Death Valley Redux

March 19, 2024

A return to Death Valley for desert photography

Late Autumn in Yosemite

November 25, 2023

Autumn photography in Yosemite

Acadia and Isle au Haut - Small Scenes

July 23, 2023

Nature photography from Acadia National Park and Isle au Haut, by Sam Folsom

Fall in the High Sierra

November 20, 2022

Eastern Sierra - October 2022

I spent a few days in the Eastern Sierra near Bishop in October, exploring some canyons and creeks that were lit up with a pretty background of fall colors. The well-chronicled aspens and cottonwoods put on a brilliant display of yellow and orange, and I took advantage of canyon shade in the mornings and afternoons for more evenly balanced light. While the colorful trees provided an imposing visual dimension, I tried to use them more as an accent than a frame-filling subject, with varying degrees of success.

Desert Discoveries

April 17, 2022

Death Valley - February 2022

Mountains, woods, and the sea coast have been familiar destinations for many years, but aside from a backpacking trip to Canyonlands as a teenager, I have never spent any time in the desert. I finally got the chance to explore this arid landscape in February when I made a trip to Death Valley. Even with all of the desert photography I’ve seen, I was surprised at the varied terrain and endless visual richness. I had a narrow impression of the desert landscape, and I was delighted to be able to expand my awareness.

I very much enjoy exploring a new place on my own, but with my inexperience in the desert and only a few days to get away, I decided to join a photography workshop for my first exposure to Death Valley. I have been impressed and inspired by the writings and photographic artwork of Guy Tal, who focuses primarily on the desert Southwest, and I had the good fortune to participate in a workshop he runs with Michael E. Gordon, another accomplished photographic artist and experienced Death Valley guide. I recommend them highly and was captivated by their thoughts on creative expression and art. I was also pleased to find that their trip was less about trophy hunting and more about intimate exploration of the landscape.

For some, Death Valley is comprised of a handful of popular stops, including the easily accessible Badwater Basin, Zabriskie Point, and Mesquite Dunes. The attention to these sites is well deserved, but my hope was to experience more of what this national park has to offer and, for the popular locations, to challenge myself to see beyond postcard compositions. I was rewarded with an enriching five days that explored a variety of sites in the park, including several that are less well traveled. Of the most popular places, the sand dunes easily exceeded my expectations, with an astonishing wealth of visual experiences that changed by the minute and footstep. On the other hand, the limits of my creative vision were sadly exposed at Badwater Basin, where I spent a couple of late afternoon hours shooting what ended up being the same series of photos everyone else shoots at Badwater Basin. I enjoyed being there but was humbled that my images were not more inspired or expressive.

The plant life and narrow canyons were two revelations from Death Valley. While this national park’s grand landscapes are renowned, I discovered that the humble bushes, which seem to have a tenuous existence at best, were part of a thriving ecosystem that offers wonderful subject matter for compositions. I confess ignorance when it comes to the names of desert vegetation, but from what I gather, most of what I saw was creosote bush, buckwheat, and manzanita. I was struck by how these parched, spindly plants persevered in the most inhospitable environments and how they provided such captivating visual and metaphorical contrasts in the valley of death. And the fact that the plants I encountered with my camera included almost no classic cactus made this discovery even more interesting. I created a number of images that I felt represented the unique existence of the desert flora, but I also realized it was a subject I needed to explore another time with more focused attention and thought.

In the same vein, Death Valley’s canyons captured my attention but also left me thinking about a return visit at a slower pace, armed with new-found familiarity with the light and geology. While these were nominally slot canyons, they appeared quite different from the widely photographed slot canyons of Arizona and Utah with their signature red sandstone. I explored Mosaic Canyon and the more remote Marble Canyon, which are deep and narrow, with dramatic, undulating walls of limestone and marble and various layers of sedimentary rock. These hikes were fascinating and had me deeply engaged with the curving lines and contrasts in tone and texture. My excitement with the experience of photographing these canyons was tempered only slightly when I eventually reviewed my images. As is sometimes the case, most of the photos I made were largely underwhelming to me in that they did not convey the more artful forms, tones, and colors that I felt I saw. But I view that as a necessary step in growth and experience with this environment, and I look forward to returning.

