipse, Central Idaho (August 21, 2017)
Sony a7RII
Sony 100-400 GM
ISO 100
f/16
1/6 second
The following article isn’t a comprehensive eclipse photography how-to, but for eclipse viewers, it might be worth reading anyway
I’m getting a lot of questions about next week’s (April 8, 2024) total solar eclipse. In addition the standard “how-to” questions, many have asked if I plan to write a blog about how to photograph it. My response has been that, having photographed exactly one total solar eclipse in my life, I’m far from qualified to portray myself as an eclipse expert. But the questions keep coming, so I figured I’ll put my limited knowledge, along with some unsolicited experience-based advice, in a short(-ish) blog post with the qualifier that there are many people out there with far more eclipse photography experience than I have. And please note that the words that follow are intended for my kindred spirits, those whose passion for photography is an extension of their love of Nature—if your goal is a career-making eclipse image that you can retire on, you probably want to look elsewhere.
Safety first
And before I say anything else, don’t even think about viewing the eclipse without proper eye and camera lens protection—anything less risks permanent eye and sensor damage. Rather than try to provide safety guidance here, I’ll just refer you to NASA’s Eclipse Viewing Safety page.
Trust me
Based on my 2017 experience, my number one piece of advice to anyone lucky enough to be in position for eclipse totality is don’t get so caught up the photography that you fail to appreciate the majesty above you. I can’t emphasize this enough. For many, this will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and (I promise) if you’re trying to photograph it, the short duration of totality (four minutes or less) will take your breath away (like a knee to the midsection if you realize you missed it fiddling with your camera).
After my experience in 2017, my recommended approach to photographing any total eclipse while prioritizing the experience, is to put your camera on a tripod well in advance, attach your longest lens, and frame up the sun. In other words, don’t get fancy.
Trying to add landscape features to your eclipse image is probably a mistake, because during totality the sun will be so high in the sky that any (legitimate) image that includes the landscape will be so wide, the eclipse will shrink close to insignificance in the frame. Even going wide enough to include stars and planets will shrink the eclipse more than I’d prefer.
Not only will shooting a telephoto of the eclipse maximize the eclipse’s beauty, a tight frame eliminates all terrestrial objects, making your location within the path of totality irrelevant—whether you’re at a beautiful mountain lake or the parking lot of a 7/11, your telephoto eclipse images will look the same. That said, if you can be in a relatively remote area away from crowds, by all means do it. While the photography aspect won’t be any different, the multi-sensory personal aspect will be much better.
Time to start clicking
Don’t misunderstand: I’m not saying you shouldn’t photograph the eclipse—I can’t imagine witnessing something this special and not photographing it. I just want to make sure your priorities are straight before you begin. So here goes…
I think the best eclipse images happen in the few seconds before and after totality, so make sure you’re ready for both of these very brief windows. During the actual period of totality, you’ll have time to catch your breath, appreciate the view, and prepare for the sun’s return.
Though in 2017 I took a ton of images long before and after totality, I never did a thing with them—they just weren’t that interesting (a bright disk with a bite taken out). But that doesn’t mean these images didn’t have value, especially my before images, because there’s no better way to appreciate the speed of Earth’s rotation than to frame up any celestial object in a long telephoto lens and watch how quickly it exits the frame. If nothing else, even if you won’t use your before images, this is your best opportunity to gauge the sun’s pace across the frame at your chosen focal length, and its general path across the sky. In 2017, armed with this knowledge, I set a timer on my watch (can’t remember how long—30 seconds?) to remind me to check my framing. Don’t forget, the longer your focal length, the more frequently you’ll need to check your framing.
In final minute (or so) before totality, remove the solar filter (from the lens, not your eyes), stop down to f/16 or smaller (for a sunstar as the sun shrinks to nothing), and reframe the sun by moving it toward the edge of your frame to maximize the length of time until you’ll need to reframe again—ideally you won’t need to touch your camera again until after totality starts and you’ll have about four glorious minutes to enjoy a view that doesn’t change a lot. (FYI, the reason you don’t see any 2017 pre-totality sunstar images from me is because I was just a few seconds late removing my solar filter until it was too late—fortunately, I was prepared when the sun returned two minutes later.)
Don’t forget to check your exposure, both after removing the solar filter, and again when the sun is completely eclipsed. Since most of your frame will be black, your histogram will be skewed far to the left, but don’t worry about this—the most important thing is to make the remaining sunlight as bright as possible without clipping those highlights.
In the final seconds before and after totality, look for the Baily’s Beads and the diamond ring effects on sun’s perimeter (you might not see them until you view your images later). Both are brilliant splashes of light on the sun’s rim, caused when the last rays pass through irregularities on the lunar surface. Once the sun has disappeared completely, you can increase your exposure and remove eye protection (but keep it nearby—like on top of your head) until the sun returns.
Once totality arrives, a possible compositional option that will require a wider focal length is to include Venus, about 15 degrees below and right of the eclipse, and Jupiter, about 30 degrees above and to the left of the eclipse. As cool as that sounds, they’ll just be white dots, and as I said earlier, the wider focal length will shrink the sun. But if that sounds appealing, you’ll have time to do this in the four minutes of totality without completely distracting yourself from the eclipse experience. (But if you change your focal length for any reason, don’t forget to refocus.)
One potentially very cool addition to your eclipse frame is Comet Pons-Brooks, in the sky near Jupiter. On the cusp of naked-eye visibility, the comet should be visible to a camera during the few minutes of eclipse totality darkness. Don’t expect anything like 2020’s NEOWISE, but you might get a small tail that will identify the fuzzy dot as a comet, a truly rare opportunity that could set your eclipse photos apart.
If you must include landscape with your eclipse, to avoid an image that’s merely a single tiny sun somewhere near the top of the frame, you’ll probably want to do a time-lapse composite: a series of images captured at regular intervals, then combined in the computer with a before or after picture of the landscape, which will depict in one frame the eclipse’s evolution and path above the landscape. If you attempt a composite, please don’t cheat and manufacture a composite that shows the eclipse above an unrelated landscape—for example, an image of the Golden Gate Bridge with an eclipse series transposed above it (yuck). Nor should you magnify the eclipse larger than its actual size. (If you do either of these things, I don’t want to see them.) Since my 2017 composite attempt was a failure, and trying to do that composite was the distraction I most regret, I’ll refer you to the countless other photographers who have had more time-lapse success and generously offer guidance online.
A few processing points
The three images I’ve processed from 2017 (below) are cropped. Even though I used a 400mm lens (I’d have used a 200-600 if it had been available at the time), I wanted the eclipse bigger, so I cropped closer in Photoshop. Because there’s not a lot of fine detail in an eclipse image, you have a fair amount of latitude for cropping without doing great harm, so if you’re disappointed by the size of the eclipse in whatever lens you use, you’re not necessarily stuck with that.
I shoot everything in raw, which enabled me to warm the color temperature quite a bit in Lightroom. To my eyes, the eclipse looked more blue than this, but I just like my images being the yellow color we associate with the sun.
I also had to clean up some lens flair in Photoshop. Lens flair is pretty much unavoidable if the sun is in your frame, but the Photoshop Remove tool handles it pretty well.
Experience first, then photography
However you choose to photograph the eclipse, during totality step away from the camera and bask in the experience. As totality approaches, observe the sunlight’s subtle dimming, and the way shadows appear more crisply etched as the area of the sun providing illumination diminishes. With a good view of the surrounding landscape, in the final seconds you might see the moon’s shadow rapid approach before engulfing you in totality.
Now you’re eclipsed. Marvel at the sun’s corona dancing against the surrounding blackness. As your eyes adjust, look for stars, planets, and (if you’re lucky) Comet Pons-Brooks. And don’t limit your focus to the visual. When the sun disappears, note the rapturous awe, or elated celebration, of those surrounding you. Monitor animal behavior, and check in with your non-visual senses: notice the cooler temperature, listen for bird, insect, and other creature sounds to go quiet, perhaps replaced by the calls of nocturnal creatures.
There you have it, the extent of my eclipse photography knowledge. If you encounter advice from a photographer with more eclipse experience than I have, it’s entirely possible (likely) that they know more about it than I do. But don’t let them talk you into trying something so complicated that you miss your four-minute opportunity to experience one of Nature’s most special gifts, because there are no do-overs.
Now enjoy, and good luck!
Read about my 2017 eclipse experience
August 21, 2017
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Ripping Off the Band-Aid
Posted on April 3, 2024
Frosted, Cathedral Rocks from El Capitan Bridge, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/13
1/10 second
We were in the midst of a beautiful Yosemite Tunnel View clearing storm when I told my group it was time to pull up stakes and move on. Some thought they’d misheard, others thought I was joking. Since we’d only started the previous afternoon, I hadn’t even really had a chance to gain the group’s trust. When one or two in the group hesitated, I assured everyone it’s like ripping off a Band-Aid, that it will only hurt for a minute and they’ll soon be glad they did it.
Many factors go into creating a good landscape image. Of course the actual in the field part is essential—things like photogenic conditions, a strong composition, and finding the ideal camera settings for exposure, focus, and depth of field. You could also cite processing that gets the most of the captured photons without taking them over the top. But an under-appreciated part of creating a good landscape image is the decision making that happens before the camera even comes out.
