Patterns emerge and reflect the sky at low tide on a foggy morning at Drakes Estero
Although I have been visiting the Point Reyes National Seashore, just north of San Francisco, for quite a few years, it has sometimes been a challenging place for me to photograph. Perhaps it is because, with some exceptions, it generally doesn’t feature the same sorts of iconic and spectacular Pacific coast subjects found in places such as the Big Sir coast. instead there are coastal lowlands with most-treeless bluffs, thick and impenetrable forests further inland, and grand vistas across low-lying landscapes. But given enough time and patience and persistence, I think ti begins to be possible to discover a way of seeing almost any landscape, and I’m starting to understand how to see this place.
I knew it that there would be fog on this visit, and my plan/hope was that I could get there at the right time to place myself along the boundary between sun and fog, where interesting things often happen with the light. I decided to take a rather long hike (about 13 miles roundtrip) to a location that I have long wanted to visit, and I arrived at the trailhead just as the fog was beginning to thin there. After dropping through forest I arrived and crossed one arm of Drakes Estero as the tide was at its low point, revealing mud flats along the shoreline. The trail climbed again and I came around another high headland to see a more expansive view toward the fog over the ocean to the west. The low tide revealed remarkable patterns in the estero, and the shallow water reflected the deep blue sky and the thinning fog clouds.
Summer sun penetrates clearing fog over Drake’s Estero, Point Reyes National Seashore
I took my camera for a hike this week. Or at least that’s how it felt. I have to confess that Point Reyes, a place I visit somewhat regularly, has always been a photographic challenge for me. I can’t quite put my finger on why that is. I certainly have good results with seascape photographs from other areas along the California coast. As I hiked today — an eight mile round trip to the entrance to Drake’s Estero* — I pondered this what might explain it. Because the point extends out into the ocean, it is often foggy. This fog is not the mysterious sort that hangs along the ground and partially obscures trees and hills. It tends to be the cold gray fog that hovers a few hundred feed up, simply blocking and flattening the light. Although I’m intrigued by this landscape, much of it can be quite barren. There are forests, but they often consist of slender trees growing closely together, often with dense undergrowth. It is difficult to find the things that attract me to the landscapes of the Sierra and the desert — rugged rocky forms, tall cliffs (there are some of these at Point Reyes), light-filled forests, bare and rocky ground. Oh, and did I mention the wind!?
But I keep going back, frequently returning with only a few photographs. This was one of those days. I very much like the place I hiked — a route that alternates between forest, tramping along the waterline, and traversing high bluffs above the estero. I walked four miles out past the end of the trail, to a place where I could walk along a narrow band at the base of cliffs that front the estero, and across the relatively still water were sandbars with birds. Beyond that the surf broke outside of the entrance to the estero. At this far end of the hike I was completely alone, and I found a rock to sit on and quietly take in this scene before turning around to retrace my steps. The photographic challenges on this walk were primarily the strong winds and the gray light. As I passed along the top of one of the bluffs, the sky cleared enough to produce beautiful, soft light on the water and the far peninsula, providing an opportunity to make my one good photograph of the day.
“Drake’s Estero” is, as you probably guessed, an estuary — but here I’m using the word that the park service uses for this feature.
Fog rolls in over Drakes Estero beyond Home Bay, Point Reyes National Seashore.
This little late-July visit to Point Reyes was an opportunity to re-learn a few lessons about going out to make photographs. I had driven up to San Francisco, where my wife was to be engaged in a music performance that would take the full afternoon and evening, with the plan being to drop her off and then drive on over the Golden Gate Bridge and out to Point Reyes. Point Reyes is often a cold and windy place, even in the summer, but this was a very warm period and it looked like the coast might be clear of fog or at least see the fog bank lurking just offshore until the evening. With this in mind, it seemed like it might be a good time to either visit the Limantour Beach area or else hike out towards Drakes Bay.
I should have sensed that things were about to evolve in ways that I had not planned for when, during a brief stop at the Point Reyes visitor center, the rangers announced that the road to Limantour was closed since a fire had just started in the area! With that option gone, I figured that Drakes Bay would be my objective, and I had images of afternoon and evening light on this day of little or no fog. I drove on out to the Estero trailhead where it was, in fact, quite sunny, though a bit windy. I loaded up my camera pack with a few lenses and a tripod, and set out on the trail towards Drakes Head, thinking I might be able to make it there for late afternoon light. As soon as I started hiking I began to see the telltale puffs of incoming fog clouds above me, and soon I came around a bend in the trail to see that the fog had already moved in to my west and over Drakes Bay. Fortunately, I like for, and in most cases I would rather photograph in “interesting” weather than in so-called perfect blue sky weather. At a point where the trail descended to cross a dike at the head of Home Bay, I saw this conjunction of near and far forms, with the distant bluffs under the incoming fog, so I stopped to make a few photographs before moving on. To make a potentially long story a bit shorter, the temperature quickly dropped and the wind picked up to levels that made photography increasingly difficult. I managed to work with one other scene that included a curving snag in front of the bay, but it was already becoming difficult to find a calm moment in the wind to click the shutter. I kept going, finally reaching the trail junction that heads off towards Drakes Head, only to realize that I would never get all the way out there in time to return before dark. Cutting the hike short after a bit more than an hour and a half of hiking, I began to retrace my steps back to the trailhead.
In the end, this is really the only photograph that I came away with – despite carrying that fully loaded camera pack out and back! But this reminded me of a first lesson, namely that it is worth the effort even if I only come back with a single shot that I like. This one, to me, evokes the relative isolation and quiet of this spot in the upper reaches of the calm waters of Drakes Bay, with the fog bank beginning to assemble across the distant bluffs. A second lesson is that sometimes on a photographic quest, it is OK to simply enjoy the surroundings. A practical photographer can remind himself or herself that scouting is a good thing, and that things not photographed this time may well be on a future visit. And a long-time hiker can – and did – remind himself that sometimes it is just fine to leave the camera in the pack and just enjoy the wind and the space.
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
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.
