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Aspen trees and staying close to home

Wednesday, October 13th, 2010

“In the first place you can’t see anything from a car; you’ve got to get out of the goddamned contraption and walk, better yet crawl, on hands and knees, over the sandstone and through the thornbush and cactus. When traces of blood begin to mark your trail you’ll see something, maybe.”  –Edward Abbey

In my free time lately, I’ve been rereading Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire; if you haven’t read it, you should.   In going back through the book, I realize how Abbey looks at the whole landscape, not just the pretty view in front of him, but at every burr, thistle and spine.  He mastered the art of bringing the intimate landscape to life through his writing.

This weekend, while the hordes descended upon the “big show” of autumn color in the eastern Sierra Nevada, I stayed close to home by visiting a local aspen grove in the San Gorgonio Wilderness near Big Bear City.  To my knowledge this is the only aspen grove in southern California, and it brought a much needed respite to continued summer-like weather in the lower elevations.

We arrived early in the morning to a shaded canyon and very cool temperatures.  Walking down the trail to the grove, I could see the familiar golden glow Populus tremuloides ahead–a glow that brings memories of autumns in the mountains of southern Colorado back to the forefront of my brain.

Arriving at the grove, I took a breath of the sweet, familiar air present in an autumnal aspen grove and felt the cold bark of the trees.  “Yes, indeed, I needed this!” I thought, smiling.

The grove in the San Bernardino Mountains isn’t large, and because of the relatively low elevation (7500′) and–I suspect–the latitude, the trees hadn’t fully turned yet.  As a result, I chose to focus on the unseen aspects of the grove: the fallen leaves, and the trunks of these gorgeous trees.

A grove of aspen trees (Populus tremuloides) in the San Bernardino Mountains of southern California

Aspen Grove I, October 2010

Black and white seemed to suit these images well as there weren’t enough fallen leaves to really make the forest floor light up.  Converting to black and white made the paucity of leaves really jump out.

A grove of aspens (Populus tremuloides) in the San Bernardino Mountains of southern California

Aspen Grove II, October 2010

While I didn’t come away with the striking, colorful, images people usually associate with aspens, I take some solace in knowing that I found some intimate landscapes that Edward Abbey may have written about.  Indeed, this grove warrants many, many more visits.

Incidentally, David Leland Hyde (The Landscape Photography Blogger) also blogged about Edward Abbey this week.  Take a few minutes and check it out; its a fantastic blog and you won’t regret it!

Nevermind the Weather

Thursday, October 7th, 2010

Recently, in the span of one week, we had record high temperatures in southern California, violent thunderstorms, and very fall-like weather, with rain and nearly 50 degree cooler temperatures than just a few days earlier.  In short, its been absolutely crazy, and some locals have been telling me this is “earthquake weather.”  I hope not.

Stormy skies at the Santa Rosa Plateau

Stormy Skies

What I do know is that I’ve spent a lot of time looking at the sky over the last few days.  I’ve admired a series of gorgeous sunsets, and–like you, I’m sure–I’ve looked at the sky every morning as a hopeful indicator of what my day will be like.  In fact, the more I think about it, we spend a lot of time looking at the sky.  For centuries sailors have looked to the sky before setting sail (“Red sky at night…”); as photographers, we often differentiate a “so-so” photograph from an epic one depending on what’s happening in the sky; most people let what’s in the sky help define their mood, to some extent at least.  So, the sky really does define our days, and our lives.

As much as it influences us, I also think we could learn from the sky.  It carries the weather, but is ultimately unaffected by it, dealing with tumultuous changes easily and unscathed, and in a world that sometimes seems to be filled with our own hurry, hurt, and negativity, perhaps we could all take a moment to look up at the sky, take a deep breath and create our own high pressure system, so to speak.

What do you think?

Beautiful, serene California sunset

Cotton Candy Sky

Range of Light

Monday, September 20th, 2010

I’ll be the first person to admit that I don’t really fit in living in southern California.  Although I do commute to my day job, I avoid the commuter culture.  I don’t send text messages unless absolutely necessary.  My idea of high-end clothing can’t be purchased at Nordstrom’s or Bloomingdale’s, and I had no idea who Justin Bieber is until my friend’s 9-year-old daughter introduced me (I still wouldn’t know him if he showed up at my front door).  So, I don’t really fit in here.