Some of this decision making is a simple matter of applying location knowledge. Other factors include the ability to read the weather and light, and doing the research to anticipate celestial and atmospheric phenomena (such as the sun, moon, stars, aurora, rainbows, and lightning). All of these decisions are intended to get to the right place at the right time.
A photo workshop group relies on me to do this heavy lifting in advance, and while I can’t guarantee the conditions we’ll find in a workshop scheduled at least a year in advance, my decisions should at least maximize their odds. These decisions don’t end when the workshop is scheduled—in fact, they’re much more visible (and subject to second guessing) after the workshop starts. Case in point: This morning in February.
Though the overnight forecast had promised a few rain showers followed by clearing that would last all day (yuck), before we’d even made the turn in the dark toward our Tunnel View sunrise, it was apparent the forecast had been wrong. Snow glazed all the trees, patches of fog swirled overhead, and I knew my plan to start at Tunnel View would give me the illusion of genius. At this point, my morning seemed easy.
For the next hour or so it was easy and my “genius” status remained intact as my group was treated to the Holy Grail of Yosemite photography: a continuously changing Tunnel View clearing storm, made even better by fresh snow. And if easy were my prime objective, I’d have just kept them there to blissfully bask in the morning’s beauty.
But the secret to photographing Yosemite in the snow is to keep moving, because when the conditions are beautiful in one spot, they’re just as beautiful at others. Since Yosemite’s snow, especially the relatively light dusting we enjoyed this morning, doesn’t last long once the sun hits the valley floor, our window for images of snowy Yosemite Valley was closing fast. I took comfort in the knowledge that it was virtually impossible that everyone in my group didn’t already have something truly spectacular. But, grumpy as they might have been about leaving (no one really showed it on the outside), I also knew I’d be doing them a disservice not giving them the opportunity for more great Yosemite images elsewhere in the park.
So I made the call: we’re leaving. Our next stop was El Capitan Bridge. The obvious view here is El Capitan and its reflection, visible from the bridge, but best just upstream along the south bank (actually, this bank is more east here, but since the Merced River, despite its many twists and turns, overall runs east/west through Yosemite Valley, that’s the way I’ll refer to it), but before everyone scattered I made sure they all knew about the Cathedral Rocks view and reflection from the downstream side of the bridge. Good thing.
As lovely as El Capitan was this morning, it was the downstream view that stole the show. By departing Tunnel View when we did, we were in place on the bridge when the sun broke through the diminishing clouds and poured into the valley, illuminating the recently glazed trees as if they’d been plugged in. I’d hoped that we’d make it here in time for this light, but I’d be lying if I said I expected it to be this spectacular. I hadn’t been shooting when the light hit, but when I saw what was happening I alerted everyone and rushed to capture the display before the sunlight reached the river and washed out the reflection. Some were already shooting it, but soon the rest of the group had positioned themselves somewhere along the rail to capture their own version.
Assessing the scene, I called out to no one in particular (everyone) that we shouldn’t just settle for the spot where we’d initially set up because the relationships between all the scene’s many elements—Cathedral Rocks, snow-covered trees, reflection, floating logs, etc.—was entirely a function of where they stood. With the entire bridge to ourselves, we all had ample space to move around and create our own shot.
I was especially drawn to the moss-covered tree tilting over the river on the bridge’s north (west) side. With a few quick stops on the way, I decided to go all-in on this striking tree and ended up on the far right end of the bridge. Being this far down meant losing some of the snowy trees and their reflection, but I decided I had enough of that great stuff and really liked the tree’s outline and color, not to mention the way this position emphasized the sideways “V” created by the tree and its reflection.
In general, I love the shear face of Cathedral Rocks from El Capitan Bridge (it’s a very popular Yosemite subject, especially among photographers looking for something that’s clearly Yosemite without resorting to its frequently photographed icons), but featuring the granite in this image would mean including blank sky that I felt would be a distraction. And I was also concerned that the sunlit rock just above the top of this frame would be too bright. So I composed as tightly as I could, eliminating the sky and sunlit rock, getting just enough of Cathedral Rocks to create a background for the illuminated evergreens. I was pleased that composing this way still allowed me to get more of the granite in my reflection.
At f/13 with my fairly wide focal length, getting front-to-back sharpness wasn’t a big problem, so I just focused on the featured tree. The greater concern was exposure. Sunlit snow is ridiculously bright, which meant that with much of my scene still in full shade, the dynamic range was off the charts. So I took great care not to blow-out the brightest trees, which of course resulted in the rest of my image looking extremely dark. But a quick check of my histogram told me I’d captured enough shadow info that brightening it later in Lightroom/Photoshop would be difficult.
By the time we were done here, I’m pretty sure everyone’s skepticism of my early exit had vanished, and that the brief sting from ripping off the Tunnel View band-aid was more than assuaged by the images we got after we left. By late morning, the snow was gone.
Yosemite in the Snow
Permission To Suck
Posted on March 27, 2024
Twilight on Ice, Glacier Lagoon, Iceland
Sony α1
Sony 16-35 f/2.8 GM
ISO 100
f/11
1 second
True story: I once had a Yosemite workshop participant meter an El Capitan reflection scene, put her Nikon D4 in continuous-frame mode, then press the shutter and spray in a 180 degree (10 FPS) arc until the image buffer filled. Unable to contain my dismay, I asked her what she was doing and she just shrugged and said (with a smile), “It’s Yosemite—there’s sure to be something good in there.” While I couldn’t really argue, I’m guessing she wasn’t seeing a lot of growth as a landscape photographer.
Thanks to today’s digital cameras’ ridiculous frame rates, seemingly infinite buffers and memory cards, and the ease of deleting images in the field, I’m afraid this spray-and-pray approach has become all to common. A landscape photographer’s goal shouldn’t merely be an occasionally good (or even great) image, it should also be continuous improvement. So, while spray-and-pray might render nice images from time to time, clicks without consideration also inhibit growth.
I tend to fall on the opposite end of the photography continuum. Rather than taking a high volume of low-effort images (spray-and-pray), my approach carries over from my film days. Back then, a photographer who wasn’t careful might return from a photo trip to find that, between the film and its eventual processing, the photographs cost more than the trip. With my wallet forcing me to be more discriminating, I took my time with every scene, checking (and double-checking) every composition and exposure variable, and only clicked when I was confident of success. Because basically, I couldn’t afford to suck.
Times have changed. Though many digital shooters have indeed become far too casual with each frame, following the conservative film-centric approach leaves shots, and opportunities to grow, on the table. To get the most from digital photography tremendous advantages, we also need to jettison the inclination to obsessive prudence in favor of curiosity and exploration.
Because here’s the new (digital) reality: While each film click cost us money, each digital click increases the return on our investment. In other words, since we’ve already invested in the capture medium (our camera), the more times we click the shutter, the lower the cost per click becomes. Transitioning from film to digital, the realization the not being constrained by budget means that every click doesn’t need to be a winner felt like a true epiphany.
The best approach for digital landscape shooters is a hybrid of the cautious film and nonchalant digital extremes: Careful attention to detail, combined with a no-fear freedom to fail frequently. For this to work, it’s essential to have some kind of plan or objective for every frame, but that objective doesn’t have to be a good image—it can be just as valuable to fail and learn. Feel free to explore without knowing exactly where you’re going or how you might get there—some of my most successful images happened only because I wasn’t afraid to start with crappy images, just to see where they led.
There’s a draft in here
As someone who has been writing and taking pictures for a long (long) time, I’ve found true similarities between the creation process for each craft. Whether it’s an important e-mail, a magazine article, a blog, or an epic novel, few writers sit down and create a polished piece of writing in a single pass. Instead, they start with a rough draft of their idea, then review, revise, and repeat until they’re satisfied.
For most writers, success requires being okay with making “bad” before making good. In her (wonderfully insightful and entertaining) book “Bird by Bird,” Anne Lamott encourages writers to embrace the “shitty first draft.” As a writer long inhibited by a fear to ever be less than perfect at anything, I found this permission to start “bad” very empowering. Until embracing this concept, not only had my creative growth been waylaid by my own internal editor, I’d been comparing my own early attempts to everyone else’s finished work (of course it won’t compete), forgetting that those writers almost certainly started with something crappy too. Now, when writing anything, I’m far more comfortable simply starting with an idea and seeing where it leads me.
This mindset is ideal for landscape photographers as well. We deal with mostly stationary subjects, which gives us the time to create at our own speed—clicking, reviewing, adjusting to our heart’s content—confident that our subject will still be there when we’re ready for the next click. Because there’s no financial penalty for each digital shutter click, the mindset can be that each click is simply a step toward a finished image—no matter how poor the prior image, there’s always an opportunity to improve it with the next one.
When I approach a scene and think there might be a shot in there somewhere, I don’t care how many clicks it takes, I’ll just keep clicking and refining until I’ve found something, or decided there’s nothing there. I start by composing my first click mostly by feel, without a lot of analysis. This is my first draft, a proof of concept that creates a foundation to build an image on. When that draft pops up on my camera’s LCD, I stand back and evaluate it, make adjustments, and click again, repeating as many times as necessary. And even when I think I finally have it, I might try a few more tweaks to see if I can make the image even more “perfect.” Would it surprise you to know that virtually every picture I share was not my first click of that scene?
