A couple days ago I was out for sunrise along San Francisco Bay near my house, looking specifically for a Pacific Golden Plover in breeding plumage. One had been spotted in the area the day before, and I wanted to see if I could find him before he continued his migration north.
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.
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.
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.
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.