Part of that is my fault too: I’ve avoided fitting in.  Perhaps I’ve been afraid I’d actually start to like it here if I let myself.  So it was when I was introduced to the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Within one week of moving to southern California, I was in a car with my new boss driving up the Owens Valley to the White Mountains.  There’s no doubt the Sierra is an impressive range, but was cautious to give it too much credit.

“How cliché,” I thought, “everyone likes the Sierra.”

“What could be so special about this place?”

Eight years have passed.  In that time, I’ve stood in awe at the base of giant sequoias and granite monoliths.  Some of the most amazing geology in the west has been right under my feet.  In 2010 alone, I’ve walked more than 100 miles in the Sierra backcountry, most recently my wife and I took our 2 1/2 year old son on his first backpacking trip to the North Fork of Big Pine Creek (aka the Palisades, or Palisade Lakes).

Sunset from Second Lake, John Muir Wilderness, California

Sunset, Second Lake, John Muir Wilderness, September 2010

We arrived at our campsite, high above one of the glacially-fed lakes about 5pm and set up our tent, and I went to filter water.  One of the most fantastic things about this time of year is that there are no mosquitoes.  I really can’t tell you how happy that makes me.  I got back to camp in time to see the day’s last vestiges of sunlight kissing the tops of the peaks to the north of us.

The following morning, I walked up to another one of the small chain of lakes in this area to photograph sunrise.  I’ve written before that I’m convinced there are no clouds in the Sierra.  My “curse” continued on this trip, with completely cloudless skies.  Alas.

Sunrise on Temple Crag, John Muir Wilderness, California

First Light on Temple Crag, September 2010

After shooting sunrise, I walked back to camp, and enjoyed a morning reading of “One Zany Zoo” and some oatmeal.  After breakfast, we were very sad to pack up and walk back to the car.  Its at that moment, looking up at Temple Crag and the Palisade Crest that it hit me.  This is the place where my son is learning to love the outdoors.  This is more than just a pretty mountain range.  As part of a generation who will be more likely to save trees by sending emails rather than going outdoors to climb them, his groundwork for a sense of place is being laid down right here.

With that in mind, its easy to see why John Muir was so moved by this Range of Light.

shooting photos with dad

"Babysitting", September 2010

Aspen Trunk

Friday, September 17th, 2010

Recently, I noted this aspen trunk, and thought that it would make a good vertical panorama.  Converting it to black and white using Nik Silver Efex Pro seemed to give this already graphical image the punch it needed to stand on its own.

Click on the image to see a larger version!

Aspen Trunk, Populus Tremuloides

Aspen Trunk, September 2010

Minaret Lake

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2010

“To the south of Mount Ritter are some grand pinnacles of granite, very lofty and apparently inaccessible, to which we gave the name of ‘the Minarets.'” –California Geological Survey, 1868

I’ve always loved the view of the Minarets from Minaret Summit, behind Mammoth Mountain.  When the opportunity came up to hike into Minaret Lake, at the base of these fantastic spires, I jumped on it.  The Minarets are an arête, a high, thin ridge formed when two glaciers work toward each other, back to back.

The hike into the lake is somewhat demanding, gaining about 2200 vertical feet over 7.8 miles.  We arrived in Mammoth about 1pm, and after catching the shuttle to Devil’s Postpile National Monument, we were able to hike into the lake by 7pm.  Unfortunately, we weren’t able to spend much time, as this was a spur trip from our goal of hiking the last 1/3 of the John Muir Trail.  We had to leave again by 9am the following morning, giving me time to photograph only one sunset and sunrise.  I would have liked to spend a few more days at this location alone!

Minaret Lake, Ansel Adams Wilderness, California

Minaret Lake evening, July 2010

Minarets, Ansel Adams Wilderness, California

The Minarets at night, July 2010

Minarets and hiker, Ansel Adams wilderness, California

Self-portrait, Minaret Lake, July 2010

Becoming the landscape

Sunday, June 13th, 2010

A while ago, David Leland Hyde asked a simple question, “Why are you a landscape photographer?” I offered my answer, and I even blogged (loosely) on it, but the answer didn’t truly dawn on me until today.