I don’t necessarily measure the enjoyment or success of a photography expedition by the number of images I feel turned out well on final review, but the results from my three morning ventures into the sand dunes of Death Valley were inescapable. Unlike with the narrow canyons, the sand dune images I made not only matched my vision and experience on those early mornings, but in many cases surpassed my expectations. And there were a lot of dune photos I really enjoyed! Regardless of the light, the sand dunes are irresistible, sensuous, and incredibly engaging. Add in a stunning progression of subtle hues as pre-dawn gives way to sunrise - wondrous blues, magentas, yellows - and it makes for a very rich visual palette. This is of course no great revelation to anyone who has seen the sun rise in a dune field, but for a first-time visitor, it’s surprising and awe-inspiring.

Much of the magic in the dunes appears to come from the way the fine-grain sand reflects the sky light. The same composition can express dramatically different moods within a matter of minutes, as the changing light offers a remarkable evolution of colors and shapes. The terrain itself also presents near-endless possibilities. A few steps in almost any direction reveals new angles, sweeping curves, and mesmerizing ripples to contemplate and begin to compose. Even when the sun starts to get high in the sky, it’s hard to put the camera down. While some sites in Death Valley, namely Badwater Basin and Zabriskie Point, seem to produce a similar set of photographs, mine included, the sand dunes offer infinitely more variety for personal expression and interpretation. Standing a few feet from another photographer and facing in the same direction can produce vastly different sets of images, even discounting the variables of processing preferences.

I can do without a visit to Death Valley in the scorching summer months, but the more moderate temperatures and interesting light of winter put this national park high on my list of places to return and explore in depth. It’s a vast space - 3.4 million acres and the largest national park in the lower 48 states - which provides ample opportunities to visit more remote, less popular locations. Countless side roads beg for exploration, while stories of less-traveled dune fields and little-known canyons create a sense of urgency to return. I eagerly look forward to the next trip to Death Valley, armed with my introductory experience and faced with so many landscapes to discover.

Late afternoon light rakes the hillsides of Aguereberry Point

Etched by the elements at Ubehebe Crater

Warm and cool tones in the walls of Marble Canyon

Sweeping sand dunes against rugged mountains at dawn

A Beach Reimagined

January 12, 2022

While considering pictures to select for a post on my favorite photos of 2021, I came across some images that caused me to stop and think about themes in my recent work. This ultimately led me to shelve the Favorites idea and instead dig into what I saw as a noticeable development in my photography last year that I thought might make for a more interesting discussion.

Rather than continuously chasing epic light and iconic locations in 2021, I spent a lot of time wandering in the woods or exploring the rocky coast on overcast days. Longer focal lengths were common, and my concentration was often focused on more intimate scenes. To be sure, I made time for trips to iconic places, namely Yosemite and Mono Lake, and I came away pleased with a fair number of photos I took. But in reviewing last year’s work, I now see that the images which resonated the most were those that came from familiar places near home and focused on subjects that were far from “epic.” I don’t want to leave the impression that this is some kind of broad, permanent change in my approach to photography - far from it - but it does represent an evolution in how I see things and an expansion of my interests.

I remember deciding I wanted to expand my repertoire last year by exploring tree photography more substantively. At the very least I can say that after countless hours hiking in the woods, I made some photographs of trees that got me excited. Similarly, it was evident that I started to take a different approach to photographing the nearby coastline last year. While I don’t recall a specific decision to try to see the beaches I frequent in a different way, it’s clear in reviewing my photos that’s what I did. Wide-angle landscapes at sunset were less common, as I preferred to go out in the mornings under cover of the persistent marine layer in Northern California. Part of this was that I wanted longer periods of even light to explore the rocks and waves at a more leisurely pace. What was sacrificed in losing the irresistible hues of sunset was replaced by soft light and more time, unbound by the fleeting golden hour, to see the landscape and think carefully about compositions.

I could have devoted this piece to trees or other observations from the past year, but I decided to focus on images from a beach on the San Mateo coast that I have been photographing for many years. Although it’s far from a bucket list site for most photographers (I rarely see other people with cameras and tripods), it’s a fascinating beach and one with endless possibilities for photography. While some of my all-time favorite images have come from this beach, including dramatic waves and epic sunsets, one of its most distinctive characteristics, the unusual sandstone formations, has been a challenge for me to shoot. A geological marvel, this beach is riddled with incredible honeycomb cavities in the rock called tafoni, and wide ribbons of sandstone with a beautiful, slate blue color that looks somehow other-worldly.

