With weeks of free time away from my temporarily closed gallery, but no real opportunity to travel, I decided to spend some of my time hunting for the perfect photo of Sedona. Sedona has been my main focus for landscape photography over the past  year, so I wanted to capture something fairly unique that really would speak to me about what makes Sedona a magical place. Over a year ago, I had been scouring the images of Sedona online, looking for something that would really captivate me. I found a photo of this tree in a cave, that a local photographer took eight years ago. It immediately grabbed me, and I knew I had to find this location. I tracked down the photographer (who had since moved away) and explained to him how his photo had inspired me. I told him I was not asking for directions (since it is poor etiquette to hound another photographer for location info) but that I would figure it out eventually!  He responded and thanked me, and reiterated that he did not give out locations information so as to not encourage off-trail hiking.

So, I spent a few hours studying all of his photos from this time and general place, and determined from Google Earth and my own personal hikes approximately where he had  taken the photo. I set out a couple months ago and bushwhacked through thorn bushes, scrambled up cliffs, looking for this cave. I didn’t find it…but I knew I was close…real close!

After I returned from my hike, I sent this photographer a couple photos I took on my hike to prove I had been close to this cave. I politely asked him if he might offer me a clue where to find it, so that I would not unnecessarily fall off a cliff trying to find it.  He obviously appreciated my effort, since he quickly responded with detailed directions to the cave!

Even with his tips, it still took a lot of route finding and pulling cactus thorns out of my arms and legs before I finally found the cave. When I first saw it, chills ran through my spine–it was just as I had imagined from the photo I had seen! But it was getting late in the day and there was no sunlight, so I vowed to return for better light. I just wasn’t sure when that would be.

Third trip, I figured mid-day might be best, so I left late morning and arrived at the cave before noon. There was some good light but it left quickly. I spent a couple hours studying the terrain and placing rocks on the ground and cliff walls, to see how the sunlight was moving around in the cave. I then determined that early morning would be best, since that is when I expected sunlight to bounce off the front wall of the cave and cause it to fill with glowing light.

In the interim between trips, another photographer friend of mine pointed out to me that another  landscape photographer had photographed this tree in 2014, so it obviously was in his words a “semi-known” location.   But it clearly was not a well traveled spot!  This other English photographer mentioned in his description of his shot that he had spent 4 trips to the cave, and determined that the best light would be at 11 am. But that was late summer, and I still felt early morning was best for mid April….

Fourth time’s a charm! I returned before sunrise and hiked in the dark through the thorn bushes and cactus and up to the cave.  The cave was glowing orange at sunrise, but there was still no direct light on the tree. I waited another hour before light slowly advanced at the top of the tree. And that was when it was at its most sublime. I took several sets of images to ensure I had everything in proper focus and with the best light. The resulting final image of this Emory oak is 240 MP, and I intend to offer it as a limited edition at its full size of either 40X60 or 48X72 inches vertical. It will be an amazing reminder of an amazing place, a sacred, special place, at a special time.  The quintessential image of Sedona!

I have had this particular shot in mind for much of this past year. I wanted to get a shot of the full arc of the Milky Way over the iconic eastern horizon in Sedona. From this vantage point above Highway 179, you can see several of the most prominent rock formations in Sedona, including (from right to left) Bell Rock, Courthouse Butte, Rabbit Ears, Munds Mountain and the Mermaid, and the Nuns and Chapel of the Holy Cross.

I envisioned the landscape lit up by the moon, with enough darkness to let the Mily Way be visible as well. This required very specific conditions–clear skies, a setting moon to the west, a Milky Way not too high in the sky, and enough darkness to see the stars! I studied the night skies with the Stellarium app and determined only one or possibly two days this month would give me the requisite astronomic conditions. And the second morning looked cloudy, so I targeted the morning of March 7th. Moonset was set for 5:38 am, and astronomic twilight–which would quickly render the eastern horizon too bright to make out the Mily Way–was set at 5:23 am. So, I only had about a 15 minute window of opportunity when the moon would be high enough to illuminate the landscape, and low enough to provide enough darkness to the night sky, and before the morning twilight interfered. I left Flagstaff at 4 am and after a short hike got to my vantage point at 5. High clouds were appearing and disappearing and a fast rate overhead; I was a bit concerned that skies would be too overcast during my short “window.” Fortunately, skies cleared as twilight approached, and I had just enough time to fire off a couple sets of multiple exposures of the horizon, which I later stacked in Photoshop to help with noise reduction.