This click without remorse approach also applies when I’m not certain there’s anything there at all. In those situations I might just play “what-if” games with my camera: What if I do this? Or that? If it triggers something, great; if it doesn’t, I move on—but maybe I’ve learned something in the process. And every time I find myself asking, “Should I do it this way or that way?,” I just do it both ways and decide later.
This personal permission to be bad is probably the single most important factor in my growth as a photographer.
One more thing…
I hear a lot of landscape photographers claim that stabilized bodies and lenses, combined with clean high-ISO sensors, have made the tripod obsolete. Since photography has to make you happy, I won’t argue with anyone who says using a tripod saps their joy. But…. If the joy you receive from landscape photography requires getting the best possible images, you really should be using a tripod.
Applying my draft/revise approach without a tripod is like drawing with an Etch A Sketch (is that still a thing?), then erasing the screen after each click. That’s because after every hand-held click, what’s the first thing you do? If you’re like most photographers, to review your image you drop the camera from your eye and extend it out in front of you to better view the LCD. Before you can make the inevitable adjustments to that hand-held capture, you must return the camera to your eye and completely recreate the original composition you just evaluated before making any adjustments. Using a tripod, the image you just reviewed is just sitting there in your viewfinder, waiting for the next revision.
Much the way a computer allows writers to save, review, and incrementally improve what they’ve written, a tripod holds your composition while you decide how to make it better. Shooting this way, each frame becomes an incremental improvement of the preceding frame.
Now, go forth and suck…
About this image
Twilight on Ice, Glacier Lagoon, Iceland
When this year’s Iceland workshop group arrived at Glacier Lagoon, it was pretty clear that we were in store for something special. The shadowless light and sweet pink and blue pastels opposite the sun make early pre-sunrise (or late post-sunset) twilight my favorite time of day to photograph—in Iceland it’s even better thanks to the incredibly long high latitude twilight. With the sun rising behind us in a little more than an hour, the clear sky and pristine air meant we’d have a front row view of the day’s first pink rays pushing the steely blue Earth’s shadow below the horizon.
Since we’d already visited here a couple of days earlier, everyone in the group knew their way around and instantly scattered when they saw what was coming. I didn’t go far, setting up with several others in the group along the lagoon bank, just below the parking area. I chose this spot largely because it allowed me to stay fairly close to many in the group, while still providing all of the elements I knew would make the morning special: clear view of the soon-to-be colorful sky, striking icebergs to draw the eye, and a reflective and textured foreground dotted with smaller ice features.
With so much going on from foreground to sky, I went with my 16-35 f/2.8 lens, which was already mounted on my Sony α1 body. I had little time to waste and quickly framed up a wide shot that included everything. Scrutinizing the result, I decided that I’d use the two largest icebergs to anchor my frame and repositioned myself accordingly. Then I just started clicking and reviewing, making slight refinements to find the right balance of sky and ice, and tweaking my polarizer to maximize the reflection color while reducing the glare on the closest ice.
True to high latitude form, this morning’s show stretched on luxuriously, enabling me to work the scene without feeling rushed. If I hadn’t been with a group I might have taken advantage of the slow motion sunrise and roamed a bit, but I was pretty content just staying put.
Join Don Smith and me in Iceland next year.
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Sweet Twilight
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Aurora Dreams
Posted on March 19, 2024
Northern Lights and Big Dipper, Vik, Iceland
Sony a7R V
Sony 14mm f/1.8 GM
ISO 3200
f/2
8 seconds
Even without the northern lights, there’s enough stuff to photograph in Iceland to more than fill a 10-day winter workshop. But I’d be lying if I said the prime goal of every person who signs up for an Iceland winter photo workshop isn’t the northern lights. And Don Smith and I do our best to fulfill these aurora dreams, but that of course isn’t completely under our control. (Full disclosure: our motives aren’t entirely unselfish because we get as thrilled about the aurora as anyone, and would go chasing the lights by ourselves if everyone else wanted to stay in.)
To maximize our chances for success, we have aurora locations for each of our overnight towns (and multiple locations at most of them), monitor the weather and aurora activity obsessively, and use these forecasts to plan (and adjust) our schedule, sometimes days in advance.
But like most things in nature photography, nothing is guaranteed. For example, last year we had two Iceland workshops back-to-back—the first group enjoyed truly epic northern lights displays on consecutive nights, at two different locations; the second group was essentially shut out, only managing to see a faint green glow on the horizon, visible to the camera but not the eye. But that disappointment wasn’t for lack of trying.
Since knowledge is power, when chasing fickle natural phenomena like the aurora, it helps to have as complete an understanding as possible of the science involved. Not only does this understanding help me maximize my chances for success, it helps me appreciate my subjects and enjoy the experience even more.
Aurora basics
Our planet is continuously bombarded by solar energy. When this perpetual solar wind encounters Earth’s atmosphere, a narrow range of wavelengths (infrared and visible) passes through to warm us and light our way. But other energy wavelengths in the solar wind interact with the atmospheric molecules they encounter, creating a charge imbalance by stripping electrons.
Instead of penetrating our atmosphere to create havoc on Earth’s surface, most of these charged particles (ions) are intercepted by the magnetosphere, our planet’s protective magnetic shield. Continually buffeted by solar energy, the magnetosphere is teardrop shaped, with the battered side that faces the sun compressed, while the side shielded behind Earth thins and stretches much farther into space.
As Earth rotates, at any given moment the side toward the sun (the daylight side) faces the compressed side of our magnetosphere, while the night side of Earth looks out at the less dense, extended region of the magnetosphere. Just as the upwind face of a wall or building channels wind around it, the sunward side of the magnetosphere deflects the charged particles and channels them to upper regions of Earth’s leeward (night) side.
While many of these ionized molecules stream toward the back, extended part of the teardrop-shaped magnetosphere and eventually away from Earth and deeper into the solar system, some are drawn Earthward along magnetic field lines created by our planet’s north and south magnetic poles, creating an oval of charged particles lower into the atmosphere above the poles. It’s these energized particles that we see as an aurora.
The aurora’s color depends on the molecules involved, and the altitude of their activity. Green-emitting oxygen molecules at relatively low altitudes are the most plentiful, which is why green is the most common aurora color. Less common is red, which we see when charged particles strike oxygen at very high altitudes, as well as nitrogen, hydrogen, and helium at lower altitudes. Blue and purple are also possible, depending combinations of altitude and the molecules involved.
Aurora activity is measured by the Kp- (or K-) index, a 0-9 scale of atmospheric electromagnetic activity, with 0 being little or no activity (get some sleep), and 9 being the most extreme activity (don’t forget the sunglasses). Many governments and scientific organizations issue regular Kp forecasts that seem about as reliable as a weather forecast—decent, but far from perfect, and improving as the forecast day draws near. There are many websites and smartphone apps that will provide you with up-to-date Kp forecasts for your current location—some will even issue alerts.
The solar cycle
The size of the aurora oval, and therefore the extent of the area below where we’ll be able to view an aurora, is a function of the amount of activity on the sun. In times of extreme solar activity, not only will the aurora display be visible at lower latitudes, the intensity of the display at higher latitudes will be greater.
Through centuries of observation, solar scientists have identified an 11-year cycle of solar activity tied to the reversal of the sun’s magnetic poles: every 11 (or so) years, the sun’s north and south poles flip. With this solar reversal comes an increase in sunspots (storms on the solar surface) that spawn the solar flares and coronal mass ejections that hurtle energetic particles Earthward to ignite an aurora. And though strong aurora displays are possible at any time during the solar cycle, their occurrence is most frequent around the 11-year max, and least frequent around the 11-year minimum.
For anyone with aurora dreams of their own, all this is especially relevant right now because the sun is approaching its 11-year peak. It’s impossible to know exactly what month the absolute peak will occur, but the activity is still increasing and it’s safe to say that it will probably peak sometime in the next year or two. Whether you join me in an Iceland photo workshop, find some other workshop or tour, or just plan a trip on your own, the time for action is now.
This year’s aurora chase
Based on the aurora forecast, this year’s Iceland workshop group started out very hopeful. And while the aurora was indeed active during our visit, the weather didn’t fully cooperate. After a couple of nights of cloudy skies (and fantastic daytime photography) on Snaefellsnes Peninsula , we made the long drive to Vik beneath a sunny sky that gave us hope for that night’s chances. So, given the day’s horizon-to-horizon blue, it was difficult to believe when an early afternoon forecast suddenly promised clouds by nightfall. But sure enough, as we photographed sunset on the coast near Vik, we were discouraged to see clouds approaching from the south and west.
Despite our pessimism, we went to dinner with a plan to give the aurora a shot if the clouds held off. After dinner (pizza, at a small restaurant that has become an annual favorite) we were pleased to walk outside and see stars in the north. Let’s go!
One of last year’s great aurora shows happened on our night in Vik, a display so spectacular that we were able to photograph it in all directions from a location with the best views west, south, and east. But we knew that on this night, even if the clouds held off long enough, any visible aurora would likely be limited to the northern sky. And with clouds encroaching, we knew south-facing views would likely be fruitless anyway.
Unfortunately, of all the locations we visit in Iceland, Vik has the worst north-facing views. But not to be deterred, we pointed our bus up the steep hill behind the town’s beautiful little church (if you’ve been to Vik, you know what I’m talking about) until we could go no further. We found ourselves at a cemetery parking lot high above town, with an open view northward to nearby mountains and the sky beyond.
