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This is one of those rare autumn moments in the San Juan Mountains that we all hope for. Instead of a clear blue sky, a heavy storm rolled in, bringing low clouds that swirled around the peaks and created a deep, mysterious mood. I watched as the dappled light broke through the overcast sky, illuminating the fresh snow on the high peak and the bright yellow aspens clinging to the lower rocky slopes. I've always been drawn to this kind of atmosphere; there is so much more feeling in the quiet mystery of a storm than in a sunny day. Standing there, watching the clouds shift and reveal the mountain piece by piece, I felt a deep connection to the landscape. It was a fleeting moment of quiet drama that I was grateful to witness.

Winter in Yellowstone is often defined by flat, grey days where finding a compelling composition feels nearly impossible. I was out on one of those overcast afternoons when I noticed these three pine trees standing in perfect alignment on a snowy hillside. Just as I stopped, a lone bison walked into the frame below them. The arrangement of elements was incredibly simple, but it felt complete. I knew immediately that this scene was meant for a high-key presentation. By overexposing the image, I could strip away the distracting details of the grey sky and textured snow, leaving only the essential shapes of the trees and the bison. It was a fleeting momen, the bison moved out of the frame just seconds later, but it reminded me of how rewarding it is to slow down and look for simplicity on the quietest winter days.

This spot deep in the Zion Narrows is notoriously difficult. After hours of wading through the cold river, you’re usually exhausted by the time you reach it. To make things harder, this narrow section acts like a wind tunnel. Every time I’ve been here, a relentless breeze shakes the hanging ferns at the top, making a clean exposure nearly impossible. On top of that, the beautiful golden glow on the canyon wall only lasts briefly. Last year, everything finally aligned. The air was shockingly still, the glow hit the sandstone perfectly, and my physical training paid off, leaving me with enough energy to carefully set up this composition. It was a gratifying moment where years of unsuccessful attempts unexpectedly came together.

When I was out in Anza-Borrego, I realized that sometimes the only way to truly express what you feel in the desert is to embrace the sheer scale of the space. I decided to break the traditional rules of composition here. Instead of placing the horizon on a third, I pushed the mountain silhouettes all the way to the bottom of the frame, letting the massive, empty sky dominate. I wanted to let the landscape breathe and convey that immense scale. As the sun dipped lower, a soft haze settled between the ridges, separating each layer of the distant peaks. Choosing black and white felt essential to emphasize these subtle tonal transitions and evoke a sense of vastness. It brings out a quiet, poignant kind of loneliness that feels entirely right when you are standing out there alone in the desert, listening to the absolute silence.

This was, without a doubt, the most incredible auroral storm I've ever witnessed. I was in Glacier National Park, and the sky just exploded with color. I spent a lot of time making wider landscape photos that night, trying to take in the whole scene, but it was this quieter composition that really stuck with me. I was drawn to this small, dead tree silhouetted against the chaos of the sky. It seemed so expressive, leaning into the light as if it were watching the show with me. There was something about its simple, dark form against the vibrant, shifting curtains of green and pink that felt more personal and grounded the entire experience for me.

It's easy to walk past something like this, just a piece of kelp washed ashore. But I've found that if you slow down, the most ordinary things can become compelling. What first caught my eye wasn't the kelp itself, but the sand around it. The beach here has these incredible mineral deposits that create subtle washes of purple, and green. As the water receded, it left this delicate trail behind the kelp, highlighting the unusual colors. It’s a reminder that you don’t always need a grand vista to find something beautiful. Sometimes it’s just a small, quiet moment of decay and color on an unnamed shore.

I could spend all day exploring the rock formations at Weston Beach. The way the water has carved and polished the stone over countless years creates these incredible, intricate patterns. I'm always looking for small details, the kind of scenes you only notice when you slow down and really pay attention. On this day, I came across this particular shape embedded in the larger rock face. The form immediately stood out to me as a heart, weathered and ancient. It was a simple, quiet discovery, a reminder that you can find familiar shapes in the most unexpected places if you just take the time to look.

