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Grains of Life
I spend a lot of time walking the California coast, especially when the tide is low. You find these incredible little universes in the pools left behind. I almost missed this one, it was so well camouflaged with the sand. I had to get right down on my knees, my pants getting soaked, to get this shot. The water was cold and crystal clear. What struck me was how the sand coated its tentacles, like it had been dusted with tiny jewels. Each grain was distinct. The colors were so delicate—these muted greens and purples that you only really appreciate when you stop and look closely. It’s a quiet scene, a small creature holding its own against the constant motion of the sea.
Jennifer and I spend a lot of time wandering tide pools at low tide. Without her passion for sea creatures, I doubt I would have ever noticed their quiet, subtle beauty. Moving through these pools takes patience. The rocks are as slippery as ice, waves constantly wash over everything, and compositions change moment by moment. It’s a continual challenge.
Every now and then, I come away with an image that really resonates. This one felt right for a high-key treatment, a way to show the delicacy of the scene and bring attention to the fine details in the sand surrounding the anemone.
Desert Tides
After a week of photographing the same area, you start to think you've seen all the mud cracks the desert has to offer. I was feeling a bit stuck, honestly, just seeing the same patterns from above over and over. Then I stumbled upon this section. The mud wasn't just cracked; it was peeling up, curling into these incredible shapes. The air was getting cold as the last light faded, casting this soft purple glow over everything. Getting down low, I saw how they looked just like waves, frozen in place. It was such a strange and beautiful thing to see in the middle of the driest place imaginable, the memory of water creating an echo of the ocean. It was the exact change of perspective I needed.
After the flooding rains in Death Valley, we spent a week photographing ephemeral mud while it was still wet. At first it was exciting, even exhilarating, but after a while I could feel myself burning out, photographing the same subject in similar ways over and over.
One evening I decided to shift gears. I pulled out my wide-angle lens and started looking for something different. When I came across these mud cracks peeling several inches off the ground, I wondered what would happen if I got extremely low and let perspective do the work.
Once I dropped down, it clicked. From that angle, the curling cracks felt less like mud and more like crashing waves. I was so low that a tripod wasn’t an option, so I stabilized the camera on a small pouch and relied on focus stacking to carry sharpness from front to back.
The soft twilight light wrapped gently across the surface, emphasizing the curves and texture of the mud. It felt good to step outside the familiar and create something that surprised me, a reminder of how much possibility still exists when we’re willing to look differently.
Last Breath
Death Valley is full of these quiet little moments if you know where to look. After some rare flooding, I was exploring a remote wash, and the mud was just starting to dry and crack into these incredible patterns. The light was almost gone for the day, falling behind the canyon walls, and the whole scene was sinking into deep shadow. Just as I was about to pack it in, this last sliver of sun cut across the wash and hit this one tiny, dead bush. It lit up like a filament in a lightbulb. The air was completely still, and the silence was absolute. It was just me, the cooling air, and this one little plant holding onto the last bit of warmth.
It’s moments like this that make my heart flutter. Small splashes of light held within the darkness. They reflect an inner struggle I’ve come to recognize as hope, existing alongside a deep, internal shadow. Much of my childhood remains unknown to me, but through photography I’ve found a way to give shape to that absence, and to express the quiet, persistent hope that continues to surface within it.
Zion's Canyon Waltz
I spend a lot of time waiting for the light in places like Zion. Most of the day, the canyon floor is in deep shadow, but for a few minutes, the sun finds a way through. I was watching the shadows creep across the valley when this single beam broke through and hit these two trees. The leaves, just starting to turn for autumn, caught the light and seemed to ignite against the dark backdrop of the canyon wall. The larger tree, with its twisting branches, looked like it was reaching, almost dancing in that brief spotlight. It was completely quiet except for the sound of my shutter. Just a simple, fleeting moment where the landscape put on a show.