Don, Albert (our guide), and I piled out of the bus and could instantly see above the mountains the telltale greenish haze that indicates an aurora—nothing spectacular, but enough to get a group of aurora virgins out of the bus. It only took us about 60 or so seconds to return to the bus, rouse everyone, and grab our gear, but in that short time a distinct green shaft of aurora had shot along the northwest horizon. Since we didn’t know how long it would last, and we could clearly see clouds closing in from the south, we ramped up the urgency to something approaching a fire evacuation.
For the next 30 minutes, until the clouds arrived to shut down the view, the group enjoyed a beautiful aurora display. Though pretty much limited to this one region of the sky, it was quite bright—bright enough that the color was clearly visible—with visible definition and motion.
Since this was the first time photographing an aurora for most of the group, I spent most of my time making sure everyone else was doing alright and didn’t get to take a lot of pictures for myself. I just set up my camera, found a composition I liked, set my focus and exposure, then clicked an occasional frame as I passed my camera on my way to help someone else.
The aurora was more prominent on the left side of this view, but I wasn’t crazy about the foreground in that direction. I decided to put the aurora on the left side of my frame and go wider to balance it with the Big Dipper and nicer peaks. I was less than thrilled about the light from Vik painting mountains, but figured I could minimize that fairly easily in Lightroom/Photoshop.
So, did we have the spectacular aurora show of previous years? We did not. But on this one night, and this night only, we did enjoy a short-lived but beautiful aurora that fulfilled everyone’s aurora dreams.
Don Smith and I will be back in Iceland for more next year
Iceland’s Aurora
Watch Your Backup
Posted on March 12, 2024
Sunrise Gem, Diamond Beach, Iceland
Sony a7R V
Sony 12-24 GM
1/13 second
F/22
ISO 50
A funny thing happened to me on the way to this image. And when I say “on the way,” I don’t mean taking the picture, I mean after it was safely loaded onto my computer and fully processed, it seems that someone (who wishes to remain anonymous), accidentally overwrote it with a completely different image. Oops.
Establishing a backup mindset
Overwriting an image is an easy thing to do; without a backup, it’s lost forever. In this case, I still had the raw file, but I’d have lost all the time and effort I’d put into processing the image, with no guarantee that I’d ever perfectly duplicate my original processing. Not the end of the world, but a real pain. Instead, since I did have a backup, I was simply able to restore the image and go about my business.
Though whole experience was just a blip in my day, it made me think about the data management practices that made it a non-event. These data practices I acquired in my previous life in the tech industry (way back when megabytes were big), but practices that might not be quite so second nature to others (especially those who don’t yet know the devastation of lost irreplaceable data). Which led me to thinking that perhaps some would be interested knowing how I keep my data safe. So I’ll share my own image (and data) workflow as an example of good data practices—not to advocate for my specific approach, but simply as an example.
However you choose to implement your own backup scheme, you should be fine long as you follow a few basic principles:
- Backup everything that’s important: Duh.
- Backup regularly—Ideally that will be automatically and as instantly as possible: Your data is only as good as your most recent backup.
- Redundant backups: Relying on a single backup of important data is playing with fire, and I daresay even two backups might not be not enough.
- At least one offsite backup: You never know what catastrophe might befall your abode.
- Multiple storage types: There is no “perfect” storage technology, so whatever your preference—spinning drives (cheaper but prone to crashing without warning); SSD drives (faster, relatively crash-resistant, and extremely compact, but expensive and not forever); CDs/DVDs (cheap, but also not forever); or the cloud (convenient but slow to populate, and even slower to restore—especially if you need to restore a lot of data at once)—never put all your backup eggs in one basket.
I’m going to concentrate on my image storage and backup, but since photography is my livelihood, there’s lots of non-image data that’s just as important and treated with the same care.
To the extent that it’s possible, for me a regular backup means an immediate backup. Because all of my cameras have two card slots and I write each image I capture to both cards, my image backups start the second I click my shutter. Card failures are rare, and usually survivable with the help of recovery software, but usually isn’t good enough. Not only that, media failure isn’t the only threat to my images. Don’t forget user error. For example, I know a photographer (the same one who overwrote the image above) who one time pulled a card out of his camera intending to upload the images from a recent weekend in Yosemite, stuck it in a pocket for the short walk down to his nearby Starbucks, and somehow lost the card. Instead of freaking out about a lost weekend, he simply pulled the other card from his camera and used it to import the weekend’s images. The stray card never did turn up, so he was out the cost of its replacement—a temporary bummer, but far from the crushing letdown losing a weekend’s worth of irreplaceable photography would have been.
As much as I’d like to automate the step of importing my images from my camera to my computer, my own import workflow does require some intervention because I use Lightroom’s Import program to name and organize my images. Without getting too deep into the weeds, I let Lightroom rename each image—retaining the camera-assigned image number and adding descriptive info—before copying them into a trip-specific folder on a 4TB SSD drive that always travels with me. And because I use two computers, my Lightroom catalog also lives on this drive—I just plug the drive into whichever computer I’m working on and away I go.
Once this Lightroom upload is complete, I immediately copy that trip’s newly populated folder onto a 10TB spinning hard drive that lives on my desk, and also to a RAID 6 configured NAS array (a possibly overkill but much appreciated backup set-up by my IT professional son-in-law). Only when all this is done do I format the camera’s media cards.
That sounds pretty good—3 copies (computer, hard drive, NAS array)—but it’s not enough. Consider the plight of Francis Ford Coppola, who lost 15 years worth of writing and images when his computer and its backup were stolen. Then think about the unthinkable things that could happen to your home—theft, fire, flood, nuclear missile, etc.—that might jeopardize everything inside. You need an offsite backup.
Places to host an offsite backup(s) include the home of a friend or relative, a safe deposit box, a storage facility, the office, to name a few. All those options are better than nothing, but not only are these manually generated backups only as good as the most recent update, updating them frequently enough to be worthwhile requires more discipline than I can take credit for.
Which is why my offsite backup uses a cloud service: Backblaze. There are many cloud backup options, but I chose Backblaze because it’s computer-based (it backs up every hard drive attached to my computer for the same price), not size limited (they’ll backup as much data as I connect to my computer), and not expensive (around $100/year). Almost the instant I add images to the 10TB drive on my desk, Backblaze recognizes the new data and starts backing it up—I never have to think about it again. With so much redundancy in my local backups, I consider this Backblaze backup to be my backup of last resort—I’ll probably (fingers crossed) never use it, but the peace of mind I get from the knowledge of its existence is worth far more than the service’s relatively small cost.
A de facto backup (it does backup my data, but that’s not why use it) is Dropbox, which holds every piece of data I might want to access regularly—processed images (but not raw files), documents, presentations, etc.—and syncs it all between my various devices. This allows me to work on something at home, then relocate to my remote “office” (Starbucks) without skipping a beat. I can also access all this essential data on my iPhone and iPad if when I find myself separated from my computers. I actually sync all of my Dropbox data to each of my computers, so once its synced I can still access it when I’m off the grid (I’m looking at you, Grand Canyon North Rim); on my iPhone and iPad, I pull most of my Dropbox data from the cloud when I need it, but do have a few important folders and files permanently downloaded for offline access.
The final piece of my backup paradigm is Mac OS Time Machine, which comes installed on every Mac, stores history for each file (I can go back to any date and recover a copy of any given file on that date), and is so easy to set up and use, I don’t understand why any Mac user wouldn’t use it. My primary Time Machine backup is a dedicated (not used for anything else) 5TB spinning hard disk that lives on my desk and is always connected. Because spinning hard drives can fail without warning, I also have a duplicate Time Machine backup on my NAS array.
In this case, when I someone overwrote a this fully processed image file, I didn’t panic, I just went to my backup. I had multiple options, but my Time Machine backup was right there on my desktop, so in less than a minute I was back in business with a fully restored image file.
One more very specific case
No example illustrates how backup obsessed I am than my workflow on a trip that requires flying. Since I’ll be so far from my whole home office backup paradigm, when I fly I carry a second 4TB SSD drive. After uploading the images onto my regular image drive and into the Lightroom catalog, I copy that folder onto that second drive, and hide it deep in my suitcase. If, God forbid, someone breaks into my room and steals my (insured) camera and computer bags, it’s unlikely they’ll find the second backup drive.
When I fly home, I make sure my images are in three different places: the primary image drive is in my computer bag over my shoulder and then under the seat in front of me; the backup drive is safely tucked into my checked suitcase; the SD cards containing the original raw files are in my cameras, which are in my camera bag on my back, and then in the overhead bin. The only way I’ll lose all three is if the plane goes down, in which case I likely have bigger problems.
About this image
Sunrise Gem, Diamond Beach, Iceland
The day after our aborted visit to Diamond Beach, this year’s Iceland workshop group enjoyed a far more successful return visit. It seems every time Don Smith and I bring a group here, it’s a little different. Last year there was much less ice; the year before the surf was so rough that we didn’t dare get close to the water—and still ended up being too close. Some years the advancing and receding surf gently wraps each ice chunk, and other years most of the ice is high and dry.