I'm always chasing those first moments of light in the morning. This scene in Capitol Reef is a perfect example of why. When I was there, the canyon was still deep in shadow, but the sun was just starting to crest the cliffs, hitting the tops of these cottonwood trees. On the back of the camera, it didn't look like much, just a high-contrast scene. But I knew the potential was there. The fall light in this part of Utah has a certain quality to it, a warmth that makes the yellow leaves feel like they're glowing from within. I just had to wait for that moment and trust that I could bring out the subtle details later on.

You don't get many days like this in the high country. The air was completely still, which is rare at that elevation, and this small alpine lake turned into a perfect mirror. It was one of those moments that just felt like complete perfection. To have the water be so glass-like was special enough, but to also have this phenomenal pattern of clouds stretching across the sky was a real treat. This spot near Paradise Divide outside of Crested Butte really lived up to its name that morning. Everything just came together in a way that felt quiet and profound, a simple, perfect scene.

It feels good to be back in canyon country. For me, these places are home. I found this lovely little canyon in Grand Staircase-Escalante and was immediately drawn to the way this one tree was lit up. Its yellow leaves were so bright against the dark, textured sandstone walls that have been carved by water over millennia. There's a quietness in these narrow passages that I find deeply calming. The path was covered in fallen leaves, and the air was still. It’s a simple scene, but it holds that subtle beauty that makes the desert so special to me. Not everyone gets it, but for me, moments like this are why I keep coming back. It really is my happy place.

It was one of those magical mornings out on the Mesquite Dunes. We'd had a lot of rain over the season, which saturated the sand and created this incredible, firm texture just below the surface. That morning, strong winds were blowing a fine layer of dry sand across the top, sculpting it into these delicate, flowing shapes. I was fascinated by the contrast between the two layers—the soft, shifting surface and the damp, patterned sand underneath. It felt like watching the desert breathe, with the wind constantly reshaping the landscape in subtle ways. This particular composition caught my eye because of how the light played across the ripples, highlighting the simple, elegant forms created by the wind.

Jennifer and I spent a lot of time exploring Lake Manly while it was around this season, walking for miles across the salt flats. We came across all sorts of interesting things out there, but finding this Eastern tiger swallowtail was unexpected. It was so far from where you'd normally see one. It looked like it had gotten lost and landed in the brine, a tough end for such a delicate creature. The salt had already started to crystallize on its wings. There was a strange beauty to it, though. Its bright yellow wings stood out so vividly against the pale, textured salt. It was a sad sight, but a beautiful one at the same time, a small, colorful life preserved in the vastness of the desert.

I've been lucky enough to see Yellowstone's Wapiti wolf pack on several occasions, and the experience never loses its power. On this particular day, we first spotted them as tiny specks moving across the vast expanse of Hayden Valley. They eventually came much closer, offering opportunities for tighter portraits, but this is the image that stayed with me. I wanted to show them not just as subjects, but as a part of their environment. The sheer scale of the landscape, all covered in a deep blanket of snow under a bright winter sun, really puts their journey into perspective. Seeing them move with such purpose through this immense, quiet world felt like a genuine glimpse into their lives.

It's rare that I plan out a photo. I tend to just go out without any intentions and see what presents itself, and that was the case here. On this morning we saw the full moon setting in perfect, alignment with the Towers of the Virgin. We did not plan for the moon to be located right above the peaks, but sometimes serendipity works out. It was a simple, quiet moment that felt more meaningful because it was completely unexpected. Those moments of chance alignment are often the most rewarding.

I've been experimenting with high-key images more lately, and it's been a refreshing challenge. It really forces you to look for subjects defined by their form and texture alone. While walking through Point Lobos, I wasn't looking at the grand scenes but rather the smaller details. This single, expressive branch immediately stood out. Its dark, twisted shape and the bits of lichen clinging to the bark made a perfect graphic element against the bright, overcast sky. By isolating it and using a high-key approach, the image becomes less about a tree and more about its calligraphic lines and the quiet story of its growth along the coast.

I find the life cycle of the agave pretty remarkable. It can spend decades just growing its leaves, and then for its final act, it sends up this enormous stalk and blooms before dying. I'd never actually witnessed this final flowering stage before, so when I came across this one in Anza-Borrego, I knew I had to spend some time with it. I waited as the sun went down, watching the shadows climb the hillside. Eventually, just the top of the flower stalk was left in the light, glowing against the dark background. It felt like a perfect spotlight for its last show.