While on a hike this afternoon, we found a carcass of a gray fox (Urocyon cinereoargenteus).  Watching it lay in the grass, I immediately saw in my mind’s eye an evocative black and white photo.  More than that, though, I saw myself.  You see, regardless of how much I work to prolong my life, I will undoubtedly eventually meet the same fate as that fox.  In other words, I will eventually become part of the landscape.

So, perhaps in the same way that other people document their family tree, I photograph landscapes because I want to document my family tree.  My ancestors.  Those who roamed the land before I did.  In this way, I am realizing my sense of place, and am making my connection with the land tangible.

carcass of a gray fox (Urocyon cinereoargenteus)

Gray Fox, June 2010

On originality

Saturday, May 22nd, 2010

There seems to be quite a bit of buzz in the photography blogosphere lately on what constitutes art and–perhaps more timely–what is original.

David Leland Hyde has a great post summarizing others’ blog posts here, and leaves us with a question: Why do you photograph landscapes?  There are some great comments in the thread.  Incidentally, if you’re not regularly reading his blog, you should be.

On reading this, I know I’ve thought about this many times, and am happy to see this dialogue between photographers.  I’m reminded of a few of my past blog posts as well:

The Icons

The Icons, reinterpreted

And finally, some thoughts on inspiring your creativity.

Ultimately, none of this may matter to you; art and originality are subjective.  You may well say, “I enjoy it, and I like my photos…I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”  There’s certainly nothing wrong with this stance, but for me, it does matter.  Why do I photograph nature, and landscapes in particular?  Regardless of your opinion, I think its good to take a step back and evaluate your art from time to time.  Many thanks to David et al. for forcing me to do that!

Where does the creative process stop?

Sunday, May 16th, 2010

Having been pursuing the “photography business” for less than a year, I would consider myself a newbie.  I make no apologies for that, because I feel like I’ve always been able to follow the lead of my mentors well, and I am quick to learn from my mistakes.  However, its because I’m learning from my mentors that I’m having an issue.

One of the biggest complaints that I hear from people in the business is that with the availability of Photoshop and other image-editing software (both in-camera and in post-processing), “anyone can produce great photos.”  They note that creative vision is becoming less and less common, and its being replaced with the “I’ll fix it later” mentality.  I definitely see this (look around Flickr and you will too), and to some extent I’m guilty of snapping a photo, knowing that I’ll be cloning something out in post.  You probably do too.

My issue, then, isn’t with my mentors, but with myself.  How much can I justify altering a mediocre photo to make a good photo and still be okay with it?

Take for example this image I’ve recently reprocessed from the Fisher Towers:

The Fisher Towers near Moab Utah

The Fisher Towers, in color

My problem with this shot isn’t the harsh light, or the fact that its not at all representative of how pretty the Fisher Towers can be.  Its that I really want to like it.  But, its just mediocre.  Others on a Naturescapes.net forum recently agreed that its definitely not a wall-hanger.  But, when I convert the image to black and white, that harsh light is suddenly working its magic.

Fisher Towers in black and white

Fisher Towers in black and white

The image still won’t win any contests, but its drastically improved.  So, by digital manipulation, I converted a mediocre image into a better one.  The problem I have with this is that I didn’t set out to make black and white images that day.  Maybe I’ve just over-analyzed this.

I ask you, though: where does the creative process stop?  I have a feeling most will answer indicating that for them its a continuum, but where is the line drawn?  Knowing that I didn’t set out to make black and white images that day, are you okay with my displaying this as art?

I’d love to know your thoughts!

Winter personal project: Agave

Thursday, March 18th, 2010

Over the past couple of years, I’ve taken some of what I consider to be “personal projects”.  The assignments I give myself aren’t difficult; they may have been to focus on a particular area to show it in a unique way, or to learn new techniques, or to push myself out of my box a little bit.  Many of the projects are ongoing, but I find they are a great way for me to inspire my own creativity.  So it was with my winter project; I wanted to take on a project that pushed me outside of my box.

