Spring snowmelt swells a rushing creek as it rushes past trees and over boulders, Yosemite National Park.
This is a Yosemite National Park cascade that I frequently photograph – at various times of the year including winter, the spring runoff season, and the much quieter and more sedate autumn time. This creek drops precipitously down a steep mountainside (as a number of Yosemite Valley creeks tend to do!) and passes in several place through narrow, twisting, and granite boulder-filled channels.
I made this photograph at almost right around the peak of the spring runoff during an above-average precipitation year, so the water was roaring though this section. The mist that is visible in the photograph was being blown strongly down the canyon and I had to stand in its flow to make this photograph. I recall that I more or less figured out the composition (two actually – one vertical and this one horizontal) before I moved into position, and then I quickly stepped into the mist and made a series of exposures before I and my equipment became too wet, shooting straight into the blowing mist. Now, when I look at this photograph, the memory of the cool, wet air and the tremendous sound of the cascading water comes back to me.
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer whose subjects include the Pacific coast, redwood forests, central California oak/grasslands, the Sierra Nevada, California deserts, urban landscapes, night photography, and more. Blog | About | Flickr | Twitter | Facebook | Google+ | 500px.com | LinkedIn | Email
First morning light on the rugged landscape of the base of Tucki Mountain and the Panamint Range, Death Valley National Park, California
This photograph was made from a location a ways up from the bottom of Death Valley, from which I could look directly across at the lower slopes of gigantic Tucki Mountain as the first morning light worked its way down toward the lower ridges and the huge alluvial fan at the base of the mountain. At the moment I made the exposure the light was just beginning to fill this slanting area below the rugged mountains, and the light was softened by morning haze.
Tucki Mountain is a huge peak that almost seems to me to be large enough to count as its own minor mountain range. It rises above Stovepipe Wells, and extends a great distance east, south, and west of there. It is laced with deep canyons and its lower slopes are heavily eroded to reveal tilting and twisting strata. Another large valley lies on beyond the foreground spur ridge in this photograph, and beyond that the Panamint Range rises to its crest at 11,000+’ Telescope Peak.
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer whose subjects include the Pacific coast, redwood forests, central California oak/grasslands, the Sierra Nevada, California deserts, urban landscapes, night photography, and more. Blog | About | Flickr | Twitter | Facebook | Google+ | 500px.com | LinkedIn | Email
UPDATE: As of 2020 I am no longer posting annual updates concerning this subject — and I am editing older posts on the subject in light of the need to be more responsible about not encouraging the onslaught. I also no longer recommend going to the Valley to see it. Unfortunately, too much exposure (yes, I played a part in it, unfortunately) has led to absurd crowds, traffic jams, littering, destruction of areas in the Valley where too many people go to see it… and the park has increasingly — and appropriately — cracked down. Parking options have been eliminated, at least one viewing location has been closed. Good news! The rest of Yosemite Valley is still there and often exceptionally beautiful at this time of year.
The silver strand of Horsetail Fall and water reflecting on surrounding cliffs in late afternoon light, Yosemite Valley.
This being February, it seems that Horsetail Fall has again (and more every year) become a hot topic. Horsetail Fall, sometimes referred to as the “Natural Firefall” has been popularized to an absurd and, frankly, dangerous level on social media and in the press. To be honest, I now recommend that you not go.
The conjunction of elements required to produce the most spectacular Horsetail Fall “event” is complex. First, it depends on the geological coincidences of the placement of the fall in a spot hight on the face of El Capitan that receives a narrow beam of sunset light during two brief periods each year. Second, the fall must be running – in roughly the middle of winter. The area supplying water to the fall is high enough to be snow-covered in a typical winter, but low enough that snow can melt and start the fall flowing even in the cold season – but this is not a sure thing. Essentially, there must be snow and then some warmth to melt it, or else some significant warm rain. Third, a series of meteorological events must play out just right. Obviously, the upper face of El Capitan must be clear of clouds. (Yosemite Valley fog and clouds ringing the cliffs are rather common in the winter season.) The sky west of the Valley must also be clear all the way to the horizon since the best color occurs just before the sun hits the horizon.
Most often the requirements do not align. Many of us can tell stories of light getting better and better, leading toward a brilliant finale… and then the “lights going out” just at the peak of color as the sun dropped behind clouds far to the west.