It’s funny how certain scenes can just stop you in your tracks. On the surface, this is just a stand of lodgepole pines in the fog and snow, but standing there in the silence of a Yellowstone winter, it felt like so much more. There was something deeply stirring about the way the trees faded into the white and how their long shadows stretched across the untouched snow. It felt mysterious and otherworldly, a perfect example of how the right combination of simple elements of light, fog, snow, can transform an ordinary view into something that feels profound. These are the moments I look for, the quiet ones that seem to hold a weight and meaning all their own.

Dante's View is one of those spots in Death Valley that I find myself returning to again and again. You can get a sense of the immense scale of the valley from up there, looking down on the salt flats thousands of feet below. We spent several mornings there, just watching the light change. On this particular morning, the conditions were just right. Instead of a harsh, direct sun, we had this beautiful, soft dappled light moving across the valley floor. The shadows of the clouds painted the landscape in shades of blue and muted earth tones, transforming the salt patterns into these incredible abstracts. It really reinforced for me how revisiting a place allows you to see its different moods. This quiet, painterly scene was well worth the wait.

You see certain scenes from Yellowstone so often that they become iconic, and this is one of them. It's easy to feel like it's all been done before, but on this particular morning, the conditions were just right. The air was thick with freezing fog and steam rising from the thermal features, and it created this incredibly soft, quiet atmosphere. I was drawn to the simple curve of the river cutting through the fresh snow, its dark water a stark contrast to the white all around it. The frost clinging to the riverbanks looked like delicate crystals. It was the mood of it all, the deep silence and the ethereal light, that made me stop. I felt a square composition helped simplify the scene down to its essential elements: water, snow, and fog.

There are some places that just keep calling you back, and for me, the Ibex Dunes are one of them. I've been here more times than I can count, always trying to find a way to express the feeling of these flowing shapes, but I've always walked away feeling like I missed it. On this particular evening, though, everything was different. The light settled on the ridges in a way I hadn't seen before, highlighting the perfect, delicate textures in the sand. The shadows fell with such depth and grace. I knew immediately that this scene was meant for black and white, to strip it down to its essential elements of form and light. It finally felt right.

The Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes are one of those places I've visited many times, and it's always a challenge to see them in a new way. They're so iconic. On this particular evening, though, something different caught my eye. It wasn't the dunes themselves, but the rolling hills in front of them. A rare superbloom had covered them in a thin layer of green and yellow wildflowers, a sight you don't often see in Death Valley. The low sun raked across the landscape, highlighting the texture of the hills and casting deep shadows that contrasted with the smooth, bright sand in the distance. It was one of those fleeting moments of unexpected life and color in a place known for its starkness, and I doubt I'll ever see it quite like that again.

I find that the desert is full of surprises if you just take the time to wander without a specific goal. After some rare flooding rains in Death Valley, I came across these temporary pools in a wash. The water was already receding, but it left behind these incredible mud patterns along the shoreline. They looked like tiny, intricate sculptures reaching out into the water. The still surface of the pool reflected the soft clouds above, creating a quiet, almost mysterious scene. It was one of those small, unexpected moments that really makes you appreciate the subtle details and transient beauty of the desert landscape.

Point Lobos is a place of incredible detail, and on this foggy day, the trees were just glowing. What caught my eye was the contrast between the vibrant orange Trentepohlia algae and the pale, almost white lace lichen clinging to the branches. It's a chaotic environment to work in, with branches going every which way, and finding a clean composition is a real challenge. The fog helped a lot, softening the background and isolating this section of the tree. I spent a good while just looking for a pattern that made sense to me, a little pocket of order in the beautiful mess. It’s a reminder of how much life is layered on top of other life in these coastal forests.

I've always found a certain beauty in fresh mud, especially out here in Death Valley. After a rain, it settles into these incredible patterns and tonalities that work so well in black and white. The light was just right, catching the tops of these small ripples and creating this deep, liquid shine. What really drew me in, though, were the tiny bits of debris scattered across the surface. The wind had blown them onto the wet mud, and they caught the light like little stars. It created this unexpected celestial scene, a small galaxy right there at my feet in the wash.