This year the tide was out, so most (but not all) of the ice was up the beach and rarely touched by the surf. I started here trying to get the standard Diamond Beach motion blur shots on the few ice cubes the waves reached, but when the sun arrived turned my attention to the much larger ice slightly (20 feet) inland from the waves’ farthest approach.
I love the way the ice lights up with the warm hues of the sun’s first rays, so to fill the screen with this beautiful translucent natural ice sculpture, I went with my 12-24 lens, dropped low, and positioned my tripod no more than two feet away. Because I was going for a sunstar, I dialed to f/22, then spent the time waiting for the sun micro-positioning myself to get all the elements in place. I liked the smooth rocks embedded in the black sand, and though that distant block of ice in the upper left was quite tiny at 12mm, I knew as soon as the sun hit it, it would stand out enough to create a little visual interest in that corner of the frame. I put the top of my frame just above the clouds to minimize the amount of blank sky.
As soon as the sun popped out, I started shooting. On my camera’s LCD the foreground looked nearly black—not just the sand, but the shaded part of the ice as well. But I didn’t want to blow out the sky, and knew my Sony a7RV well enough to be confident I could pull up the shadows in Lightroom/Photoshop. I’d love to say that the feathery sun-kissed waves were intentional, but I didn’t even notice them until I started working on the image.
Don Smith and I return to Iceland in 2025
Here Comes the Sunstar
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Moon Swoon
Posted on March 6, 2024
Moonrise, Half Dome, Yosemite
Sony α1
Sony 200-600 G
ISO 200
f/8
1/50 second
Given an especially intense workshop schedule to start my year, the only Yosemite workshop I originally planned for February was my annual Horsetail Fall workshop. But in early 2023 I plotted the 2024 February full moon and saw that it would appear above Yosemite Valley, directly behind Half Dome (viewed from Tunnel View), at exactly sunset on Friday, February 23. Hmmm…
Checking my 2024 schedule, I noted that the year’s workshop fun started on January 22 with five days in Death Valley, followed by just a two-day break before I flew to Iceland for eleven days. After returning from Iceland, I had only two days to catch my breath before my four-day Horsetail Fall workshop. Avoiding Yosemite’s weekend crowds (always a problem, but magnified significantly by Horsetail Fall) while including the moonrise, meant the February moon workshop could only start on February 20. That would give me just three days between Yosemite workshops to recharge and recover from jet lag. But that moonrise…
(All this probably isn’t terribly interesting, but surely there’s someone out there interested in the calculus that goes into scheduling photo workshops.) In general, any photo shoot should be timed to pair the static landscape feature (one we know exactly where it is, and that it’s not going anywhere) of your choice with some dynamic natural element (great light, dramatic weather, seasonal features, celestial elements, and so on) that will take the scene (cliché alert) “to the next level.” And while I can’t speak for other workshop leaders, my own scheduling process follows the same rule: start with a beautiful location I’m extremely familiar with, then identify those special external phenomena that I’d travel to photograph even without a workshop.
While personal trips can happen at the last minute, workshops need to be scheduled at least a year in advance, which of course adds an element of uncertainty because I can’t actually promise the event I scheduled the workshop for. And that doesn’t even take into account the other unforeseen events that can shut down a location with little notice. Case(s) in point: since 2020 I’ve lost workshops to a global pandemic (perhaps you remember that), extreme wildfire potential, and a flood threat. And just this week a forecast of extreme snow closed Yosemite for the weekend with very short notice—a bullet narrowly dodged by my February workshops. But none of that stress can trump the potential for a perfectly timed and placed Tunnel View moonrise that I wouldn’t dream of missing myself—so why not share it?
Worst case, I rationalized, I’d be delaying my post-workshop recovery for a week to get four more winter days of Yosemite beauty without having to battle any crowds (who’d be camped out beneath Horsetail Fall) at all my sunset spots. And best case, in addition to all of the above, we’d enjoy two beautiful moonrises, capped by the Tunnel View grand finale on our last shoot.
So schedule it I did. After an inauspicious beginning to the 2024 workshops—forgotten computer in Death Valley, traumatic reindeer encounter in Iceland, and a last-day power outage in the Horsetail workshop—I figured I’d gotten all the bad stuff out of the way just in time for the moon workshop. And despite the inconveniences, the photography in those first three workshops was off the charts—could I keep that photography streak alive in workshop number four?
That question was answered early. On the workshop’s first morning we drove into the park for sunrise and discovered that an unforecast overnight snowfall had decorated Yosemite Valley with a couple of inches of fresh snow. Better still, that storm was just departing as we set up for sunrise at Tunnel View, so my group got to enjoy a truly classic Yosemite clearing storm, followed by an intense dash to capture as much of Yosemite Valley as possible before the snow melted. After that morning, it felt like I was playing with house money. But I still wanted that moon…
One of the unfortunate side-effects of dependence on fickle, ephemeral natural phenomena is the urge to compulsively check their status as the target time approaches. In this case, since I knew exactly when and where the moon would rise (which of course didn’t prevent me from compulsively plotting and replotting, just to be sure), I was wholly dependent on the clouds to cooperate and couldn’t keep my eyes off the weather forecast (as if that would do any good).
On Monday of that week the forecast for Friday was clear. Excellent! By Tuesday, it changed to mostly clear—uh-oh (I always hate to see my weather forecasts trending in the wrong direction.) Sure enough, on Wednesday, Friday was forecast to be partly cloudy. And by the time I went to bed Thursday night, the NWS was calling for mostly cloudy on Friday. Sweet dreams…
We still had a nice moonrise shoot on the valley floor Thursday evening, so technically I’d delivered the “Yosemite Winter Moon” the workshop name promised. Not only was that moonrise a visual treat, it provided an opportunity for everyone to practice the surprisingly tricky exposure techniques a sunset moonrise requires. The tendency is to expose the scene so the darkening foreground looks good on the camera’s LCD, which pretty much guarantees the moon will be an overexposed white blob. The solution is to base the exposure on the moon, making the moon as bright as possible without blowing it out, and trusting that the foreground that looks much too dark on the camera’s LCD can be fixed in Lightroom/Photoshop. (Or you could just take one picture for the moon and one for the foreground, then combine them later in the image processor—but what fun is that?)
After building up the Friday moonrise promised in the workshop’s name, preparation material, and orientation, there was no turning back. And while everyone in the group knew I had no control over the weather, and the Wednesday morning snow and clearing storm guaranteed the workshop was already a huge photographic success, that was old news, and I couldn’t help stressing about the moonrise I’d built this workshop around.
The clouds arrived and lingered on Friday as promised. Throughout the day we got a few glimpses of blue overhead, but nothing that gave me a lot of optimism. Nevertheless, after a nice day of photography, with sunset and the moonrise both at 5:45, I got my people up to Tunnel View a little after 5:00 so they’d have plenty of time to stake out a good spot and get comfortable with the conditions. But there were those clouds…
About half the group followed me to a sloping granite slab behind Tunnel View, while the other half chose to stay with my brother Jay at the more accessible, less vertically exposed regular view in front of the parking lot. Before setting up, I bounced back and forth between the two spots a couple times to be sure everyone was settled in and knew exactly when and where the moon would appear (if the sky were clear).
Ever the optimist, I settled down on my little patch of granite with two tripods, cameras, and lenses. On my (large) Really Right Stuff 24L tripod (with the BH-55 head) was my Sony a1 and 200-600 lens; on my (compact) RRS Ascend 14L was my Sony a7R V and 24-105 lens. I pointed the 200-600 at Half Dome and zoomed to around 450mm to fill the frame with the snow-capped monolith; with the 24-105 I composed a wider scene that included El Capitan, Half Dome, and Bridalveil Fall. The plan, should the moon actually appear, was to start with tight telephotos of just Half Dome, then, as the moon separates from Half Dome, switch to wider frames of the entire scene. But those clouds…
Thinner clouds covered most of Yosemite Valley, but my primary concern was a large stratus blob above and a little west of Half Dome, with the thickest clouds approaching the rock from the west. Not a good setup. A lifetime of photographing Yosemite has taught me that the clouds above Yosemite Valley arrive from the west and exit in the east, which meant the heavier cloud cover was bearing down on the very area of the sky where the moon would appear. But a lifetime of photographing Yosemite has also taught me that as soon as you think you have the weather there figured out, it will prove you wrong.
Around 5:30 I noticed a small patch of blue behind Half Dome, low on the right side where it intersects the tree-lined ridge. This is the area the thicker clouds should be filling, but as I watched, rather than advancing, those clouds seemed to be lifting. Soon it became apparent that the blue behind Half Dome was expanding. With a couple of minutes to go, not only was all the sky directly behind and above Half Dome clear, even the clouds above that appeared to be thinning.
This is probably a good time to say that few sights thrill me more than the first appearance of the moon above any landscape. As the time for the moonrise approaches, I lock my eyes on the spot and don’t move them, even when talking to others—I don’t want to miss a single photon of the moon’s arrival.
And I didn’t. The instant I saw the first molecule of moon nudge above Half Dome I called out to everyone with me and the clicking commenced. I waited about 30 seconds just to enjoy the view a bit, then went to work with my 200-600. As soon as the moon separated from Half Dome, I switched to my a7R V 24-105 as planned and spent the next 15 or so minutes with wider views of the scene. The rising moon soon encountered some clouds, but most weren’t thick enough to completely obscured it, and most actually enhanced the view.
