A red rock gully and wash in the Panamint Range of Death Valley National Park.
I have driven past this area along the road from Death Valley up to Wildrose Canyon quite a few times, and as I do I always am impressed by the many convoluted little canyons and odd and interesting rock formations. Most often I have been on my way to some other place or the light wasn’t quite right, but I always take a look and make a mental list of little spots to keep an eye on. This particular little canyon is one you might not even notice unless you were looking carefully as you passed it. It is in a narrow section of the lower canyon where it is one of many such little landscapes. On this morning I was coming back down from shooting up higher in the Panamints and I was watching carefully as I drove, frequently pulling over to stop and check things out more carefully. At first I almost drove past this spot, but it looked like the light might be interesting this time so I quickly stopped and backed up and made a series of photographs including this one.
The question of how to frame this scene was an interesting one. As is often the case I cover more than one base and shoot the subject in several ways. Initially I worked with a vertical orientation that includes a bit more of the rough terrain a bit higher in the canyon. That image may still see the light of day! But as I shot the scene I also realized that I could use a horizontal orientation too, more tightly frame the entrance to the small canyon, and give up some of the upper canyon formations.
With many subjects I would prefer softer light, and I would probably try to shoot much earlier in the day or come back in the evening. But this canyon, I think, works well in the light of a bit later in the morning when the sun has topped the ridge and direct light hits the top of the rocks and reflects into the recesses a bit more.
The first dawn light on the snow-dusted Panamint Range is reflected in shallow winter pools on the salt flats of Death Valley National Park.
This is yet another story of serendipity, I think, though it also does involve some advance work – which should please those who become uncomfortable with the idea that not every landscape photograph results from a slow and deliberate and well-planned process! ;-)
The general location of this scene is along a section of salt flat just below the Salt Creek turnoff from the main highway – it is the first area of obvious salt flats that you come to as you head south towards the Furnace Creek area. One one of my first photographic visits to Death Valley I recall stopping near this location along the road and trying to make a photograph pointing down the length of the Valley. It was not successful, but I’ve always been a bit intrigued by this location where the road has to curve around to the east to avoid this salt flat. A day or two earlier on this trip I had stopped along the road at almost this exact location during the “boring light” part of the day after shooting somewhere else. I had wandered – without any camera gear – down across the wash to a patch of brown salt grass and beyond to the edge of the salt flat. I had noticed a lot of things: the very alien nature of this landscape consisting of mud and caked salt and not much else, the surprising presence of some worms and larvae in this tremendously salty water, the fact that the water seemed to seep from beneath the wash, and the interesting shapes that the water created as it slowly spread along the edge of the salt flat.
Move ahead to this morning, the final one of this trip to Death Valley, and I was up well before first light. I had several ideas about what I might photograph, but had not made a firm decision yet since the weather was something of an unknown. I had a vague idea about heading north up the valley and photographing the first light on the hills along its western edge. I was keeping open the possibility that spectacular light might make it worth while to photograph Zabriskie. But I really didn’t know.
I drove to the Furnace Creek/Scotty’s Castle junction and pulled over to watch the light begin to grow. There were lots of clouds! It looked like a lighter area might evolve straight to my east, but I couldn’t quite see photographic potential in it. To the north things looked pretty bleak. There was some possibility that light could happen way to the south, but I wasn’t convinced. I decided to drive a bit south and see what might happen, and very soon I came back to this place where I had stopped earlier. The light wasn’t very promising – clouds to the east seemed likely to block the sunrise light even though there were some interesting cloud patterns overhead that were starting to become more transparent as the sky began to lighten.
Then I caught just a bit of light on some of the higher clouds above the middle level clouds and I started to wonder if the light just might make it through. I went to the back of the car and grabbed my camera with one lens already attached and mounted it on the tripod. I wasn’t sure if I’d want wide or tele for some of the possible subjects, so I grabbed two additional lenses and stuck them in a shoulder bag and headed down the wash, not really looking up too much, just heading straight towards these little areas of water that I remembered from earlier. As I got close to the edge of the flats I saw that, indeed, a band of sunrise light was coming in below the cloud deck to the east (something I have learned to watch for) and starting to light up the highest peaks of the Panamints. I knew that if this light survived long enough to make it down across the range that it was going to happen fast, so I quickly headed out onto the edge of the flats, more or less ignoring the larger scene and simply looking for an interesting reflecting pool. As I set up – working very quickly now – the first sun lit up the face of the panamints and revealed radiating cloud shapes above. I had perhaps two minutes of this light… and then the small gap along the eastern horizon must have closed up as the light disappeared and went back to gray.
Sparse trees grow in granite slabs above steep granite cliffs in Lower Yosemite Valley.
(Note: After receiving some advice from a helpful reader – which was much appreciated! – I now know that this feature has a name. It is called “the Rostrum,” and I have retitled the photograph accordingly.)
I’ve seen these tree-topped columns and the granite slabs beyond many times when I’ve taken Crane Flat Road into the Valley. On my recent visit to Yosemite, photographing these trees in both early and late light was on my agenda, and I got myself into position to shoot them on two or three occasions.
At the right times of day – and there are at least two when this can work – the light slants across the top of the granite slabs and ledges at the top of these cliffs and catches the trees with side or back light. Below these upper slopes the vertical fluted forms of the cliffs drop nearly vertically to the Merced River canyon below. The cliffs themselves are in what I might describe as lower Yosemite Valley – think of Crane Flat Road above Cascade Creek or the area well beyond the upper end of Wawona Tunnel. There is a lot of very interesting and imposing rock in this part of the Valley, though I think it may get overlooked a bit by comparison to the truly astonishing faces and domes and peaks of the Valley proper.
Since the light changes throughout the year, and especially because the point at which the sun sets moves north as the years moves from winter to summer, I want to come back and photograph this area again a bit later in the year when I think the potential for light later in the day might improve. From my point of view, the ideal conditions might combine “golden hour” side light with shadows that reduce the detail on the forest covered slopes beyond – and without the bright snow patches that appear here. Of course, a fresh snowfall here might also be interesting…
I got a bit of a laugh out of one thing that happened when I made this photograph, though it is similar to similar situations I’ve had in the past. It is not at all unusual for lots of tourists to stop when they see a photographer with a big tripod and large lens at a pull-out along the road. I assume they think that if the photographer with the Fancy Equipment is stopping that there must be something there worth photographing. But sometime the photographer is pointing the camera in direction that must only confuse them. On this occasion I was in a spot with a classic and stunning view of distant Bridalveil Fall, and I’ll bet that many of those stopping thought they might try to duplicate my “shot of the falls.” But as they stopped and looked they may have wondered about me if they noticed that my lens was aimed at some seemingly nondescript spot perhaps 30% to the right of the fall…
I made this photograph during midday hours after walking a ways up into the canyon from its mouth – the alternative to making the very long drive over the Grapevine Mountains from Amargosa Valley. (I have done the latter a few times, too.) While most Death Valley subjects tend to be appealing in the early morning or in the evening, many of the canyons can be at their best during the middle of the day, especially the very deep and narrow canyons like lower Titus Canyon. Here the canyon narrows down to the point that there is only room of a single gravel track, and twists and turns around rocky outcroppings. The light striking the upper canyon walls – out of the range of this photograph – reflects down into the canyon and produces soft, diffused illumination.
This photograph is not in the public domain and may not be used on websites, blogs, or in other media without advance permission from G Dan Mitchell.
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Photographer and visual opportunist. Daily photos since 2005, plus articles, reviews, news, and ideas.
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