It's always a good feeling to return to a place that has been productive in the past. We had found these incredible mud cracks in Death Valley before, and after another rain this year, we went back hoping for something new. The rain had pooled just enough to soften the hard edges of the cracks, creating these gentle, flowing patterns. We spent hours with them, but the real magic happened after dark. A full moon rose, and its light skimmed across the surface of the mud. The reflection was something I'd never seen before, a cool, blue light with these warm, almost golden highlights. It felt completely surreal, standing in the quiet of the desert, watching the moonlight paint these temporary patterns on the playa floor.

There's a particular quiet in Yellowstone during the winter, especially after a long, freezing night. Just as the sun begins to rise, the atmosphere changes. You can feel the shift before you really see it. The air, which was just a deep, relentless cold, starts to soften with a faint glow. That's what I was watching here. The fog held the first light, diffusing it across the landscape and making the frost-covered pines seem to light up from within. It’s a simple, daily event, a reminder of renewal and the life that persists even in the harshest conditions.

I find myself drawn to these moments of intense, direct light on the Eureka Dunes. When the sun gets low, you can play with the exposure to create something really minimal. By underexposing the scene dramatically, the massive forms of the dunes fall away into shadow, and all that remains are these delicate, glowing lines along the crests. It reduces the grand landscape to its most essential elements—just pure form and a whisper of light. There's a real quietness to it. The desert seems to distill itself down to these simple, elegant curves. It’s a subtle display, but for me, it’s one of the most beautiful things to witness out there.

Twilight on clear, blue-sky days is one of my favorite times to photograph. I’m talking about that late edge of twilight, when focus starts to struggle and shutter speeds stretch longer and longer.

There’s a brief window, maybe ten minutes, where the light takes on this soft, glowing quality. It doesn’t last long, and there’s barely time to think. You’re just responding, trusting instinct.

It’s a quiet kind of exhilaration, one that’s hard to explain until you see it appear on the back of the camera.

There's something special about mornings along the Firehole River, especially when the temperature drops to something like -20 degrees. The air is so cold it bites, but the river is geothermally heated, so it's constantly sending up thick clouds of steam. I spent a while just watching this scene, waiting for the sun to rise high enough to hit the valley. When it finally did, the light caught the steam and created this incredible blanket of warm light. It was a beautiful contrast against the frozen ground and the frost-covered trees that were still in the cool morning shadow. It’s a quiet, fleeting moment that really defines winter in Yellowstone for me.

The mountains in Eureka Valley are some of the most impressive in Death Valley. They just shoot straight out of the desert floor, revealing these incredible, mind-bending layers of rock. I learned that some of these formations are Precambrian, which is hard to even comprehend when you're standing there looking at them. The stripes of different colors are just beautiful. I was there as a storm was passing through, and for a few minutes, the sun broke through the clouds. This stunning, dappled light started moving across the face of the mountains, highlighting those ancient geological patterns. It was a fleeting moment that connected the deep past with the present.

The big, sweeping curves of the Ibex Dunes are what usually grab your attention, and for good reason. But I've found that the real magic is often in the smaller details that are easy to walk right past. I noticed this little scene while hiking out to the main dunes and made a mental note to return. The wind is constantly at work here, sculpting these intricate, swirling patterns around anything that stands in its way, like this small, resilient shrub. I came back during the soft light of twilight, which was perfect for bringing out the subtle textures and the purplish tones in the sand. It’s a quiet composition, just the simple interaction of wind, sand, and a bit of life holding its ground.

One of my favorite things to see in Yellowstone during winter are the 'ghost trees.' You find them near the geysers and thermal pools, where the constant steam freezes onto their branches, coating everything in a thick layer of rime ice. It completely transforms them, giving each one a unique, almost sculptural quality. The air is cold and still, and the steam drifts around, sometimes hiding them and sometimes revealing them. I waited for a while with this particular tree, watching the steam move. For a moment, it parted just enough to frame the tree perfectly, with the sky just visible behind it. It felt like a quiet, fleeting introduction to one of the park's winter spirits.