Jennifer and I spend a lot of time wandering around Zion Canyon. We'll pick a spot and walk the trails for miles. We go at different times of day to see how the light changes. On this day, we witnessed several magic moments when the last light of the day caught the leaves on these trees perfectly. It only lasted for seconds, and then it was gone.
The Quiet Curve
The curves in the dunes can be sensuous, but every so often one feels truly exceptional. This line moved through the frame with a quiet confidence, echoed by the layered forms in the background. It immediately felt like a black-and-white image to me, a way to emphasize shape, contrast, and rhythm without distraction. More and more, I’m drawn to that tension between light and dark in my work. As in life, one doesn’t exist without the other.
Canyon's Halo
You can't plan for moments like this. I was set up at the edge of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, the cold so sharp it felt like it had a physical weight. The air was completely still, and the only sound was the crunch of my boots in the deep powder. I was just watching the shadows stretch when the air itself started to glow. Tiny ice crystals, like diamond dust, began to catch the low sun, and this perfect sun dog formed right in the middle of the canyon. It wasn't a big, dramatic sunrise; it was something quieter, more delicate. It felt like the canyon was sharing a secret, and I was just lucky enough to be there to see it.
Winter in Yellowstone is often overcast and grey, so those clear, bitterly cold mornings feel especially magical. Ice crystals hang in the air, and the light interacts with them in a way that’s hard to describe until you see it. We were watching for the elusive “beam” that appears only under the right conditions. Here, you can see it faintly at the top of the lower tangent of the 22-degree arc created by the sun.
Delicate
The sheer scale of Yellowstone in winter can be overwhelming. You're always looking for the bison or the steam from the geysers. But we pulled over for a moment, and the world just went silent. The air was so cold it felt sharp in my lungs. Looking down, I saw these simple, elegant curves in the snow right by the road. The light was incredibly soft, catching the subtle blues in the shadows. It wasn't a grand vista, just the quiet shape of the land under a deep blanket of snow. It’s these small moments of stillness that often stick with me the most.
After a fresh snow in Yellowstone, there's so much delicate beauty hidden in the smaller scenes if you slow down and pay attention. I couldn't help but photograph this gentle curve. It felt so peaceful and calm.
The Cold's Confetti
You don't really understand cold until you've been in Yellowstone when it's well below zero. The air gets so dense with ice crystals you can almost feel it on your skin. I was standing at the edge of this canyon, the sound of a waterfall, when the sun finally broke over the rim. Suddenly, these beams of light cut through the shadows and hit that frozen mist. The air just lit up. It wasn't just light; it was like a shower of tiny, glittering jewels, each one catching the sun and throwing back little sparks of color. It only lasted for a few minutes, but it was one of those moments that makes the frozen fingers and toes completely worth it.
One of the most magical sights in the bitter cold of winter in Yellowstone is watching ice crystals drift through the air. When the sun backlights them, the light refracts into an incredible display of color. I’m grateful for the privilege of returning to this place each year and sharing it with others. Every visit reveals something new, and with each one, my appreciation for the park and its conditions deepens.
Sandstorm
A rare sight of exceptional patterns at a remote set of dunes in Death Valley. Recent rainstorms had brought the magnetite to the surface creating these black patterns that I had not seen in my past ten years of visits.
This was one of my favorite images from this winter in Death Valley. What initially looks like a snow-covered mountain is actually a sand dune. Unusual magnetite patterns created this surreal effect, which translated beautifully into black and white. I’ve visited this spot nearly every year for over a decade, and discovering something this unexpected was a real surprise. It’s a great reminder that revisiting familiar places can always reveal something new and extraordinary.
Hummingbird Canyon
A curious rock formation in an almost unknown cayon in Death Valley that we neamed "Hummingbird Canyon" for the numeroius hummingbirds we encountered.