As a group, one of my favorite plants are Agave.  They have beautifully symmetric, radiating leaves.  Their lines are smooth, easy, even sensuous, and their colors are–to me–calming.  They come in many shapes and sizes.  And, of course, they are the source of tequila (doesn’t a margarita sound good right now?).

Despite my admiration for these plants, until this winter I had only given a half-hearted attempt to photograph them.  Because we were lucky to have many overcast days this winter with soft, diffuse light, I decided to take on the project of creating a set of intimate portraits of Agave.  To make the set more “uniform” I chose to convert each image to monochrome, and although you’ll see uniformity may be left up to the viewer, I did stick with that as my theme.

intimate black and white portrait of an agave attenuata

Agave attenuata, January 2010

In addition to getting to know a new group of plants, I was able to learn about black and white conversions, as well as receive some lessons in extending my depth of field.  To achieve the highest resolution, I wanted to stay at an aperture of about f/8, but shooting this close with my 24-105/4, there was no way the entire plant would be in focus.  What I did was take multiple frames of each image, each one at a different plane of focus.  I then used the auto-align and auto-merge features in Photoshop CS4 to produce a single image with extended depth of field; I hope to write  blog post on this procedure in the future.

wide angle portrait of an agave; uc riverside botanical garden

Wide angle, February 2010

I’ll share one or more of my Agave shots in the next few days; if you simply cannot wait, you can see them all (so far) here.  Its good to remember that by taking on a personal project, you can often find inspiration very near to (if not in) your own backyard.  Have you taken on a personal project?  Share it in the comments section!

Enjoy…

Big Adventure, Small Scale?

Thursday, March 11th, 2010

I have to admit that although I’m fortunate to find great photography subjects close to home–often in my backyard!–the act of working really hard for an image brings a lot of satisfaction.  Sometimes working that hard for an image can bring big adventure–and some hair-raising experiences to the table as well.

As I write this, I’m reminded of two such days.  The first is last August, in the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.  A friend and I drove up from southern California, and my dad drove out from New Mexico, and we spent a few days making images in the canyons of this wonderful wilderness.  On our second day–my dad’s day to pick how we spent the day–we hiked into Neon Canyon to visit the Golden Cathedral.  The hike was fantastic–7 miles round-trip, all cross country–and the photography was phenomenal.  However, it was August, and we were feeling the August heat–95+ degrees.  I remember standing knee-deep in the Escalante River that afternoon thinking that there really was no place on earth I’d rather be at that moment.  Hiking out of there was also the hottest, hardest work I’ve done in quite a while.

The second day was satisfying in a similar way, but a little more hair-raising.  Again I was with my dad, and we were hiking through the Left Fork of North Creek–the Subway–in Zion National Park.  If you’ve hiked it from top to bottom, you know that the descent from the upper bench into the canyon is a bit hairy.  Although I’m not normally one to flinch at such things, I decided to try an alternate route down that day, as I saw a small trail heading off to my left.  It seemed like a good idea for a while, but suddenly the earth gave out from underneath me, sending me head over heels down a gully…and toward a 75-foot drop off.  After the second turn in the gully, I slid out of my dad’s line of sight, so all he could hear was me cursing and grasping for roots as I slid by.  Finally one stuck, and I stopped, but not before I was bloodied and pretty battered.  To add insult to injury, I landed in someone’s cathole (fortunately I didn’t land in “it” but it was too close for my taste)–don’t ask me who would find that a convenient spot to relieve themselves.  I crawled back up and the rest of the day all I had to worry about was soaking my camera gear.  My elbow still hurts from that day.

Recently, I was talking to a big wall climber who sort of guffawed at my sense of “adventure”.  I guess because I’m not scaling El Capitan, my adventures weren’t quite worthy of praise–maybe because my pack is filled with an SLR body and a bunch of glass instead of a climbing rack, I’m not as cool.  C’est la vie.  Its important to remember that adventure comes in all sizes–its your perception of it that makes it special and memorable.

What are some of your adventures?  Do you have any especially memorable experiences that have come out of working for an image?  Maybe you got caught in an epic storm, or had to outrun a rabid badger.  These are the experiences that make our “backyard adventures” just as cool as redpointing a new route on El Capitan…

The Golden Cathedral, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, Utah

The Golden Cathedral, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, Utah