Petrified sandstone forms in layers of design along the walls of Mosaic Canyon, Death Valley National Park

This week’s photos are late-comers to the blog from my recent Death Valley trip. They are sandstone detail shots taken near the mouth of Mosaic Canyon, shot mid-day under a partially cloudy sky. The patterns of the canyon were really wild – these are just a sampling of the swirling colors and carved shapes.

In order to get the colors of the sandstone to really show, I needed full shade – here direct sunlight was not my friend. I would have preferred a cloudier day, but one must work with what they are given. As it was, I was forced to shoot only the side of the canyon that was in shade, and that shade was disappearing by the minute as the sun moved directly over the canyon opening. As the sun crept up the wall that I was shooting, I began to wish for a large shade (and an assistant to hold it too!)

Petrified Sandstone ripples in layers along the wall of Mosaic Canyon, Death Valley National Park

A chestnut-backed chickadee poses on a small branch whose leaves are beginning to turn colors

One of my favorite local passerines is the chestnut-backed chickadee. It is common enough to be seen semi-regularly, but just rare enough for those sightings to be special. Here is a photo I took last November, as the leaves were turning color on the trees. I love how the chickadee’s colors compliment the fall colors of nature.

Another reason that I enjoy chickadee sightings is that I always think of them as “bonus” birds. I never set out to specifically find one of these guys (if I did so, I’d probably be searching for days). Usually I’ll go looking for a different target species (be it a shorebird rarity, newly hatched chicks, etc) and only after I successfully (or unsuccessfully) photograph my target do I look around to see who else is present. And that’s when a chickadee might show up.

The biggest challenges in photographing birds like this are their size and speed. They are a relatively small bird. When working with a large lens (as I normally do for birds), that means working at or less than the lens’s minimum focusing distance. That also means that finding your subject at that magnification is like finding a needle in a haystack! And the speed? The only time this bird sits still is when it stops to sing. Otherwise it is flitting from branch to branch – very hard to track with a long lens. Here patience and practice (and some times a little luck) pay off.

Painted cliffs descend to a mixture of fir and pine along East Eagle Creek, Eagle Cap Wilderness, Oregon

For me, learning happens in spurts. Call it a growth spurt of the mind. Over the last few weeks I have been spending many hours learning advanced Photoshop techniques to help me process my photos. This gives me better tools to recreate exactly what I saw, and the mood I felt when I took the photograph.

Now, I’m no slouch when it comes to Photoshop, but that application is so deep and allows for so much creativity, there is always more to learn. Once you’ve become expert in all the individual tools Photoshop has to offer, combining them to work for you becomes a life-long practice.

Needing to try out some of the new techniques I was exploring (detailed selections, channel masking, blending modes, etc), I decided to reprocess the photo above, which I took two years ago in Eagle Cap Wilderness. I always loved the photo, but never felt that I achieved that sense of awe that I experienced hiking down East Eagle Creek canyon. My latest reworking of the photo is above – here is the result of my original processing two years ago:

Painted cliffs descend to a mixture of fir and pine along East Eagle Creek, Eagle Cap Wilderness, Oregon

One of the things that I love about digital is that as time goes on, the experience I gain not only impacts my photographs going forward, but can have a positive impact on old photos as well. It can also be seen as a curse – that feeling that you’re never really finished working on a photograph. But I’d rather see my work (even old work) improve over time, and I’m more than willing to put in the time to make that happen.

Fall colors are reflected in the surface of moving water ripples. The ripples turn simple reflections into endless patterns.

I recently processed these photos that I took last fall near my home. I happened upon some trees in full fall color that were being reflected in beautiful light off the surface of a wetland slough. I spent some time just watching different parts of the water, and then isolating the varied reflections with a long lens.

Fall colors are reflected in the surface of moving water ripples. The ripples turn simple reflections into endless patterns.

The patterns and colors in the water were changing so quickly, that I didn’t have time to see what I liked, compose a shot, and then capture it. I mainly looked for larger areas of interesting color (which changed moment to moment) and then took a bunch of exposures within that area.

Fall colors are reflected in the surface of moving water ripples. The ripples turn simple reflections into endless patterns.

I also played with varying shutter speeds to see the effect on the pattern separation and motion blur. I took several hundred shots (one of the many benefits of digital), and then selected these shots as my favorites.

Fall colors are reflected in the surface of moving water ripples. The ripples turn simple reflections into endless patterns.

I always try to keep my eye out for patterns in nature. Sometimes a photograph is so abstract, the viewer cannot immediately identify the subject. This can be a lot of fun, and a real departure from the realism with which natural history photography is often associated.

A blacktail jackrabbit munches on short grass in the shade of a tree

May you and your loved ones have a joyous and safe Easter. May you be surrounded by peace, laughter and the spirit of renewal.