Life has been a whirlwind lately. However, returning to the canyons of Death Valley always seems to bring me back to center. I love the incredible solitude; you can easily spend days without seeing another soul if you wish. Today, it was just Jennifer, myself, and the hummingbirds flitting about the canyon. We ventured into a canyon that was new to us, one that, as far as I know, remains unnamed. Our expectations were low, anticipating a short exploration, but we were curious to see it firsthand.
To our surprise, the canyon quickly narrowed, revealing stunning geology, and continued much further than we anticipated. Discovering something "new," a place likely seen by very few humans, was a truly special moment. Because we encountered so many hummingbirds, more than we'd ever seen in a canyon before, we decided to name it "Hummingbird Canyon." We also noticed numerous signs that bighorn sheep had recently been in the area.
Being Open
An incredible sunset erupts over a playa in Death Valley.
Every now and then I still get the itch to chase an epic banger, even though it's not my usual style these days. We headed out to photograph a spot we'd scouted earlier, but a wrong turn became a happy accident when I stumbled across these stunning mud and salt tiles barely breaking the water's surface. One look and I knew - if the sky delivered, this was the place to be. So much for the original plan.
Finding the right composition was a battle against time. As the light peaked, I was still shuffling around trying to make it work, almost walking away empty-handed. But persistence paid off and I managed to lock in something solid right as the sky put on its show.
Is this shot deeply meaningful to me? Not particularly, though I dig that it's pretty unique. Sometimes a beautiful photo of a cool place is just that - no deep introspection needed. And you know what? That's perfectly fine. It was fun, and sometimes that's enough.
Expectations
A storm passing through Death Valley lights up the clouds and leaves dappled light on the hillsides creating a dramatic black and white image.
I have to admit, my expectations are getting the best of me. We've been in Death Valley for three weeks and have only created a handful of images. Primarily, this is due to leading workshops and having a lot of work to get done running our business, but it also comes down to expectations. Last season in Death Valley was phenomenal; we had so many unique conditions to work with, no workshops to manage - it was magical. This year, there are no unique conditions, and we're a bit burnt out from the incredibly busy fall of travel, workshops, aurora chasing, and so on. I'm finding it hard to muster up the motivation to go out and photograph when there isn't Lake Manly or ephemeral mud calling my name.
This needs to change. I have a list of photographs I want to create that are not based on these ephemeral conditions, just interesting subjects I've noticed over the years that I need to come back to in better light. It's a reminder to not be so reliant on amazing conditions. After our Black and White workshop next week, I will be getting back to my roots.
This image I had never released, from a storm back in 2023. I was pleased to get my 2024 images released recently, but I still have a backlog from the past 5 years prior to that. I still have a long way to go.
Conceptual Blending
An abstract image of a boat hull in the Newport harbor in Oregon. I enjoyed photographing the rugged commerical fishing boats in this harbor as a creative excercise.
Believe it or not, I do photograph human elements from time to time. I typically don't share them as they don't fit into my 'persona' of being a nature photographer. But this photostream format allows me to share a variety of photographs. My soul belongs in nature, but creating imagery such as this is always good to stretch yourself creatively. The idea of conceptual blending can even be brought over to different genres of photography that we don't typically do. It's about taking techniques or ideas from one style and applying them in unexpected ways to another, often leading to fresh perspectives in our primary work.
This image not only represents a creative detour but also serves as a reminder of other passions. I'm realizing it's time to pick up my guitar again; I've neglected my love of music for far too long now. Who knows? Maybe this blend of visual and musical creativity will open up new avenues in my photographic journey. After all, inspiration often comes from the most unexpected places.
Monotone Musings
A misty, monochrome vista of the Yellowstone River unfolds in layers of shadow and light, where a tranquil foreground pool mirrors the brooding sky above, while ghostly trees emerge from the fog-shrouded far shore, evoking a sense of timeless mystery and raw natural beauty.
There's a recurring theme in my photographic journey that I can no longer ignore - my profound attraction to black and white images. Yet, for reasons I'm still unraveling, I find myself repeatedly drawn back to color, as if tethered by an invisible thread.
