A dog naps beneath the Berlin Wall at the East Side Gallery.
There is a very good chance that this is the first photograph of a dog that I have shared. I’m positive that it is the first sleeping dog photo. Who knows? Maybe it will become a thing. Or not. As always, I’m impressed by the extent to which dogs can simply ignore the tumult going on around them. There was a constant stream of people walking past and the sidewalk fronts a busy street.
There isn’t a whole lot to say about this. I photographed the critter at the base of the Berlin wall, at the section called the East Side Gallery where the remnants have been painted. (Perhaps “Dogs Sleeping At The Berlin Wall” will be a genre?)
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer and visual opportunist. His book, “California’s Fall Color: A Photographer’s Guide to Autumn in the Sierra” is available from Heyday Books and Amazon.
Clearing storm clouds at a final wash of sunset color above the Sierra crest near Tuolumne Meadows
This is another photograph from my mid-July evening of miracle light — or, more accurately, my five minutes of miracle light! As I wrote earlier, I had ascended this high point in the Tuolumne Meadows area on an evening when the light was about as “blah” as it gets. There were weak thunderstorms floating around over the crest, but they were more gray and flat that electrical and exciting. And the cloud shield extended a good distance to the west, which meant that no western light was making its way in to live up the scene. But there I was, on top of a high and spectacular place with a remarkable panoramic view, so I was starting to settle in to simply enjoy the experience and perhaps not make photographs.
But… sometimes boring conditions can actual be precursors to sudden changes and even very special conditions. On overcast mountain evenings (and mornings) there may be a distant break in the clouds near the horizon, and if the setting (rising) sun passes through that space at the right moment a sudden beam of colorful light may illuminate the landscape with golden hour or pinkish light. I felt that the odds weren’t with me on this evening, but I hadn’t written off the possibility entirely either, and I kept my gear at hand just in case. Perhaps five minutes before sunset the first pink light appeared to the north on distant clouds and then began to faintly glow on the closer domes. Within in seconds the scene went from gray and flat light to this marvel of warm reddish tones. I photographed rapidly for perhaps five minutes or less… and then it was gone.
Two backpackers (and their dog) negotiate a stream crossing in the John Muir Wilderness.
I was out photographing around the lower end of the lake above this stream when two backpackers passed by. I was fascinated by watching them as they came through here, and their progression to and across the stream reminded me of some aspects of backcountry travel that are important and quite different from how we live our typical day-to-say city lives. They were moving efficiently as they approached the obstacle of this stream at the trail crossing. At first glance the crossing seemed obvious, with the trail clearly arriving and departing from opposite sides of this wide spot in its course. But, as is frequently the case, the crossing wasn’t as simple as it first looked — the water was unusually high for this time of year – and no ideal crossing was apparent. They stopped, looked around, tried a few options, finally settled on stepping across on slightly submerged rocks, and they crossed. The first hiker got across fine, and the dog followed, but the second hiker slipped into the water just a bit and then apparently lost a set of glasses. They pondered a bit, realized that they couldn’t get them back, and then set off, once again moving with a purpose across the meadow and on toward a higher lake.
I now think of something else when I see such backpackers, younger (to me, anyway!) backcountry visitors who seem in many ways like me a few decades ago. I envy their ability to carry large loads and to move quickly. I can still carry what I need to, but it is harder and slower than it once was! I also think about how much they cannot yet know about their potential future in these places, including the prospect that their appreciation and connection to the wilderness will grow and mature in ways that they cannot yet foresee. Sometimes I want to stop and tell them… but I never do.
Evening light on granite domes, meadows, and forest, Yosemite National Park
As always when staying in and around Tuolumne Meadows — though this time I had to drive in from a more distant campground — I was out in the meadows as evening approached. The campground was still closed due to late-melting winter snows, so there were even fewer than usual people out enjoying the late-day light and benign clouds floating overhead.
As I walked through the meadow I enjoyed the constantly changing landscape and patterns of clouds and sunlight moved across the forest, meadow, and mountains. From moment to moment the light changed significantly enough to almost create new landscapes. At the moment of this photograph the main subject was actually darkened a bit by the shadow of a passing cloud — perhaps giving it a more ominous appearance — but the light was bright on the smaller, more distant dome and on the meadow and forest at the base of the dome.