My finished panorama will comfortably print to up to five feet wide, and I look forward to it hanging in my Sedona gallery. It is the quintessential view of Sedona at night, the night sky community in all its glory early in the Milky Way season. A humbling look at our minuscule existence in the face of the universe, The Infinite.

I see many photographs of the Milky Way. Most of them feature our galaxy as the principle subject of the photo, and usually accompanied by clear skies. This photography has grown a bit cliche for me, although I never tire of seeing the Milky Way in the night sky.

Thanks to the recent dry conditions in Arizona, as the Arizona Monsoon apparently has taken a vacation, I had been planning some night sky photography without the fear of having clouds spoiling my shoot. I did some online research and decided that the view from Chicken Point, a popular spot for hikers and jeep tours at the end of the Broken Arrow and Little Horse Trails in Sedona, would make a great spot for some views of the Milky Way, due to its open views to the south.

I had just a few days to work with. My first attempt was a bit of a letdown, as two jeep loads full of about a dozen young adults unloaded and began drinking alcohol and blaring loud mariachi music. The night sky was obliterated by the light pollution from their headlights. I had some polite suggestions for the partiers as I exited back down the trail in the dark.

On the way out, I discovered once again that Sedona trails are a bit challenging to follow in the dark. Much of the trail crosses bare rock, and the rocks off of the trail are not any different than the trail surface itself. So, I found myself backtracking a few times to rediscover the trail, by looking for footprints in small pockets of sand in between the rock slabs.

With two days left to work with, I had to decide whether to go out on a night with no clouds, or chance it on a night with plenty of high clouds. I had as hunch the cloudy night might make for an interesting combination with the Milky Way–assuming the stars were able to shine through the thin veil of clouds.

So once again, I headed the two miles down the trail, arriving at Chicken Point just after sunset. The clouds were brilliant pink at sunset, and I thought I might have a brief window of opportunity to catch the Milky Way rising while the clouds were still pink from sunset. Sure enough, about a half an hour past sunset the Milky Way began to make an appearance as the sky darkened. Just 15 minutes later and the clouds were no longer as colorful, although the Milky Way was more visible. For just that brief window in time, our galaxy played with the residual colors of the sunset, and it was one of the more remarkable displays of night sky that I have had the pleasure to observe.

And I had the trail to myself this time, no jeeps and no night travelers. It was a surreal spot with the red rocks towering above me like a scene from some rugged canyon on Mars. It was a special moment in a special place, and I feel blessed to have been able to experience it and share it with others.

“Burrito and Red Rocks” (Exclusive edition: 48X72 signed at $10,000,000)

Each day, those of us who spend any time on the internet are inundated with images. I would guess that I see anywhere from a few dozen to hundreds of photos on social media each day. Popular images rack up hundreds if not thousands of ‘likes’ and shares, and more than a few photographers judge their success by the number of followers or views that their photographs garner.

This is an example of how imagery, and especially artistic photography, has been devalued by the internet, thanks to sheer volume and availability. Before the internet, most images we saw were in magazines, books, and in (gasp) physical galleries.

Ansel Adams once famously stated that “twelve significant images in one year is a good crop”
Yet, today’s crop of internet photographers would have you believe that at least two significant images a day is easily attainable—because, apparently, two posts a day is optimal for social media engagement. 🙂

To explain why it is socially acceptable to not canonize every photo we see online, I came up with a simple test: The Burrito Test.

The ‘Burrito Test’ is easy to apply. Given any photograph, would you rather have a free ready-to-hang 8X10 print of the photo, or would you rather have a burrito?

If you’d rather have the photo, then it is significant. If you’d rather eat the burrito (which, personally, for me would be about 99.9% of the time…) then, while the photo might be superficially pleasing to the eye, its value to society or to you personally is minimal.

Imagine a world where only significant photos, those that pass the burrito test, would be commented on or shared. In such a world, the number of self-proclaimed professional photographers would be in the hundreds or thousands rather than the millions. You would not need a machete to make your way through Antelope Canyon. There would be fewer photography workshops than there are photographers.

Imagine all these people…living life in peace 😉
Now I am hungry for a burrito…

No, it is not.