Weston Beach is a truly fascinating landscape, and for hours I was completely captivated by the rocks, focusing on intimate scenes. But just as the day was ending, a bit of light crept through the heavy clouds at sunset, and it completely refocused my attention on the grand landscape. I quickly found this interesting rock slab with its incredible textures and a nice gentle curve that led the eye into the scene. There was almost no time to think about the composition, so I found myself working purely on instinct, something that only comes with years and years of practice. It was a fleeting moment, but those are often the ones that feel the most rewarding.

We've spent so much time exploring this part of Death Valley, so seeing Lake Manly re-formed after the heavy rains was something special. This was in December, and the water was incredibly still and shallow. I was drawn to the intricate patterns of salt and mud just below the surface; they seemed to map out the desert floor. The conditions that day were just right. The water was like glass, creating a perfect mirror of the Panamint Mountains. There was some nice, dappled light hitting the peaks, which added a lot of depth to the whole scene, contrasting the distant mountains with the textures right at my feet.

The light during twilight in Death Valley is something special. As the sun dropped below the mountains, the harsh desert landscape transformed completely. I was drawn to the incredible simplicity of these lines in the Mesquite dunes.

Standing at Point Lobos, I was mesmerized by the sheer force of the ocean. The waves were relentlessly crashing against these rocks, and I wanted to find a way to convey that raw power. A fast shutter speed is typically used for this purpose, but that didn't feel right; it wouldn't show the energy. Instead, I used a slightly slower shutter to let the water's movement paint itself across the frame, turning the spray into this explosive, white blur against the dark, unyielding stone. It’s a good reminder that sometimes the 'rules' of photography don't matter as much as finding the right technique to express the feeling of a place. For me, this was it, the constant, powerful dialogue between water and rock.

I was up at Dante's View, looking down at the temporary Lake Manly, when the sunset began to reflect on the water. For just a few minutes, the entire surface turned this incredible shade of pink. While the temptation is always to go for the big, wide view in a place like Death Valley, I found myself drawn to the smaller interactions along the shoreline. The way the pink water met the textured, bluish salt flats created these beautiful, abstract shapes. It was a good reminder that even in the most immense landscapes, sometimes the most rewarding scenes are the quiet, intimate ones. This brief reflection brought out details that would have otherwise been lost in the larger view.

I'm always looking for those quiet interactions in nature, the places where different elements come together. This spot in Death Valley was a perfect example. Here, fine sand met fresh mud, and I was struck by the similar patterns created by completely different forces. You could see how the wind had sculpted the sand into soft ripples, and right next to it, how water had once flowed and left its own wavy signature in the drying mud. It’s one of those things that makes you pause and appreciate how nature has these recurring themes, these familiar rhythms, but they never play out in exactly the same way. It's a simple scene, but it holds a lot of that quiet complexity I love to find.

What I find so compelling about Death Valley is how you can see the land's history written right on its surface. When I found these patterns, I could see the story clearly. First, water had flowed through recently, leaving these soft ripples in the mud. Then, the relentless desert wind came and scoured the surface, pelting it with sand and covering it with debris. It’s a constant cycle of creation and destruction out there. I wanted to emphasize that raw, powerful feeling, so I kept the processing on the darker side. It felt more true to the ominous and powerful nature of the elements that are constantly reshaping this incredible landscape.

It’s funny how the best moments often happen when you aren't actively searching for a photograph. We were just out for a hike in Zion Canyon, enjoying the afternoon, when this scene unfolded. The sun was getting low, and for just a few minutes, a beam of light found a gap in the canyon walls. It lit up this one tall tree, making it stand out against the deep shadow of the rock face behind it. The smaller, bright yellow trees in the foreground seemed to create a natural frame, guiding the eye right to it. It was a simple, quiet moment, a reminder to always be open to what the landscape might offer when you least expect it.

Death Valley's mud is always a source of fascination for me. After the big storms late last year, I knew there would be some interesting things to find. I came across this incredible wash this past December where a layer of mud had been deposited. As it dried out, it began to peel back on itself in these unbelievable ways. It was like looking at delicate scrolls or shavings of wood, each piece curled into a unique shape. The light gave the clay this deep purple color, which felt completely surreal. It’s a temporary art piece, created by the cycle of flood and drought, and I felt lucky to be there to see it before it all crumbled back to dust.

