Dawn light on the peaks of Kuna Crest is reflected in a meltwater channel in the frozen surface of Tioga Lake at Tioga Pass.
On the weekend that Tioga Pass opened this year, I spent the “opening day” photographing along highway 120 in the park. That night I stayed in Aspen Camp in Lee Vining Canyon, a standby for me at almost all times of year when I photograph in the area and Tuolumne Meadows campground is not open. (That NPS campground typically opens a few weeks after the pass opens and then closes in late September.) The next morning I was up fairly early, planning to photograph more or less in the Tenaya Lake area a bit after sunrise. I drove up toward the pass and soon came to Tioga Lake, which lies next to the road just below the pass.
I had noticed the striking veined patterns formed by the melting ice the previous day but had not photographed them. When I saw them in the morning I spontaneously decided to stop and see what I could do with the subject, especially since it looked like the ice was starting to pick up a bit of color from the pre-dawn light. I quickly got out and set up and found a way to line up the melted channel in the icy surface with the peaks of the distant Kuna Crest inside the park. As the light began to strike this ridge its color reflected on the frozen lake and I made a few photographs before moving on.
The Sierra Nevada in evening light as seen from Aguereberry Point in Death Valley National Park’s Panamint Range.
I made this photograph from Aguereberry Point shortly before sunset. Aguereberry Point is a lonely prominence over 6000′ above Death Valley, high in the Panamint Mountain range, a place of astonishing panoramic views – and often some significant winds. As I drove the gravel road to the point late in the afternoon I saw three or four other vehicles heading the other direction, but when I arrived at the point a bit more than an hour before sunset no one else was there.
Having photographed here a few times previously, I am becoming more familiar with the challenges and the opportunities of shooting here. One of the challenges – as is the case in many spots in Death Valley – is that certain subjects seem to be “photographable” at very specific times and only for short intervals. One of the most interesting views from Aguereberry is southeast down into Trail Canyon and on to the lower slopes of Wildrose Peak beyond. This is wild, rugged, austere terrain. However, because it lies on the east side of this range the light changes quickly from a washed out blast of daytime sun to sudden deep shadows as the sun drops behind the higher ridges of the Panamints. (Trail Canyon is not seen in this photograph.)
Another challenge is that, impressive and overwhelming as the scale of this grand scene is, it can be difficult to pull interesting compositions out of it. I tend to work with longer lenses here, both to isolate smaller areas out of the huge landscape and to compress distance. In this photograph, the silhouetted crest of the highest part of the Sierra Nevada range is on the horizon, with the intervening ridges of the Panamint Range and others probably including the Inyo Mountains and the ridge just west of Panamint Valley.
And, since I tend towards those large and long lenses… wind is an issue! And on top of Aguereberry Point there is nothing to stop the often strong winds of Death Valley. On this evening the winds were howling, so I found a spot below some rocks where it was a bit less windy and then spent a lot time waiting for momentary lulls in the wind when I could make photographs.
The distant Cathedral Range rises above the melting ice of Gaylor Lake, Yosemite National Park.
Near the end of June last summer I hiked up here late in the day with my friends Mike and Karl. This was a somewhat unusual season in the Yosemite Sierra, in that there had been a lot of snow during the winter season and it had continued right on into spring. Consequently, the high passes opened up later than usual, and on a very late June day when things would typically be a bit more summer-ish, it looked more like late winter up here when we arrived.
I’ve visited this place quite a few times, but had never seen quite this scene before. More typically, the snow and ice are completely gone by the time I manage to get up there, and a typical visit usually entails arriving late on a warm afternoon and then hanging out in the sun while waiting for the evening light to come on. This time we were in snow before we crossed the ridge before the lake, and we had to think a bit about just how to head down toward the lake since the usual path was covered in snow. The lake itself was (obviously, judging from the photo!) still covered in ice, though melting was underway and the surface was a jigsaw puzzle of alternating blue pools and white ice.
We found a location near clumps of trees on rocky talus slopes above the lake to do our photography. In this photograph I shot down the length of the lake to mostly fill the frame with the melting ice. Beyond a small rocky rise at the end of the lake, the terrain drops off towards the meadows of the Tuolumne region, and beyond rise the peaks of the Cathedral range in early evening light.
A faint rainbow briefly glows in dawn light on the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada above the Buttermilks as an autumn storm builds.
Since I wrote previously about acting on a hunch to be in this spot in time to catch a few minutes of dawn light, I won’t recount the whole thing here – though I would like to describe the phenomenon a bit more and perhaps make a point or two about light and opportunities.
The photograph is of the eastern escarpment of the Sierra Nevada above Bishop, California and was made on an early autumn morning of a day that brought one of the first winter-like storms of the season. I found myself in this spot (as described at the link) for the very few minutes during which this light was present – and afterwards the light was simply gone and the rest of the day was overcast and rainy. The circumstances have me thinking about a few things about light and “being there” at the right moment.
Sometimes, even on a “poor light day” – though I like overcast conditions! – there can be a few brief moments of exceptional light. Catching them involves some combination of anticipating that these moments might occur, being there, and – let’s admit it! – dumb luck. In this case, all three were at work. I did not know that this light would occur, but I knew that the conditions offered a possibility. A clearing in the clouds along the eastern horizon allowed a horizontal beam of light to briefly hit the mountains right at dawn. It began by striking the clouds above the Sierra crest, soon hit the highest peaks, moved across the face of the range, and within minutes the show ended with light on the high desert. The band was so narrow that only one of these subjects was generally illuminated at a time – and the whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than five or ten minutes.
That description might make it sound like I’m saying that I’m just plain great at predicting such things and planning to be there. Not quite! If you had asked me a few minutes earlier, when I made the spontaneous decision to abandon my previous plans and high-tail it out to this spot, what the odds were that I’d see light like this I might have estimated them at perhaps 10% or less. In other words, if I repeated this little adventure 10 times, I’d guess that I’d fail to see light like this nine out of ten times. However, if I only go for “sure bets” (which I’ll take when I can get them!) I know that I’ll miss lots of special conditions that are not subject to prediction.
Which brings up the subject of luck. I often read that one should be able to know in advance what the photograph will look like, and that careful and full preparation will lead to good photographs. Well, sort of, but maybe not quite in the way that some imply. (There is an element of “preparation” in all of this that I’ll write about eventually, but that is a different thing.) Frankly, these subjects are too complex and too fleeting and too unpredictable to be subject to that sort of careful and precise planning in any sort of consistently useful way. The photographer cannot make that small band of open sky appear along the horizon on an autumn morning when a storm is building along the crest – but if everything goes right a photographer might be there at the right moment, prepared to make a photograph of it.
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.
Photographer and visual opportunist. Daily photos since 2005, plus articles, reviews, news, and ideas.
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