I realize this zoomed image isn’t a compositional masterpiece—I just wanted to get the tightest zoom possible (to make the moon as large as possible), without cutting off any of Half Dome (easy to do if you’re not paying attention). Mission accomplished.
Epilogue
Just when I thought I’d put the inauspicious behind me, I was notified by one of the people in the Yosemite moon group that he’d tested positive for COVID. The next day, I too tested positive for COVID, as did three others in the group. Fortunately, we were all sufficiently vaccinated and no one got terribly sick. For three days I felt pretty miserable (bad cold miserable, nothing that sent me to bed), but was back to my regular morning workout after four days.
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Yosemite Moonrise
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Get Centered
Posted on February 27, 2024
Winter Twilight, Vestrahorn, Iceland
Sony a7R V
Sony 12-24 GM
1/8 second
F/11
ISO 200
This day started with one of the most disturbing experiences of my photo workshop life, so finishing with a sunset like this was comforting relief for the entire group.
But before I get to the sunset, let me wind the clock all the way back to our short drive to Diamond Beach for this morning’s sunrise. In February Iceland’s sunrise arrives at around 10 a.m., but with the high latitude also comes extremely long twilight hours, so we were on the road for the 10-minute drive to the beach at 8:30, stomachs full of breakfast. The sky was still quite dark, but hints of a beautiful sunrise were already creeping up along the eastern horizon as we drove. In a workshop filled with special, Diamond Beach is extra special, so despite the darkness outside, everyone was pretty energized as we bounced along the highway.
Gazing through the windshield from my seat near the front of our (small—26 passengers) bus, I caught sight of a dark shadow approaching from the left. Simultaneously, someone in the back yelled, “Look out!”, and our driver Vincenzo braked hard. The shadow was just ambling, showing no sign of awareness of its immediate peril, neither slowing or speeding as it moved About the time my brain identified the shadow as a reindeer, it was directly in front of us and smack! From the first instant of the reindeer’s appearance to our bus’s direct hit, I’d guess less than a second elapsed.
We were traveling around 45 miles per hour, a pretty reasonable and safe speed in Iceland’s icy darkness. We’ve all been in accidents (right?)—almost without exception the situation changes from perfectly normal to dire before your brain has time to register what’s happening. Given that, I have to say that Vincenzo did an amazing job: Instead of following the normal human reflex to swerve (as I’m afraid I might have done), he simply braked quickly and continued forward into the reindeer. Textbook. While not the best result for the reindeer, Vincenzo’s response on that frozen highway almost certainly spared us a rollover and many injuries, perhaps worse.
Bus reindeer damage. I took this picture quite a while after the accident, shortly before we tried to limp home.
We immediately pulled over, all pretty shaken, but no one more-so than Vincenzo. After a minute or two to recenter, the four group leaders (Iceland guide Albert Dros, driver and photographer Vincenzo Mazza, Don Smith, and me), exited to assess the damage. There was no doubt that the reindeer was down for the count on impact, a small comfort to know that it didn’t suffer. But when I saw our headlights still shining bright before exiting, I’d held out slight hope that damage to the bus would be cosmetic and not impact our trip. No such luck.
In addition to the obvious damage to the grill (which doesn’t really show up well in the picture), we were losing coolant. Only a few minutes from Diamond Beach, we briefly toyed with the thought of continuing on to sunrise and letting Vincenzo deal with the damage while we photographed, but ended up making the incredibly wise decision to cut our losses and turn around to attempt the 3 mile drive back to our hotel where we could regroup.
Even poking along at around 5 MPH, and despite the frigid outside temperature, the bus’s thermostat needle immediately started creeping northward, toward the red. I know Vincenzo was watching its climb as closely as he watched the road, and after about 10 minutes he pulled us to a stop to let the engine cool. After about a 15-minute respite, we (fingers crossed) fired up the engine and limped the rest of the way back—3 miles in 45 minutes.
Back at the hotel, immediate problem solved, we still needed to figure out how we were going to complete the second half of our workshop minus our trusty chariot. But within a couple of hours, Don and I got word that our tour company had pulled some strings and our replacement “bus” would be delivered by 1 p.m. We were back in business.
The arrival of this replacement van might be a good time to remind you that beggars can’t be choosers. Normally Don and I cap the Iceland workshop at 12 participants, but since this group would be led by 4 qualified photographers, and we knew our bus would be more than big enough for everyone, we went to 14 participants. With the 4 leaders, that meant 18 people in our 26-passenger bus—no problem, especially since the bus had ample storage. Sadly, that calculus didn’t account for an encounter with a reindeer, and the reality that our replacement vehicle would turn out to be more of a large van, with seats only for 21, and very limited storage space—more designed for day excursions than multi-day trips.
Having missed just the morning’s sunrise shoot, that afternoon we motored off to Vestrahorn in our new wheels, certainly cozy, but (more or less) comfortable. Since we were already using virtually every inch of available space for our bodies and camera bags, we all scratched our heads at how, when we checked out in a couple of days, we were going to squeeze all of our luggage in to our new ride. When questioned, Albert simply answered that we’d do it because we had no choice, and I chose not to stress about it. (Much.) And there was still photography to be done!
Vestrahorn is rivaled only by Kirkjufell on the list of recognizable Iceland peaks. Towering about 1500 feet above the North Atlantic, Vestrahorn’s intrusive origins distinguish it from many of its mostly extrusive Icelandic neighbors. The mountain’s rock formed about 10 million years ago, when subterranean volcanism injected iron- and magnesium-rich magma from Earth’s mantle into the crust above. Protected by this crust from exposure to the much cooler atmosphere on the surface, this magma cooled slowly to form Vestrahorn’s hard, crystal-infused core. Over time this hardened core was pushed upward by the region’s relentless geological forces. With this increasing elevation, the much softer crust entombing the mountain gradually eroded away, leaving only the peak we see today.
Vestrahorn Reflection, Stokksnes Beach, Iceland (2021)
On any day, Vestrahorn is a photographer’s delight. Though visually quite different, I liken the photography experience here to the Alabama Hills beneath California’s Sierra Crest, where an infinite variety of foreground composition possibilities stretch beneath the dramatic mountain peaks. At Vestrahorn, the foreground variety comes courtesy of black sand dunes, icy ponds, faceted ice patterns, and the mirror reflections left behind each time the surf retreats from gently sloping Stokksnes Beach.
I like to get around to everyone in the group before starting my own photography, but more than any other location in Iceland, here people seem to scatter like shotgun pellets. After about a half hour of wandering I finally gave up on finding everyone and started looking for my own foreground to put with the mountain. A sucker for reflections, I normally beeline to the beach, but with the tide out I decided this might be a good day to try the dunes. I’m so glad I did.
I poked around the dunes, searching for a grouping I could compose into something coherent and complementary, and that hadn’t been soiled by footprints. After about 20 minutes I landed at the spot you see in my image at the top of the post and didn’t move more than 20 feet for the rest of the evening.
As you can see from the image above, Vestrahorn this evening was a particular treat. One of the many reasons I like Iceland so much in winter is the snow decorating the peaks. And though I’ve seen Vestrahorn with much more snow, I found the peak’s snowy accents this evening especially appealing (compared to the barren slopes that dominate in Iceland’s warmer months). But the evening’s real show came courtesy of the interplay of clouds and light above the peak as the sun dropped.
Because the sun ascends and descends the sky at such a shallow angle at this high latitude, sunrise and sunset seem to unfold in slow motion. When the reds fired up this evening, much of the color above the mountain was obscured by clouds. But because the really nice color hung-in for at least 30 minutes, the clouds had more than enough time to thin and spread enough to allow the late light through, eventually blanketing much of the sky with persistent pink. By the time it reached this stage, I’d become so familiar with all the compositional opportunities in my little corner of the island that I had a pretty good idea of how I wanted to handle it.
I fell in love with the foreground dunes early on, and after it became pretty clear that the color would stretch far overhead, switched to my 12-24 lens to include as much of the entire scene as possible: dunes, mountain, sky. But how to handle a sky that rivals a classically beautiful landscape? There are very few absolutes in photography, but one of the most damaging “absolutes” is the admonition to never center the horizon, or your subject on the frame’s horizontal or vertical axes. This usually well-intended edict might have value to the raw novice who automatically centers every horizon and subject, but can actually be damaging to insecure neophytes not confident enough to trust their own creative vision. If centering feels right, go for it!
My own “rule” is to decide where most of the scene’s visual interest resides, foreground or background, and allocate a proportional percentage when I set my horizon. Sky better than the foreground? The sky gets most of my frame. Foreground better than the sky? The foreground gets most of my frame. Both sky and foreground too beautiful to decide? I have no problem splitting my scene right down the middle.
Reflections are probably the most frequent example of scenes that can be split down the middle, but this choice isn’t limited to reflections. And as far as centering a subject is concerned, I don’t hesitate when I want it to dominate my scene, or when there’s nothing else in the frame to balance a dominant subject. If you’re not sure, or simply don’t trust your own instincts, just do it both ways and decide later.
Epilogue
Striking an animal leaves a persistent knot in the pit of your stomach. We all felt it, but no one more than Vincenzo, who told us later that he’s never struck anything with a vehicle—person, animal, or other vehicle. He was pretty shaken, but I think having a job to do, plus the interaction with, and support of, the rest of the group distracted him enough to make it through the trip. For the rest of us, knowing we’re all dealing with this shared trauma helped a lot, as of course did being the distraction of wonderful photography.