Anza-Borrego is full of surprises if you're willing to look beyond the main trails. I had heard about a few slot canyons tucked away in the badlands, and finding this one took a bit of searching. I was struck by the elegant, flowing lines carved into the rock. The walls were smooth in some places and rough with texture in others, shaped by countless flash floods. It felt incredibly quiet and still inside the canyon, a hidden world sculpted by water and time. I wanted to make a photograph that conveyed that sense of intimacy and discovery, focusing on the simple, powerful shapes of the passage.

I don't often find myself making images of the moon. It's a subject I've never really connected with, but this night in Death Valley was different. As it rose over what I believe is Chloride Cliff in the Funeral Mountains, it passed through a layer of high, thin clouds. The way the light interacted with them created this subtle iridescence, a soft glow that was really compelling. It wasn't just a bright circle in the sky; it felt like part of the atmosphere, casting a mysterious and quiet mood over the entire desert landscape. It was one of those simple, unexpected moments that made me stop and pay attention.

I've always found anemones to be fascinating. When you get down close, you see this whole world of stunning color and texture that's usually hidden by the waves. Finding them is one thing, but making a composition is another challenge entirely. You have to time the tides just right, and even then, every wash of water rearranges the scene. I spent a good while watching the current move over this group, waiting for a moment of clarity. The way the blue and purple tentacles contrasted with the striped green body was just incredible. It’s these small, vibrant details in the intertidal zone that really pull me in.

I spend a lot of time in Anza-Borrego, and it’s easy to get caught up in the grand landscapes. But on this morning, what really held my attention was this simple ridgeline. The light was fading, and the hills became pure shape, a dark line against the sky. What made it for me were the ocotillos, each one a small, distinct character standing against the last light. It’s a quiet scene, almost abstract. I find that these pared-down compositions often say the most. There’s a story in that simple line, a feeling of persistence in the desert that you don’t need a big, dramatic sunset to appreciate.

Water in Death Valley is a rare thing, so when I located these ephemeral pools on satelite, I knew I had to go looking. After a few miles of walking, we found them. I visited this spot several times, but this particular evening was special. There was absolutely no wind, and the surface of the water was like glass, a perfect mirror. As the sunset colors began to fill the sky, they also filled the water below. This single bush, looking a bit like it was stranded in a temporary sea, created this incredible, symmetrical reflection. It was such a quiet, fleeting moment, the kind of surprise the desert gives you when you're patient. The stillness and the impossible color made it feel truly unique.

These are the kinds of moments I truly live for out in the landscape. It's not always about the big, epic scenes, but these quiet flickers of light that most people would walk right by. I was exploring this canyon in Utah when I saw this single beam cut through the shadows, illuminating just a small patch of rock and earth. It only lasted for a few moments before it was gone. Last year, I gave a presentation that helped me finally put words to why I'm so drawn to scenes like this. For me, these small, brilliant spots of light in an otherwise dark place represent a sense of hope. It's a deeply personal connection, a reminder of finding light in the darkness.

You find some interesting things when you venture deeper into the Zion Narrows, like these walls covered with ferns. I've passed this spot several times, but the wind through this narrow section is relentless and we never quite got the timing right with the elusive glow. This is where perseverance and repeated trips pay off. We finally caught this on an incredibly calm day and got the timing just right to see the light bounce off the opposite wall and illuminate the scene. It was satisfying to finally see the quiet moment I had envisioned, with the soft water flowing past the glowing green ferns.

I'll always remember this day in Death Valley. We were out at the Eureka Dunes when we saw this storm system moving in. Instead of running for cover, we watched as the low clouds began to wrap around the mountains in Eureka Valley. The way the mist moved through the peaks, highlighting those incredible colored stripes in the rock, was just stunning. It created this soft, moody atmosphere that you rarely see in the desert. The hike back was another story, the storm finally caught us, and we got completely soaked by sleet and rain. By the time we made it to the car, we were freezing, but it was absolutely worth it for a scene like this.

I've always found a strange connection between looking into the deep ocean and looking up at the night sky. There's so much we don't know about either, and that mystery is captivating. When I came across this tide pool on the Monterey coast, that feeling was immediate. This little world, full of sea anemones and colorful algae, felt like its own galaxy. Each anemone was like a star or a nebula, a complex system unto itself. It’s humbling to think about these intricate lives unfolding in a space most people walk right past. It reminds me that there are entire universes to discover, both out there in the cosmos and right here at our feet, if we just take a moment to look.