Upon arriving at the site, I immediately knew there would be no opportunities that morning. The tide was out, and all of the shorebirds were well out away from the sand in some soupy viscous mud. I knew that if I ventured out to where they were, I’d be at least up to my knees in the stuff, unable to move quietly, and a mucky mess. Oh well – I gave it a shot. Low tide was right around noon, which is usually a terrible time for photography.

A striped skunk poses for a portrait in pickleweed growing along the San Francisco Bay

As I turned around to head back to the car, I saw some movement in the rocks that separate the beach from a bay trail. To my surprise it was a striped skunk, heading out for a late breakfast. I had only ever seen skunks before at dusk, and usually when its already fairly dark out.

He descended into the pickleweed and disappeared entirely. Most of the time, he could only be detected by the rustling of bushes, and loud smacking and crunching whenever he ate what he dug up. Occasionally a beautiful tail would appear waving above the pickleweed.

A striped skunk tail emerges from a thick growth of pickleweed along the San Francisco Bay

As he moved closer to me, I would back up, making sure to give him plenty of space. It was extremely difficult to keep focus on him as he moved through the pickleweed, because he could move quickly when he wanted to, and I usually only got to see flashes of black fur. Finally however, he emerged at the edge of the thicket and gave me the shot I was hoping for. A quick burst of frames and I got only one keeper which is the first shot of the post.

The rising sun creeps toward the eastern horizon as the dried flats of Salt Creek sit in shadow, Death Valley National Park

On the final morning of the recent Death Valley Dykinga workshop, we headed to the Salt Creek area in the heart of the park. This year it was dry as a bone, the water evaporating off the salt to form geometric shapes in the salt crust. This morning we only had clouds to the east, so I knew my first opportunity would be sunlit clouds in that direction, as the sun was still well behind the eastern mountains. Walking west from the road, I moved out into the salt pan far enough so that when I looked back to the east, the road was indistinguishable from the mountains. I knew that with my selected exposure, any cars (and other photographers!) would disappear into shadowed insignificance.

With the sun fast approaching, I hunted for the perfect foreground. This can be tricky to see with the naked eye – I can find my compositions better by looking through my viewfinder with the camera off-tripod. Once I see the composition I like, I set up the tripod in that spot. Then it is a matter of fine tuning up or down, left or right until the edges of the frame are just right. For the shot above, I decided not to go too wide because I wanted to fill the top of the frame with the meager clouds.

Instead of using a graduated ND filter, I took two shots – one exposed for the foreground and one for the sky. I knew I’d have more blending latitude on the computer later. I know many photographers who frown on this practice. They preach “getting it right” in the field. I consider that a noble pursuit, but I see my method as more future-proof. As my blending technique improves over time, I can always go back to my originals and recreate a better blend.

Sunlight moves down the mountains to the west of Salt Creek, now a dried salt flat, Death Valley National Park

As soon as I was finished with my first shot, I looked west and started pre-visualizing my second desired shot for the morning. This is when I really started getting excited. When the sun rose behind me, it would first strike the top of the western mountains and then start moving down, painting them red and orange (due to the mountains reflecting only the longer wavelengths of light as it traveled through the atmosphere). The whole time, the salt pan would still be in shadow, the pure white salt reflecting cool blue tones. One of my favorite things to do with photography is find places in nature that combine hot and cold tones together. Here was a great opportunity!

There was only one problem. Directly in front of me was a huge patch of dark mud, disrupting the disappearing patterns of the salt pan. I needed to move to the south of the mud field so I had uninterrupted salt pans fading to the base of the mountains. With little time to spare, I mounted my camera on my chest harness, picked up my tripod and ran to the south as fast as I could. As I got farther from the mud field, the ridges of the salt pan grew more shallow, which added a delicate feeling to the salt.

I found my composition, went ultra wide to accentuate the enormity of the salt pan, and waited. The sun had risen behind me and was already touching the highest peaks to the west. As the sun moved down the mountains, I took several safety shots, but I knew that I wanted as much of those mountains in red as possible. Soon the clouds to the east began brushing the mountain tops with light shadow patterns, and I knew this was the moment. Click.

I spent the rest of the morning experimenting with different lenses and techniques, unconcerned about getting anything else of substance that morning. I was pretty happy with my haul.

Clouds explode with light over the multi-colored rock at Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park

During my recent visit to Death Valley National Park, one morning was spent at Zabriskie Point, a popular roadside overlook filled with tourists. Usually, I try to avoid these places, but it was my first visit to the park, and as much as I hate to admit it, these roadside tourist zoos were put there for a good reason. They offer amazing views! So, it was time to buck up and stand elbow to elbow with every other photographer in the park that morning.

The sky turns pink at first light at Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park

No one there that morning was disappointed. As the sun rose behind us, the sky to the west exploded with light. Unearthly pink hues skipped across the bottom of the clouds, topping the canyon of ribboned stone below with a surreal canopy. A hundred clicks echoed off the walls of the valley before us.