Each encounter with a monochrome photograph, whether it's someone else's work or my own creation, feels like coming home. These images evoke a deep, visceral response that color rarely matches. It's an emotional connection so intense that, paradoxically, it almost frightens me. Perhaps that's why I keep retreating to the familiar territory of color - a subconscious attempt to shield myself from the raw emotions that black and white stirs within me.
This simple image from Yellowstone speaks volumes in its silence. To me, it's deeply evocative, resonating on a level I struggle to articulate. Whether this emotional response translates to others is uncertain, but I'm beginning to realize that's not what matters most. What's crucial is the profound impact it has on me as an artist.
It's high time I lean into this connection, to explore the depth of emotion that monochrome imagery unlocks within me. After all, isn't that what art is about - expressing and exploring our deepest selves?
Secrets Beyond
A rarely visited section of a slot canyon in Death Valley with intricate patterns in the rock walls with glowing reflecting light in the distance.
In the ever-changing landscape of Death Valley, we stumbled upon a rare and breathtaking sight in a little-known canyon. Our visit came shortly after a flood, which had dramatically altered the terrain.
Floods in these canyons can be destructive, often stripping away the floor. But in this case, nature had been unexpectedly generous. The recent deluge had deposited several feet of gravel, raising the canyon floor by at least four feet. This geological gift granted me temporary access to a normally unreachable dry fall.
Scaling this newly accessible height, I was awestruck by what I found. At the top lay some of the most dramatic canyon walls I've ever encountered in Death Valley. The scene was magnificent, but our expedition faced an unexpected challenge - we had forgotten our rope. Without it, I couldn't help Jennifer up the dry fall or retrieve my camera bag.
Determined not to let this rare view go uncaptured, I turned to my iPhone. The results, surprisingly, were quite impressive given the limitations.
Since that day, we've returned to this canyon, hoping to properly document this hidden wonder. However, the fickle nature of the desert had other plans. More recent flooding has torn away at the canyon floor, once again rendering the dry fall inaccessible to us mere mortals.
This experience serves as a poignant reminder of nature's transient beauty and the importance of seizing the moment. While we dream of returning one day to photograph this scene with our full gear, we're grateful for the fleeting glimpse we were granted.
The desert, it seems, keeps its most spectacular secrets well-guarded, revealing them only to the fortunate few at just the right moment.
Mountain Wonder
Dappled light on a smaller peak in the Teton range from a clearing storm
Grand Teton National Park has been a springtime haven for us, drawing us back for nearly a month each year. Yet, despite its undeniable beauty, I've rarely shared images from this majestic place. It's not for lack of trying - my hard drives are brimming with Teton shots. But for some reason, I've struggled to form a deep connection with these photographs.
This disconnect isn't unique to the Tetons; it's a pattern I've noticed with many mountain locations. These towering landscapes are my happy place, where I feel alive and at peace. But translating that joy into meaningful photographic work? That's been a challenge.
However, there's a silver lining. I've noticed that scenes like this one - where dramatic light plays across the landscape, rendered in stark black and white - tend to resonate with me more deeply. It's as if stripping away the color allows me to capture the raw essence of the mountains that speaks to my soul.
Perhaps it's time I lean into this realization. There's a vast array of mountain photographs in my archives, waiting to be explored. By focusing on dramatic, monochrome interpretations, I might just uncover a theme that bridges the gap between my love for these places and my artistic expression of them.
Subway Gold
The Subway in Zion National Park
Today, I'm excited to share a hidden treasure from my archives - a 2021 image from Zion National Park that I've kept under wraps until now. While The Subway in Zion is a well-trodden path for photographers, I've always found the classic shot a bit overdone. But this time, I simply turned around and discovered this breathtaking scene.
Although I'm sure others have captured this area, I haven't come across this particular composition before. It's a fresh perspective on a familiar location, reminding us that beauty often lies just beyond the obvious.