I have seen this issue debated many times over the 15-plus year span of my photography career. The discussion becomes more heated and more important as cameras and photo processing software become more powerful and more available to the public. A recent podcast hosted by fellow landscape photographer and friend Matt Payne is an excellent summary of the two opposing viewpoints, and after listening to it I felt it was time to again add my voice to the discussion. My own philosophy has evolved over the years but I have not strayed from the basic belief that there should be a distinction between landscape photography and digital art. Just as painting could not be called photography and vice versa, I think there is a clear distinction between digital art and photography, one that has been blurred my many artists to the detriment of all.

To illustrate the distinction, I have posted three versions of one photograph that I took outside of Sedona in July, a shot of the Milky Way and crescent moon over a desert landscape. The top version is straight out of the camera, a ‘RAW’ file as it appears when imported into Adobe Lightroom, with no processing or profile applied. As with most ‘RAW’ images, it appears rather dull and lifeless. The second version appears directly below it, and represents my final processed version of the shot. It represents my attempt to capture the scene as I observed and experienced it. I purposely chose an image that is on the extreme side of what techniques I regularly use to process the RAW files. For this version, I brought out the shadows in the foreground, increased the contrast, and bumped up the saturation a bit. I probably spent an hour or so just tweaking the colors and contrast in Photoshop. Finally, in order to compensate for the extreme dynamic range in the scene, I used a second faster exposure (1/20s compared to the original 20s exposure) to replace the blown out area where the moon was in the original with a ‘properly’ exposed version of the moon, so the crescent is visible in my final version. Does my processed version look exactly like the scene as I observed it in person, on site? No, it does not. The foreground in my processed shot is much brighter with more detail than I could observe with my naked eye, although with the moonlight and city light pollution I could make out some amount of detail in the landscape. Also, while I could see the Milky Way and galactic core quite clearly in the dark sky, the Milky Way as captured by my Sony A7rii shows considerably more detail than I could make out with my eyes. On the other hand, in person I could clearly see the waxing crescent shape of the moon, whereas the 20 second exposure obviously wiped out all that detail. The final version is clearly a compromise–my attempt to capture the scene as closely as I experienced it, while conceding that the camera never takes a photo that looks “just as you see it.”

The final version on the bottom represents an extreme version of post-processing. It looks ghastly to me, but I routinely see similar ghastly images rack up thousands of views, likes, and shares on social media, so perhaps my disgust is misguided. For this version, I bumped up the exposure and saturation considerably, by processing the foreground and background separately and then combining the two versions. Then, I completely replaced the moon with a full moon version from an entirely different scene, to create a ‘fantasy’ scene. The result is something I saw in my mind’s eye, certainly not with my unassisted eyes. It’s a creation of my imagination rather than a representation of an experience in nature. I would not hesitate to differentiate between this creation and the version above it. I am comfortable calling the latter “landscape photography” while the former, in my opinion, can only be called “digital art”

Why is the distinction important? Because, as the podcast reveals, landscape photography is unique in the arts in that it is the only medium that directly captures the light of a scene through mechanical means. It therefore creates an expectation that what one sees in the photograph is something that one could see and experience in person with the right motivation and the right circumstances.

Why are expectations important? To answer that question, let me propose a hypothetical. Suppose I decided my life purpose was to observe and photograph an aurora borealis at the Grand Canyon in Arizona. Since there have been aurora sighted as far south as New Orleans, this is not outside the realm of possibilities. But it is probably a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. So…I patiently wait year after year, targeting solar storms and following the cycles, spend many hours and days scouting the canyon for the perfect location. Then, one lucky night, I get extremely lucky and observe that aurora; I’m prepared and get the perfect exposures, and I’m able to process the shot so it reflects this experience of the lifetime. It’s a ‘holy grail’ shot that every landscape photographer dreams of. Meanwhile, someone who feels that there is no line between digital art and photography decides that they would like to boost their popularity on social media, so they spend a couple hours in Photoshop combining a shot of the Grand Canyon with a second, unrelated, photo of an amazing aurora, taken somewhere in Norway. Since the aurora as seen from the northern latitudes is almost certain to be more impressive than one seen as far south as Arizona, this composite image is quite impressive and quickly goes viral on social media, earning the ‘photographer’ quite a bit of attention and offers of licensing and print purchases from prospective buyers.