Another unexpected bonding opportunity came from the impossible solution Albert and Vincenzo devised to get us back to Reykjavik with all of our stuff. Without going into great detail (lest we get them into trouble for violating some kind of Iceland vehicular safety code), no person or gear was left behind or strapped to the outside of the vehicle, and we each had our own seat (and seatbelt). Hardly a square-inch of space, horizontal or vertical, went unused, and even after getting the group choreography polished, entering exiting the van still took at least five minutes. But we made it, and I think everyone would agree that the tight quarters became a catalyst for much fun and laughter that proved just the necessary medicine.
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Sublimely Centered Subjects
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This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things
Posted on February 20, 2024
Golden Touch, El Capitan and Horsetail Fall, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 64
f/10
1/10 second
I was planning to just write a brief Horsetail Fall update following last week’s workshop, but before I get into that, a couple of recent experiences have me wanting to say a few words about the bad photographer behavior I witness in my many travels.
The first occurred in Iceland, where Don Smith and I, along with our tour guides Albert Dros and Vincenzo Mazza (look them up!), guided our group on a short hike to a beautiful, and slightly off the beaten path, waterfall. Thrilled to find the scene blanketed with pristine snow, and to be the only ones there, we quickly set up on the footbridge spanning the river (the only place to photograph legally).
Everyone was quite content until a couple of other photographers wandered up the trail and joined us. Despite the fact that there was more than enough room for all of us on the bridge, these two newcomers ignored the “Keep Out” signs and hopped the barricade, trampling our perfect snow to set up shop in everyone’s frame as if we were all invisible. We tried in vain to get their attention (they clearly heard us but refused to acknowledge). Soon one of them whipped out a drone (also a violation of posted rules), launching it directly in front of the fall, while the other guy walked straight up to the base of the fall and planted himself directly in the middle of the scene (where it was impossible to compose him out).
I try not to stress too much about photographers who are simply unaware that they’re in my frame because it’s usually not too hard to remove them later, in Photoshop. But this kind of willful disregard for others transcends photography, damaging the experience for all visitors and reflecting poorly on all photographers.
Horsetail Fall Southside Drive crowd (2017): This is why we can’t have nice things (picture from the Yosemite Exploration Center)
The other instance of selfish photography is the “My shot is more important than the wellbeing of the natural beauty I’ve come to photograph” attitude that I witness every time I try to photograph Horsetail Fall. (This isn’t unique to Horsetail Fall.)
The general consensus among Yosemite photographer, with which I agree, is that the best Horsetail Fall photography spot on the valley floor is a raised riverbank on the Southside Drive side of the Merced River. Believe it or not, I used to be able to show up with a group to this location about 45 minutes before sunset, confident that all in my care would be able to find an unobstructed view.
But when the crowds took over (some photographers even claiming the prime spots for this sunset shot before breakfast) and the number of photographers far exceed the number of available places to set up, I started opting for the relative peace of the Northside Drive locations. I wasn’t terribly surprised to witness cars actually driving off-road and into the forest to park, and by the reports of Southside Drive fisticuffs that started to appear. All this Southside mayhem culminated with the riverbank’s collapse under the weight of the assembled masses, leading to the complete shutdown of Merced River south bank Horsetail Fall photography. Problem solved—or so I believed.
Put me in the camp of those who think that the NPS does an amazing job managing the virtually unmanageable crowds that swarm Yosemite Valley to photograph Horsetail Fall each February. The whole experience has gotten better (more enjoyable) with the Southside Drive ban, relatively liberal reservation system (it’s not that hard to view the Horsetail phenomenon with only a little planning and effort) to curtail crowds, and Northside Drive pedestrian accommodations.
Nevertheless, each year I still see photographers attempting to sneak into the prime Southside Drive view as if the rules don’t apply to them. Some simply park in the Southside Drive turnouts clearly marked “No Parking,” apparently oblivious to the $280 that will await their return.
More egregious (because it can’t be written off to ignorance) in my mind are the photographers who park legally, then sneak along the south river, shielded from view from the road by the elevated riverbank. This year, while waiting with the joyful crowd on Northside Drive, I actually saw several of these scofflaws (such a great word) skulking about across the river, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that they are quite visible to everyone on Northside Drive, including the numerous rangers (with 2-way radios), or to the fact that the rangers actually patrol the south riverbank each February afternoon and evening.
Maybe I’m just getting old, but it both angers and saddens me that there are photographers whose selfish desire exceeds their respect for their subjects, because it’s attitudes like these that lead to even further restrictions for everyone. A photograph should never be more important than its subject.
Now I need to go chase some kids off my lawn…
So anyway…
Some years Horsetail Fall is completely dry in February, other years it’s there but you really have to look closely to locate the Horsetail wet spot on El Capitan. This year I’d say the baseline flow in Horsetail Fall is good but not great, clearly visible as a thin white stripe descending from the top of El Capitan’s sloped east shoulder. By “baseline flow” I mean the minimum you can expect on any given day—a decent flow with the potential to ramp up nicely with a warm storm that drops heavy rain on the Horsetail watershed (above 7000 feet). Also this year, thanks to recent high country snowfall, there’s enough snow in that watershed that a few days of sunlight and above average temperatures could bring a noticeable flow increase.
FYI, if you want to photograph the Horsetail Fall phenomenon this year, you have about a week of good light remaining (as I write this on February 20)—but don’t forget that weekend visits require reservations. The crowds this year seem pretty typical, and shouldn’t pose a problem if you can park and start the 1 1/2 mile walk a couple of hours before sunset (the longer you wait to park, the farther you’ll need to walk). (Learn more about photographing Horsetail Fall in my Horsetail Fall Photo Tips article.)
Last week’s workshop group had two successful Horsetail Fall shoots—neither “epic,” but both very nice in their own way (and definitely worth the walk and wait). The workshop started last Tuesday—given the week’s weather forecast, I was more hopeful than optimistic about our Horsetail Fall chances. Since it looked like that first day might be our best (and maybe only) shot at getting it, after our orientation we headed straight up to Yosemite Valley and got ourselves into position beneath the fall, near the El Capitan Picnic Area (not my favorite spot, but the best for this group because of some mobility challenges).
We found the fall flowing decently (well enough to photograph) and the light good, until about 40 minutes before sunset when the afternoon’s promising mix of sunlight and clouds was replaced without warn by sunlight-swallowing clouds. As we waited (hoped) for the sunlight to return, I kept telling my group about my many last-minute Horsetail Fall miracle experiences, when the has dropped into an unseen (from our location the valley floor) gap on the horizon to paint the fall red.
Red Horsetail Fall, El Capitan, Yosemite
And that’s exactly what we got. This time it came so late that the light completely skipped the golden phase, going straight to red for about five minutes before turning off for the night. While the light this evening wasn’t as intense as I’ve seen it, the color was great and everyone was pretty thrilled.
But we weren’t done. The forecast improved as the week progressed, so after a Wednesday rain that recharged the flow, combined with a (new) “mostly sunny” Thursday promise from the weatherman, I decided to give the group another shot. I wouldn’t have done this if I thought the best we could do would be to repeat Tuesday, but because I knew the fall was flowing better, and I’d formulated a plan to get the whole group into an even better position about a quarter mile east of the picnic area, I thought it would be worth going for it. Still, I gave everyone the option to opt out for a different location, but no one took me up and we all returned to Horsetail.
For most of Thursday evening everything went exactly as planned: the fall’s flow was noticeably better, we ended up exactly where I’d hoped, and the sunlight was brilliant. Better still, a collection of clouds spent the evening performing a beautifully choreographed dance atop El Capitan.
The Horsetail Fall great light window lasts less than 10 minutes, starting out brilliant gold before slowly transitioning to orange, then coral, and ultimately (if the light lasts all the way to the end) ruby red. This evening we clicked like crazy as the shadow approached Horsetail and the light warmed to the intense gold stage. But just about the time started to get just a little optimistic that we might be in store for something truly special, the sunlight faded and never returned.
Fortunately, we did end up catching all of the gold phase, which was further enhanced by a few puffy clouds catching the same light, so all was not lost. Even though we missed the red of Tuesday evening, it seemed pretty unanimous that this was the better of the two shoots.
So I guess maybe sometimes we still can have nice things.
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Horsetail Fall
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Reflecting on Reflections
Posted on February 14, 2024
Sweet Sunset, Lake Manly and Badwater Basin, Death Valley
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/11
1/30 second
One of the (many) great things about choosing landscape photo workshops to earn my livelihood is that selling images is optional. Don’t get me wrong, I love selling images (and every image you see on my blog or in social media is for sale), but since my income doesn’t depend on it, I don’t need to sell images. That allows me to photograph only the things I want to photograph, as many times as I want to photograph them, and to never choose a subject based on the image’s potential salability.
It seems like I’m most drawn to subjects and phenomena that feel to me like gifts, with the ability to elevate “ordinary” beauty. People following my blog or browsing my galleries probably have a pretty good idea of what those things are. If you’ve been paying attention, you’ve probably figured out that I find immense joy in the night sky (moon, stars, Milky Way), dramatic weather (lightning, rainbows, and so on), poppies, dogwood, fall color—I could go on, but you get the idea.