This image has rekindled my longing for Zion's autumn splendor. It's been a couple of years since our last visit, and I'm already looking forward to returning next year. In the meantime, I'll be diving into my extensive backlog of Zion shots. After years of visits and selective processing, there's a wealth of unseen material waiting to be unveiled.
Stay tuned for more hidden gems from Zion - there's plenty more where this came from!
Tidal Textures
Sea grasses sway gently on the Oregon Coast, creating an intimate landscape of subtle tonalities. The delicate interplay of light and shadow across the sea grasses caught my eye, revealing the quiet beauty of this coastal ecosystem.
This October found us on the Oregon Coast, balancing our time between teaching a workshop and indulging in some personal photography. I've never really considered myself an ocean person - my roots are in the mountains, and beach trips were few and far between in my younger years. But over time, I've developed a deep appreciation for the coastal environment, especially the intricate details hidden within each tide pool. It's fascinating how the ebb and flow of the tides constantly unveil new wonders.
During this particular outing, my attention was drawn to these sea grasses. What struck me most was the subtle play of tonalities, beautifully revealed under the typical overcast sky of the Oregon Coast. It's moments like these that remind me how even the most common elements of a landscape can transform into something extraordinary under the right conditions.
Center Stage in the Canyon
A solitary tree, illuminated by early morning sunlight, stands out against the shadowy walls of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. The natural spotlight effect creates a dramatic contrast, highlighting the tree's form amidst the vast, dark canyon landscape.
Over time, I've come to realize that in my photography, I'm most drawn to those special moments of light, especially when a subject is spotlit like this tree in the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. This image really captures that fascination of mine. I was completely captivated by the interplay of light and shadow – the tree catching the first golden rays of the day, standing out beautifully against the dark, shadowy canyon walls.
What really struck me was how this natural spotlight created such a powerful scene, almost like nature itself was setting the stage for this lone tree. It's these kinds of moments, where light transforms something ordinary into something extraordinary, that keep fueling my passion for landscape photography. The way the light picked out just this one tree from the vast canyon around it - that's the kind of thing that always stops me in my tracks and makes me reach for my camera.
Sunrise in Arches
Ephemeral Reflections at Arches National Park: A fleeting moment of magic unfolds as the rising sun bathes the iconic sandstone formations of Arches in golden light. Rain-filled potholes mirror the dramatic sky, creating a stunning double image of weathered rock and billowing clouds. This serene scene, captured in the heart of Moab's red rock country, showcases the raw beauty of the desert landscape after a rare desert rainfall. The interplay of light, water, and stone exemplifies the ever-changing nature of this arid environment. As a landscape photographer, I've visited this spot numerous times, patiently waiting for the perfect combination of conditions. On this particular morning, just before daylight savings time ended, the later sunrise allowed for a more leisurely approach to this breathtaking vista. The light lasted mere seconds before clouds obscured the sun, but in that brief window, the essence of Arches National Park was perfectly distilled.
We recently made a brief stopover in Moab on our way back to Denver after an extended trip. It was refreshing to revisit this old favorite location. While the vibe of the area has certainly evolved, we still relish stopping in for our favorite sushi and Thai - yes, it's that good in Moab!We were fortunate enough to secure a spot along the Colorado River for a week-long camp, which turned out to be an incredibly peaceful experience. Our time was split between some light hiking and a touch of photography - a perfect balance for a short stay.On this particular morning, we got up semi-early, but thanks to it being right before daylight savings, sunrise wasn't until almost 8:00 a.m. As a photographer, I wish it was always this easy! Mother Nature gifted us with some beautiful clouds and perfect light on the rocks, but it was fleeting - lasting maybe 30 seconds before the sun disappeared into the clouds for the rest of the day.I've always loved this location and have been trying to capture a photo I'm truly happy with for quite some time. It's not an easy shot to chase, as you need rain to fill the potholes and create those captivating reflections. But patience and persistence paid off, and I'm pleased with how this image turned out.