I’ve been experimenting with long exposures of birds as a way to express motion and emotion. For me, they often say far more than a simple portrait ever could.

That’s one of the things I love about photography. It can be purely photojournalistic, focused on beauty, expressive, abstract, or anything in between. In the end, it’s up to you as the creator to decide what resonates and how you want to express it.

You may notice my images are beginning to look a little less “perfect” than they have in the past. Lately I’ve been embracing the idea of wabi-sabi, that imperfection can make an image more meaningful and alive.

In nature, perfection doesn’t really exist. So rather than spending hours cloning away every small blemish, I’m trying to let the landscape speak for itself. I’ll still remove things that feel truly distracting, but elements like these are part of the story. They reveal the rough edges, the weathering, and the harsh beauty of the desert.

Sometimes you stumble onto something truly special just by wandering the washes in Death Valley. This winter’s flooding storms gave us hope for interesting mud flows, and after exploring a promising area, we came across these incredibly unique patterns that looked like contour lines on a topographic map.

My theory is that as the mud began to dry, the ground beneath it was still settling. We only found these formations in shallow depressions. As the surface slowly sank, it seems to have pulled the drying mud apart horizontally, creating these unusual cracks.

It’s easy to get absorbed in what’s at your feet while hiking the Zion Narrows, watching each step through the river and over the stones. But I’ve found it’s just as rewarding to pause and look up.

On one of our final trips of the year, after many miles in that canyon, I noticed this beautiful alcove carved into the sandstone. The textures and layers of desert varnish completely drew me in. It was a reminder that even in a place you’ve visited often, there’s always something waiting above you if you remember to lift your eyes.

I was drawn to the patterns and shapes in these dunes, the way they flowed across the landscape with a rhythm that felt almost like music. The curves rose and fell like a melody, each ridge echoing the next in quiet repetition.

Music has always been a big part of my life, and I’ve come to realize how often it influences the way I see. Sometimes composition isn’t about rules or balance, it’s about cadence. It’s about pauses and crescendos. It’s about knowing when to let a line carry the eye gently across the frame and when to let it resolve in stillness.

When I’m standing in a place like this, I’m not just looking for shapes. I’m listening for them.

The desert holds countless quiet stories. One of the most fascinating is the life cycle of the agave. It can spend decades slowly storing energy, enduring heat, drought, and time itself, all for a single bloom. When the moment comes, it sends up a towering stalk, bursts into flower, and then its life is complete.

A quiet sacrifice, offered to ensure the next generation.

I always enjoy watching foxes hunt in winter, the way their small paws seem to float across the snow and the graceful arc of each leap as they dive for prey.

On this day, I was drawn not only to the fox itself, but to the winding patterns he left behind and the long shadow stretching across the snow. It became a simple scene, but one that tells a quiet and elegant story of survival in winter.

In canyon country, I’m always watching for reflected light, and this morning in Zion Canyon was no different. I wandered up and down the riverside, waiting for something to settle into place. This rock, with the way the water wrapped around it, finally caught my attention.

I slowed the shutter just enough to soften the water’s surface, creating a gentle contrast against the solid texture of the stone.

I’ll be out backpacking for the next couple of days, so I’ll share another image on Monday.

Canyon country has earned a special place in my heart, and being there in the fall deepens that connection even more. There’s something about the yellow leaves set against warm sandstone that brings me a quiet sense of peace.

While autumn in the mountains is always dramatic and exciting, I’m especially drawn to the subtleties of fall in Capitol Reef. It’s softer, more understated, and perhaps that’s exactly why it resonates so deeply with me.

These clouds completely captivated me that morning in the Court of the Patriarchs in Zion. As the early light began to break through, Jacob Peak caught my attention, rising into the clouds and momentarily separating itself from the rest of the scene.

It immediately felt right for monochrome. Stripping away color allowed the textures of the clouds and the sandstone to take center stage, emphasizing the weight, form, and atmosphere that drew me in to begin with.