Over the years I have attempted to photograph these rocks in an interesting way but have been overwhelmed by the chaos of shapes and patterns. In effect, I have rarely devoted the time or thought required to make something more than a snapshot of the rocks, and I’ve always ended up quickly turning my camera to the glamorous sunsets and dramatic waves. This year, under gray morning skies, I spent a lot more time studying the beach’s geology. While I can’t say if these pictures rise to anything of note in the genre, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to make some images that I felt expressed the character and beauty of a distinctive feature of the beach - its unique sandstone formations. The sunsets over the Pacific and crashing waves are certainly leading attractions, but the wondrous geology stands as an important part of the show and one that distinguishes it from other beaches in the area.

The first challenge for a photographer descending to the cacophony of undulating sandstone and jagged edges on this beach is figuring out where to start. From the bluff above it doesn’t look so hard, but down on the shore it’s overwhelming. Like trying to find an orderly composition in a tangled forest, shooting these twisted, sharp-edged rocks requires patience and an eye for simplification.

Many of the most eye-catching formations and patterns elude straightforward compositions, and one of the most difficult considerations is often simply framing. With the random masses of protruding rocks, more conventional aspect ratios frequently leave distracting elements in the frame, no matter the focal length. It’s a humbling exercise to be sure, but the time spent with senses and mind engaged, not to mention the reward of a morning on the beach, far outweighs any disappointment at returning home with little to show. And there were more than a couple of times when I left empty-handed.

Quite a few of the compositions I liked best bordered on abstract, which is not something I have spent much time on. For some images I debated how to introduce a sense of scale, but ultimately I decided to let the textures, colors, tones, and shapes tell the story. It certainly worked for me, but I was there. I wonder if someone who has not seen these rocks in their larger beach context will come away from these images with the same sense of place and appreciation for the unusual formations as I have. Check the end of this post for images that show the beach from a wider perspective.

To put this work in context and show the beach’s environment, the following images, from a few years ago, have more conventional compositions and the captivating colors of sunset.

Heading East

October 21, 2021

Mono Lake & Eastern Sierra - October 2021

The Eastern Sierra has long interested me for its canyons, creeks, and looming mountains, but I have never made it farther East than Tioga Pass for photography. That changed this Fall when I decided to visit the area around Mono Lake. I planned to look for Fall colors in the canyons at higher elevations and balance my time getting to know the lake, with its high desert terrain and captivating geology.

I confess to having some reservations about Mono Lake, given how widely it seems to be photographed, but I quickly set that aside as the first day’s last light cast magical hues on the water. After the sun dropped behind the mountains to the west, the lake surface took on some beautiful pastel tones that appeared strangely detached from the sky above. It was as if something in the water reflected back the last bit of sunlight in an eerie, altered way. Whether it was caused by the trillions of tiny brine shrimp in the water, the unusual salinity of the lake, or some other element, the gorgeous colors made a compelling backdrop for Mono Lake’s salt-crusted shoreline and distinctive tufa formations.

Looking back over my images for the last year or so, there’s an unmistakeable, if unintentional, shift away from large landscapes at sunset and sunrise. I’ve been focusing on more intimate scenes, often on foggy or overcast days, and I’ve spent a lot of time in the woods near my home looking for order in the chaos of trees and tangled brush. My frequent trips to the coast just over the hills are rarely at sunset anymore, as I pick through the rocks, crannies, and coves in the early mornings before the marine layer burns off. Freed of the time constraints of Golden Hour, I’m more observant and aware of smaller details and nuances of light, and it feels like a more creative challenge. The point to this digression is that for me, close familiarity with a place allows for much deeper creative exploration. By contrast, a new location, particularly one with dramatic features, presents a rush on the senses, and a gravitational pull toward the more obvious scenes. Adding in the irresistible hues of sunset and sunrise explains why certain sites are so popular. It was with this confluence of circumstances that I began my exploration of Mono Lake.

The dramatic tufa formations that rise from the lake are wondrous and make obvious subjects for compositions. Over three days I explored the area, from well before dawn to after sunset. Working different sections of the lake in the mornings and evenings, I came away with some images I really liked, helped greatly by the magical light. Creatively, however, I felt a bit stifled, as the obvious compositions proved irresistible, and I was less able to focus on more subtle images. I decided not to worry about it, and after working the more dramatic formations, I made sure to spend time looking for smaller scenes that I thought gave a more intimate and creative representation of the lake. Unfortunately, while I was able to explore some of these smaller scenes in detail, for a variety of reasons (notably, a couple of blown focus stacks and the fast-disappearing low-angle light) most of them didn’t turn out in the end.