Another subject near the top of that list of joys is reflections. Without discounting reflections’ inverted doubling of Nature’s beauty that engages the brain in fresh ways, I think the thing that most draws me to a mirror reflection is the utter stillness required, and the soothing tranquility that stillness conveys.
Water reflections come in many forms, from a mirror-sharp inverted mountain peak atop a still pool, to an abstract shuffle of color and texture on a gently undulating lake. And rainbows are an a particularly special kind of reflection.
Without getting too far into the physics of light, it’s important to understand that every object we see and photograph that doesn’t generate its own light, comes to us courtesy of reflected light. For example, when sunlight strikes Half Dome in Yosemite, some of the sun’s photons bounce straight into our eyes and there it is. Other photons enter the water to reveal submerged sand and rocks, and some strike the surface and carom like a billiard ball ricocheting of the cushion and up into our eyes, creating a reflection. In other words, what we know as a reflection is in fact re-reflected light (reflected first from Half Dome, and again by the river).
When the reflective surface is disturbed by waves, the angle of the reflective light is continuously shuffled—depending on the amount of disturbance (size and frequency of the waves), the reflection can range from slightly distorted to abstract blends of color and shape to totally erased.
The best reflections happen when the reflective subject is fully lit, while the calm reflective surface is shaded from direct light. But that doesn’t mean good reflections aren’t possible when the subject is shaded or the surface is sunlit, or when small waves disturb the water.
Some locations are known for their reflections. That’s usually because they’re in an inherently calm, wind-sheltered environment, and/or the water is especially shallow (relative to its surface area).
The shallowness of the water is an often overlooked aspect of the reflection recipe, but it makes sense if you understand the fundamentals of wave formation. Waves are actually a circular motion in the water imparted by wind, with most of the wave motion happening beneath the surface—the deeper the water, the larger the potential wave. Unimpeded, waves can travel thousands of miles—until they encounter a beach, or shallow water that interferes with their circular motion. But waves that form atop shallow water are limited in size and travel by the lakebed or riverbed. Not only does shallow water mean smaller waves, the shallower the water, the sooner the surface smoothes when the wind stops.
A perfect example of a large, shallow body of water that seems designed for reflections is almost always dry Lake Manly in Death Valley. The origins of Lake Manly in Badwater Basin date back nearly 200,000 years. In its earliest millennia, Lake Manly was much deeper, far more expansive, and persisted year-round. But in recent millennia, it has become an ephemeral lake, usually dry and filling only when rare intense storms generate enough runoff. The life of these recent versions of Lake Manly is measured in weeks or months.
The current version of Lake Manly formed when Tropical Storm (and former hurricane) Hilary saturated Death Valley with more than a year’s worth of rain (2.2 inches) in one day. Because Death Valley isn’t equipped to handle so much water at once, Hilary brought flooding that washed out roads, displaced rocks, carved new channels, and reshaped canyons. And with no outlet for all this water, after doing its damage, this runoff had to come to rest somewhere—and where better than the lowest place in North America?
At its peak volume last August, the newest incarnation of Lake Manly was 7 miles long and 4 miles wide, but no more than 2 feet deep. By late January its surface area had shrunk to half its original size, and the lake’s depth was measured in inches.
Despite its diminished size, Lake Manly was more than big enough to provide spectacular, valley-wide reflections for my workshop group. In addition to photographing mountain and sky reflections from the valley floor, we also enjoyed beautiful sunset reflections from Dante’s View, more than 5000 feet above Badwater.
My group’s first visit was a planned sunrise shoot, but an unprecedented pea-soup fog—I’d talked to 20-year residents who had never seen fog in Death Valley—thwarted our sunrise dreams, as well as our dreams of catching snow-capped Telescope Peak and its neighbors reflecting in glassy water. Even with the fog we enjoyed truly unique photography that morning, but since I wanted my group to get an opportunity for the dazzling reflections I knew were possible, I brought them back to Badwater that night.
We were fortunate that Death Valley’s chronic blue sky held off for another day, delivering instead a cohort of clouds that caught the sunset color and reflected back to us from the surface of Lake Manly. Since the clouds and color were better to the north, I turned my attention away from Telescope Peak and pointed in this direction, just in time to capture this image.
The scene this evening was so special, we ended up staying out until the sky darkened enough for moonlight photography. But that’s a story for another day….
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A Gallery of Reflections
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Searching for Serendipity
Posted on February 8, 2024
Dante’s Moon, Badwater, Death ValleySony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/11
1/30 second
Miriam-Webster defines serendipity as, “Finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.” Wikipedia calls it, “An unplanned fortunate discovery.” Though I can’t quibble with these definitions, I think photographers can create their own serendipity by keeping their eyes and mind open to unexpected opportunities.
Sometimes Mother Nature bludgeons us with serendipitous events that are too obvious to ignore—for example, a double rainbow suddenly coloring a gray downpour, a sunset that ramps up just as you’re about to pack up your gear, or maybe a rocket streaking through your Milky Way scene. But Nature’s more subtle gifts usually require our internal serendipity receivers to be tuned a little more sensitively—the unexpected is there if we keep an open mind.
Unexpected gifts from Nature are probably the single greatest joy I get from photography. But given the importance of planning and execution nature photography requires, it’s easy to understand how we might become so fixated on a specific plan that serendipity slips by undetected. The intense focus on a subject that shrinks the world and enables photographers to extract the best from one scene, also leads to overlooked scenes.
Over my many years photographing Nature, I’ve learned that rather than being mutually exclusive, laser focus and openminded awareness not only can coexist, they can actually collaborate to create photographic synergy.
Toward this goal, I’ve established a few techniques that nudge me into examining my surroundings more closely. These simple steps have become so ingrained in my photographic process that they no longer require conscious thought—in other words, the mere act of concentrating on my primary subject doesn’t mean my surroundings are denied the attention they deserve as well.
The first, and simplest, of these techniques is to periodically stop and do a slow 360, keeping a few questions in mind: What’s going on with the light, sky, shadows? What in the surrounding landscape draws my eye? Is anything moving? Then, to force myself to consider these observations even more closely, I try to anticipate what each of these factors will be doing over the next few minutes.
Another way to shake my single-minded focus while working any given scene is making sure I don’t move on without checking in on different perspectives: switch my camera’s orientation, zoom tighter and wider, reframe and/or adjust focus to emphasize different elements in my composition, and reposition my camera to change foreground/background relationships. I can’t tell you the number of times something unexpected and even better has magically appeared just because I adjusted some aspect of my perspective.
Despite these tools, extended periods away from my camera can make my serendipity generator a little creaky. So, following my recent two-and-a-half month workshop break, last month’s Death Valley / Alabama Hills workshop proved to be just what I needed.
Both locations, with their unique and diverse features, are great places to oil up the works and get my vision humming. And this workshop group in particular showed strong and varied vision that inspired everyone (myself included) during our daily image reviews.
I time this workshop to coincide with the full moon. Because the best full moon views in both Death Valley and the Alabama Hills face west, our moonsets come at sunrise. But that doesn’t mean we never see a sunset moonrise too. Even though the view isn’t great, and I never actually plot and plan a Death Valley moonrise, wherever I photograph a Death Valley sunset, I try to keep an eye on the east horizon for the moon’s arrival.
On our second evening, I took the group out to Badwater for sunset and the rare opportunity to photograph Lake Manly. Badwater Basin is almost always dry, but every once in a while extreme runoff will briefly restore it, adding a few inches of water that can stretch for miles, and for a few weeks or months transform the arid basin into a vast mirror. This version of Lake Manly is the vestigial runoff of Tropical Storm (and former hurricane) Hilary that laid waste to Death Valley last August.
The photography this evening was everything we’d hoped for—calm winds for a pristine reflection, and just enough nice clouds to catch the sunset color. The best Badwater views face west, toward 11,000 foot Telescope Peak, and north, up the valley. So while I knew the nearly full moon would be rising above the valley’s east wall this evening, lacking any kind of a view in that direction, the moon’s arrival wasn’t really a priority. Nevertheless, I occasionally glanced that way, and doubled-down when a cohort of clouds scooted across the eastern horizon and started catching sunset light.
And suddenly there it was, edging above the shear valley wall a little north of Dante’s View. With nothing beneath the moon but nondescript brown cliffs, at first I was content to simply watch it climb, but as the clouds closed in on the moon and their pink continued to intensify, I couldn’t help repositioning my camera.
With the clouds, moon, and color moving fast, the composition I ended up with was as simple as the scene was serendipitous. Since the scene really was all about the pink clouds and rising moon, I zoomed my 24-105 lens until my frame included as little of the surrounding (less appealing) elements as possible, and underexposed slightly to ensure lunar detail, emphasize the color, and darken (deemphasize) the barren mountain ridges.
The Badwater view and reflection this evening was so spectacular, especially when sunset started to color the sky, it would have been easy for this convergence of moon, clouds, and color to have unfolded behind my back, completely unseen. Instead, on an evening filled with the beautiful conditions I’d hoped for, I also got to enjoy one of those serendipity moments I love so much.
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A Gallery of Serendipity Scenes (That I Didn’t Come Looking For)
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Eloquent Images by Gary Hart 