Heading back to Yellowstone today, so this felt fitting. I’m always hoping for conditions like this, light breaking softly through the fog. On this particular morning, we were treated to a brief moment when Mount Washburn revealed herself in beautiful, gentle morning light.

I’ll try to keep up with my daily posting this week, but no promises. Yurt life moves at its own pace.

This image was all about tone and texture. A simple composition that just felt right. It was made in a beautiful part of Anza-Borrego, where the hillsides are softly wrinkled and full of subtle character.

The wildflowers in the high alpine near Crested Butte were incredible this past summer. Fields of color erupted across the landscape, a truly striking sight. While these blooms were limited to a few areas, where they did appear was stunning.

We spent several days photographing within one small zone, reached by a long, bumpy 4x4 road. It was well worth the effort, as we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. Seeing wildflowers like this again felt like stepping back ten years, a quiet reminder of what these landscapes can still offer when conditions align.

There’s nothing quite like a storm passing through the desert. The smell is what captivates me most, it’s become my favorite scent in the world. Unfortunately, that’s something you can’t photograph. But when I look at this image, I can smell it all the same.

Never mind that this is virga and likely never even reached the ground. It still fills my mind with those familiar desert scents.

I’ve never really thought of myself as a wildlife photographer. It’s simply never been what calls to me. But there’s something about wolves in Yellowstone, especially in winter, that’s deeply captivating. I’ve found myself enjoying photographing them far more than I ever expected.

We still focus primarily on landscapes each winter, but the thrill of encountering wolves is undeniable. Looking forward to heading back again next week.

One of our favorite ways to spend time in the desert is simply wandering through canyons, exploring and discovering new ones. We had visited this canyon before and remembered a series of beautiful potholes that I knew would come alive after a rain.

We were lucky with the timing. Recent storms had filled the potholes with water, and when we arrived, the light was reflecting off the canyon walls above while the pools below remained in shadow. It was one of those quiet moments where everything briefly aligned.

Jennifer and I have become a bit of aurora hunters, even in the most unlikely places. I’ve now been fortunate enough to see the Aurora Borealis in Death Valley three times, something that’s incredibly rare given how far south it sits. Seeing it there requires an unusually strong solar storm, and on this night, all the pieces came together.

As we were driving from Zion to the California coast, we realized there was a real chance and decided to make a detour through Death Valley. It turned out to be the right call. The red in the sky was remarkably intense, clearly visible to the naked eye, and what the camera captured was even more striking. I actually had to dial the reds back in processing because they were nearly overwhelming.

Knowing the park well allowed us to find a location that worked perfectly, where the auroral light could reflect in the shallow streams and across the surrounding salt flats. It was one of those nights that reminds you why staying open to possibility and taking a chance can be so rewarding.

We’re always on the lookout for ephemeral mud. It creates patterns that are easy to get lost in. This winter in Death Valley, we were given a gold mine, miles and miles of mud like this. In certain areas, the surface had just begun to dry and pull apart, forming delicate cracks that traced the ground like contour lines on a topographic map. It’s just one of the many quiet, fascinating details the desert reveals if you take the time to look.

I find formations like this endlessly fascinating. I can’t quite wrap my mind around how water could swirl in one place long enough to shape sandstone in this way. Presumably it would have taken a high river flowing for an extended period of time, but I’m no geologist. I’ll leave that part to Jennifer.

Of course, it was the winding curve that first drew me to the scene. But what truly revealed itself during processing were the small, sparkling rocks that emerged as I deliberately underexposed the frame and then painted the detail back in.

Moments like this remind me that it’s often the unexpected that holds the most power. What began as a simple winding wash slowly transformed into something else entirely, a sprawling universe, scattered with stars.

My truest pull has always been toward black-and-white imagery. The quiet tonal relationships in images like this speak to something in me that’s difficult to name. And yet, I continue to feel drawn back to color. I often find myself wondering why.

Maybe there’s a hesitation there, a reluctance to go deeper into what black and white reveals. It could be tied to the inner unrest that comes with lost childhood memories, the sense that if I look too closely, I might uncover something I’m not ready to face. And yet, that uncertainty is exactly what draws me forward. It makes me want to keep digging, to keep exploring, and to allow the work to become a path toward growth rather than avoidance.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.