Another odd dynamic that developed at Mono Lake was crossing paths with crowds of photographers. I rarely see other photographers when I shoot, in part because most of the locations I frequent are not that popular (I’m sure there’s a wisecrack here about how that shows in my pictures). On two occasions at Mono Lake, I found myself in the company of a lot of other people toting cameras and tripods. I cheerfully went about my work, but I felt a gnawing sense of self-consciousness and inhibition that were very much at odds with trying to approach the landscape creatively and with all senses engaged. I’ll never know what shots I didn’t see, and I was pleased with some of the images I made during those crowded shoots, but the experience left me feeling uneasy. Perhaps it’s fallout from the isolation of the pandemic; likely, it’s just the marked contrast with my usual solitary photo expeditions.

I’m not sure I’ll go back to Mono Lake for photography, but I will certainly return to the Sierra east of Tioga Pass to explore some of the other canyons, lakes, and streams in the Fall. I was a little early for good leaf color this year, but I now have a familiarity with the region that should provide a good starting point for future exploration.

Pandemic Refuge

November 29, 2020

Yosemite - October 2020

The lost year for photography! It’s hard to complain with so much suffering in the world, but photo expeditions have been an afterthought since March. I finally emerged from seven months of staying close to home to make a two-day trip to Yosemite at the end of October. I hoped the pandemic and time of year would keep the crowds down, and I organized my shoots to avoid the biggest attractions, which is usually my plan anyway. COVID didn’t seem to discourage people, though, as Yosemite was as crowded as I’ve seen it for late fall. But I largely had plenty of distance from others, including a glorious evening at Olmsted Point, all alone on a granite knoll looking down at the backside of Half Dome.

After a leisurely drive to Tioga Pass the first afternoon, I figured I would catch sunset at Olmsted Point and then turn my tripod to the east to capture the rising moon just after sundown (a day before full). The sunset part of the plan worked perfectly. Some residual forest fire smoke created hazy atmospheric conditions that filtered the setting sun’s orange and yellow colors around Half Dome in the distance. It wasn’t an overly smoky look and resulted in beautiful, slightly diffused light. I worked through a variety of compositions, using focal lengths ranging from 24mm to 400mm. While the wider views took advantage of some nice granite foregrounds and beautiful contrasts of tone and texture in the distance, the longer lengths also produced interesting results. The compressed view of 400mm helped isolate a number of forlorn trees on distant granite cliffs, which gave me a couple of images I really enjoy. I’m not sure how those atypical compositions will age to my eye, but for some reason I hardly took the ultra-wide out of my bag for most of the trip.

Conscious of the impending moonrise, I wrapped up my Olmsted sunset shots, turned to the east, and waited…and waited…and waited. I had used The Photographer’s Ephemeris to determine moonrise time and location, and while I had the direction pretty well lined up, I was way off on the timing. The moon was set to rise over a high ridge line a half mile away, but I was under the mistaken impression that TPE calculated the time to account for closer landscape features. It doesn’t. By the time the moon crested the ridge 40 minutes later, I was in complete darkness, and the moon was very bright - a bad combination for the composition I had in mind. After a couple of futile attempts to salvage a moon shot with some foreground landscape, I settled for a final west-facing composition that captured moonlight on granite with some residual sunset glow in the distance.

Fall color was a goal on this trip since I’ve been a little early for good color in recent years. Turns out I was early this year, too. I found some big leaf maples near Pohono Bridge and lower Bridalveil Creek that had turned yellow and some nice cottonwoods near Swinging Bridge, but for the most part I was a week or two early for peak color. One of the combinations that worked well was trees in good light against a shaded background, such as some of the shots from El Cap Meadow and along the river. My favorite of these was another long-lens composition of some tufts of long grass along the river against a dark-shaded background.

Visual Echo - Afternoon Light On River Grass

On my last morning, I headed to Cook’s Meadow to catch sunrise with the old black elm. The park finally blocked off the meadow to prevent trampling of the grasses, which was a welcome sight. It reminded me of the first time I shot that spot, on a workshop years ago. Our group pulled up in the dark and joined a phalanx of probably 50 photographers, all assembled shoulder-to-shoulder two hundred yards from the elm. It was a weird, cringe-worthy scene, but I was new to it, so I joined the crowd. My final recollection of that morning was just after the sun came up when the entire mob advanced toward the tree on cue, like soldiers at the Somme charging the enemy trenches. I swore I’d never be part of a scene like that again.