Dawn light permeates the clouds at Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park

It was on. I felt myself move into the space between consciousness and dreaming, where my creative mind took control and the technical operations of my camera faded from thought. Landscape, portrait, panorama, zoom in, pull out. My fingers flew over the controls as my mind prepared the next shot. In an instant, it was over and all around me came a collective sigh of relief. The race to capture first light was over – time to have a brief pause before the sun started peaking over the eastern hills.

Muted light plays across the ridges of rock at Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park

Soon people were packing up to leave. I took this opportunity to capture some of the details of the rippled rock below. It was still in shade, but with so much light bouncing off the bright walls of the canyon, all the shadows were full and rich in detail.

Before long I was packing up as well. The streams of outgoing photographers were replaced with point-and-shoot tourists, fresh after a morning breakfast. I knew that seeking originality from Zabriskie Point was likely a lost cause, but it was hard not to be inspired by such a light show. I left with a huge smile on my face, thankful for the unending gift of nature.

The Mesquite Dunes stretch across the valley just north of Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley National Park

I just spent a week in Death Valley National Park attending a workshop with landscape photographer Jack Dykinga. It was an amazing week catching up with old friends, doing a ton of field work, and trying to soak in Jack’s incredible talent whenever possible. One of my favorite places to shoot was the sand dunes of Mesquite Flat, just north of Stovepipe Wells.

Wind and weather carve the Mesquite Dunes into endless shapes and textures, Death Valley National Park

The dunes provided an amazing array of shapes and pattern with which to craft photographs. It was a place that really clicked for me, and it was a joy to shoot. An hour or two before sunset, the sun was still high enough to provide strong shadows and side lighting.

Death Valley's Mesquite Dunes are a study of form and lines

At this time of the day, I really wanted to capture strong contrast which let the eye see the huge variety of patterns in the sand.

Visitors to Stovepipe Wells are treated to a view of wind carved sand dunes across Mesquite Flat, Death Valley National Park

As we got closer to sunset, the dunes and mountains to the east began to reflect that sweet magic hour light. Using a longer lens to stack the dunes against the mountains helps to give the viewer a sense of place.

Mountains rise beyond the sand dunes of Mesquite Flat, Death Valley National Park

My favorite time of day to shoot however, was after the sun had set. The light across the dunes evened out, filling in the shadows and giving the dune contours a milky softness.

As the sun sets, the soft light give the sand dunes a buttery feel, Death Valley National Park

Black and white photos still worked well in this light. Instead of cranking up the contrast to show those sharp lines, the key here was to keep it soft and lower contrast. I tried to find compositions that allowed the eye to move easily up into the frame, flowing through the dunes.

Soft light across the dunes adds a milky texture to the wind carved lines, Death Valley National Park

As the valley settled into shadow, the sand was cast in a cool blue light.

In the moments after sunset, the light softens to accentuate the subtle curves of the sand dunes, Death Valley National Park

As I had never spent much time photographing sand dunes before, I was thrilled with the experience. It is definitely a subject that offers endless variety and continual learning. These are my favorite kinds of photographic subjects – challenging and varied, forcing me to adapt and grow.

If you are serious about your photography and want to learn from one of the masters, I highly recommend putting Jack on your short list of workshop instructors.

A harbor seal pops its head above water as the sun sets behind it, Redwood Shores, San Francisco Bay

I often photograph out in Redwood Shores, CA, a town within Redwood City that juts out into the San Francisco Bay. It is a suburb consisting of homes and townhouses built around a network of man-made water channels, offering many backyards direct water access. All that water also attracts a great variety of birds.

A little while ago I was tracking a bird down at the edge of one of the water channels. I was about ten feet below the bay trail, out of sight of any passerbys. As I was looking through my lens, I heard a soft “sploosh” very close to me. I could tell something big had disturbed the water to my left. At first I though that maybe someone was throwing rocks into the channel, but then I realized the sound was too gentle to have been caused by a rock. I looked up and scanned the water, but all I saw were concentric rings emanating from a spot about fifteen feet from shore.

Then, suddenly a large head emerged not far from that spot – big eyes staring into mine.

With eyes and nose just above water, a harbor seal cruises through the still waters of a slough, Redwood Shores, San Francisco Bay

I was surprised to see a harbor seal pop up and investigate me. We sat there for a while, just looking at each other as the sun set and everything fell silent. He obliged while I swung my camera around to photograph him. Then he submerged and over the next ten or fifteen minutes, he appeared at various distances, each time looking in my direction.

A curious harbor seal emerges from the water enough to watch the shore of a small slough, Redwood Shores, San Francisco Bay

Afterward, I learned that he was an off and on regular in this neighborhood. Apparently he got through one or more water control gates that lead out into the bay. Either he is very smart and can return to these channels at will, or he is stuck here, fishing the shallow channels. Whatever the case, he seems to be thriving. I have seen him since on several other occasions (assuming it is the same harbor seal of course). The next time I see a large mysterious shadow passing just below the surface of the water, I’ll know who it is.