Hundreds and hundreds Thousands of photographers now show up to try to photograph the thing. I’ve done it in the past, though I’m no longer interested these days – partly because of the absurd crowds and partly because I’m often busy photographing other interesting things!
My best memory of photographing Horsetail was years ago when the park service was doing major road work on Northside Drive, the road along that side of the Valley. The road was completely closed as were the cross-valley roads that travel between Southside and Northside Drives. It had snowed and there was perhaps a foot or more of snow along this section of the Valley floor. I wanted to photograph the fall from a location on the north side of the Valley, so my only option was to put on lots of warm clothes, load up a pack of camera and other gear, and walk across the Valley in the snow. I arrived long before sunset, so I first walked west to El Capitan Meadow where I photographed in rare quiet and solitude on this car-free and carefree late afternoon. Later, I quietly walked back along the road to my shooting location and found perhaps three or four other people there. This quiet, peaceful, and relatively uncrowded experience became my touchstone for photographing Horsetail.
If you go today, there is no way that your experience will be even close, unfortunately.
In recent years, as more people have acquired digital cameras and become more serious about their photography and as the renown of the fall has increased, the crowds have also increased to the point that they have become unmanageable and are damaging the park. As I revise this article in 2020, the problem has become so acute that the park service has wisely put severe restrictions on access — there is no stopping allowed along large sections of nearby Valley roads and one of the popular locations has been completely closed due to damage to forest, meadows, and the river.
* Note: In a wonderful video about Horsetail Fall, Ansel Adams’ son Michael Adams speaks eloquently about his father’s early photographs of the phenomenon. I was intrigued by his comment that Ansel might not have photographed the fall the way we do now because he couldn’t – since he worked with black and white photography. Thinking of this, and being full of myself today, I thought that I’d post a black and white photograph of Horsetail Fall! :-)
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer whose subjects include the Pacific coast, redwood forests, central California oak/grasslands, the Sierra Nevada, California deserts, urban landscapes, night photography, and more. Blog | About | Flickr | Twitter | Facebook | Google+ | 500px.com | LinkedIn | Email
Petroglyphs on a rock face overlooking desert terrain.
Encountering these very old and very mysterious traces of people who lived in this desert terrain many, many years ago is always a special experience. Perhaps you have read the following story here before, but I think of it every time I encounter these things. Well over a decade ago I was camped in a place in Death Valley National Park that lies somewhere between popular and the anonymous wild spaces far out in the back areas of the park. I was with a group of other people. In the morning I wandered away from the place where we were camped. I crossed a wash and walked up onto the base of a great alluvial fan, found a suitable “sitting rock,” and just sat there for a while taking in the immense space and silence. I happened to look down at the rocky ground and I an oddly shaped rock caught my attention. I’m no expert on these things, but it seemed completely clear to me that this rock had been shaped by human hands. (I later came to understand that it was probably a “knife,” perhaps one designed for scraping.)
At the moment I saw and then picked up and held this rock, the place was transformed from a semi-wilderness of rock and scattered plants into a very different sort of thing – a place that had been the home of people, many years before I sat there on my rock. My thoughts turned from the landscape around me to try to imagine the person who had created and held this rock – who was this person? what was it like to live in such a place in such a time? what had happened to them? I returned the rock to the desert floor and walked back to my camp.
The petroglyphs in the photograph are located in another place in the park, and I have visited and photographed them more than once. These are perhaps the most precious and among the most fragile things in this desert, which is why I never write about the specifics of their locations. (I also have photographs of petroglyphs that have been defiled by thoughtless morons.) If you know where these are, let’s keep it to ourselves, OK?
The first time I photographed these examples of rock art, I simply shot them straight on so that the shapes were as clear and large as possible. Since then I had been thinking of trying to photograph them in a way that might reveal them in the context of the larger surroundings – perhaps as the person or people who made them might have seen the place.
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer whose subjects include the Pacific coast, redwood forests, central California oak/grasslands, the Sierra Nevada, California deserts, urban landscapes, night photography, and more. Blog | About | Flickr | Twitter | Facebook | Google+ | 500px.com | LinkedIn | Email
Photographer and visual opportunist. Daily photos since 2005, plus articles, reviews, news, and ideas.
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