As it turned out, sunrise at Cook’s Meadow was a bit of a bust this time, primarily because of some high, silvery clouds. When I went to process the images, I found the sky completely mismatched with the rest of the scene. From minimal to major adjustments, everything I tried ended up looking like something from one of those AI sky replacement programs, where the sky just doesn’t connect with the land.

I finished my morning in Yosemite Valley with a visit to a reliable old favorite, Bridalveil Creek. Picking through the rocks, cascades and eddies brings me great happiness, and I always manage to lose track of time as I look for interesting compositions. Some of my all-time favorite images have come from Bridalveil Creek and falls, but this time I came up a little short. Water flow in the creek was lower than I’ve ever seen it, and there was very little fall leaf color. I used my 70-200mm lens the whole time and managed to capture a couple of interesting images, but I doubt any of them will rise to my favorites list over time.

Yosemite 2020 was a welcome escape from just about everything this year, and I came home refreshed and grateful for some time in the park with my camera.

2019 - Favorite Images

January 1, 2020

Trip: Yosemite - October 2019

November 23, 2019

It’s hard to go wrong in Yosemite - although I try to avoid summer - but fall is one of my favorite seasons for photography in the park. Low flow in the Merced River provides plentiful opportunities to capture reflections of rocks, trees and majestic landmarks such as Half Dome and El Capitan. And if timed right, the accent of color from autumn leaves adds a pretty touch to compositions. I broke away for a couple of days in the park during the third week of October, and while the leaves had certainly begun to change, I was probably a week or two early for peak color.

This was my third trip to Yosemite this year. I have my favorite spots, but I always add something new each visit. I decided to try Sentinel Dome for sunset this trip and was mightily rewarded, both by the sunset itself and by the spectacular vistas. With 360 degree views and a variety of interesting rocks and brush spread around the summit, Sentinel Dome is a captivating experience. I arrived early to scout my shots and was delighted with the options. In addition to the stunning views west to El Capitan and east to Half Dome, there are some engaging foreground features on top. One is the famed but now fallen Jeffrey Pine. This tree was made famous in a photograph by Ansel Adams in 1940, which captured it bent to the elements but still growing between the mountaintop rocks. The tree finally fell in 2003 and now lies sad and withered on the summit, like a beached giant squid. Sunset atop Sentinel Dome was an incredible experience. Ask me sometime about my hike down in the dark!

My day plan for Yosemite Valley usually starts well before dawn with a quick check at Tunnel View for fog in the valley. I say quick because 90% of the time, for me, there is no fog or clouds and I don’t even get my camera out, preferring to move on to valley floor sites for first light. This time, a little patience might have been rewarded at Tunnel View at sunrise, but I had moved on to the Camp 6 bend in the river to catch Half Dome and its reflection as the sun came up. Some colorful leaves at the edge of the river made for a strong foreground, and an aimless cloud wandered by just in time to add interest to the sky. I then hurried to Cook’s Meadow to catch the black elm and it’s golden leaves in the first rays of rising sun.

Another area I return to every trip is Bridalveil Creek. Although I have been up and down the three channels of the creek many times and in every season, I am always fascinated by what I find. It helps that I have a healthy obsession with moving water, and whether it’s the pounding deluge of spring or the quieter flows of fall and winter, I take great pleasure in exploring the nooks and eddies of the creek.

The rest of the time was spent looking for interesting color around the valley. With a few exceptions, notably the riverbank up from Pohono Bridge, I did not find vivid fall colors in the leaves. Instead, I made more subtle-toned shots with varying degrees of success.

A final note: The idea of sharing location details on shots taken is controversial and frowned upon in some photography circles. I would be curious to hear anyone’s thoughts on this, based on what I’ve discussed above.

Trip: Isle au Haute, Maine - August 2019

September 20, 2019

I’ve been going to this island in Maine’s Penobscot Bay since I was a kid. It’s a photographer’s dream, with rugged coastline, crashing waves from the open Atlantic, verdant woods with plenty of moss and ferns, and wonderful light with occasional fog. I return to the island every year with my family, and when we aren’t hiking, swimming and feasting on crab and lobster, I slip away with my camera, often before dawn in a rusty old truck, to take pictures. While I return to some of the same spots on the island year after year, I seem to see them a little differently each time. Some of the images have been added to their respective categories in my other galleries. Here are some additional shots from the 2019 trip