Both versions of this “Grand Canyon Aurora” are deserving of the title “art.” So who is the greater artist? Arguably, it is the second person, the one who created the image by combining two unrelated images. His resulting image is more impressive visually, and he can be applauded for coming up with the idea in the first place. As anyone who has worked extensively with Photoshop knows, the mere process of combining the two images at least somewhat convincingly takes a great amount of acquired skill with the software–the average Joe could not pull it off. In contrast, the first photographer simply was very patient and got lucky, and required a minimal amount of skill to process the shot to present this amazing scene of an aurora over the Grand Canyon. However, who is the greater “landscape photographer”? I don’t see how anyone could argue otherwise–it has to be the first photographer. He is the one who put in all the time and effort to capture and amazing–and true–natural experience, one that anyone could truthfully aspire to see in person. The manipulator’s version is just a sham–and if presented as reality it is also a lie. Ethics have a place in any art form, and landscape photography is no excpetion. This is why labels matter.

Sunset, from the lava fields north of Flagstaff.

2018 has been a year of transition for me. Susie, the woman who challenged and changed my way of looking at the world (as expressed in my August 2017 blog “In love with Photography”) proposed to me in January; we married in June outside of the Great Sand Dunes. Within a few weeks we sold both of our houses in Colorado, while buying a new home in the Ponderosa forest south of Flagstaff, Arizona. Susie and I had debated and discussed the move; we will miss the one-of-a-kind scenery of the Colorado Front Range, and I particularly will miss the proximity to alpine country at 14000 feet. Ultimately we decided the best move for our careers, our family, and our partnership was to make the move to northern Arizona. Flagstaff, at 7000 feet, offers a lot of the same benefits of living in Colorado along with the proximity to world class scenery. With change comes opportunity.

Lightning from a monsoonal storm at the south rim of the Grand Canyon.

Within a couple weeks of moving, in between unpacking boxes and setting up the new home, we made our first trip to the Grand Canyon, less than two hours drive from home. We were greeted by a magnificent storm moving through the canyon, and followed the deluge to the west until we exited the park and celebrated our good fortune with beer and pizza in Grand Canyon Village. Since then, I have spent many days scouting the canyonlands south along the Mogollon Rim, and especially around the wonderful town of Sedona, which I had never visited before this move.

Mars rises over Cathedral Rock in Sedona on a quiet night in August.

Even the relatively unvisited areas within just a few miles of home have proven to be a fruitful source of new scenery, new visions, and new ideas. The thrill of new discovery calls me to seek out both the hidden and obvious beauty that fills the landscape in the Desert Southwest. Over the coming months I will continue to challenge myself to find and reveal nature’s art, and with new beginings comes a new opportunity to fulfill my goals of bringing the joy of discovery and the lesssons of art in photography to a wider audience. Change is good, when you let it bring you growth and happiness.

Kelly Canyon, in the Ponderosa forest south of Flagstaff (just bring mosquito repellant!)

Since I began a serious effort at building up a portfolio of nature photography, my focus has been primarily on landscapes. Photographing the grand scenic vistas of the mountains and canyonlands is what got me started on nature photography, and while I have occasionally tried my hand at some wildlife and even portrait work, landscapes have been my main interest. I drew my inspiration from legendary photographers like Ansel Adams, Galen Rowell, and contemporaries like Art Wolfe. But my artistic goal of freezing brief moments of time, and preserving the beauty that our natural environment shares with us, is equally served by other genres of photography. My love of nature and the natural world began at a very young age, observing and learning about the plants and critters that surrounded me as I played in fields and forests as a child. This incessant curiosity with the natural world never left me, it has just been resting and waiting for the right time to emerge from sleep.

I met fellow photographer Susie Binkley online, after some of my photography was shared on a national park Facebook Page. We both share an intense interest in the natural world, especially the bugs and flowers, the weather, and the vastness of space beyond our own atmosphere. Her style is very different from mine. While I concentrated on big landscapes, hiking in the dark to wake up to sunrises at mountain lakes, her photography explored the smaller world. She captured the squirrels, the deer, and the flowers that sprung from the forest floor. She would spend hours kneeling or lying down, just to get unique and intimate views of the world at our feet.

Our favorite pastime (aside from eating chocolate and drinking raspberry ale 😉 ) has been to go on hikes at the local parks and open spaces that make living in Eastern Colorado so unique and exciting. Watching Susie work her craft has been where my love of the little things has reawakened. I suddenly found myself following in her footsteps, taking the time to patiently stop, wait, listen, observe, and capture those unique moments that make our natural world so enriching and joyous.

And so my love of the little things–of all that nature has to offer–has been reawakened, and my life is fuller and richer to have rediscovered my childhood spirit. I found it by discovering a love to share with a fellow photographer and artist. I see many wonderful things waiting for us to discover ahead in this marvelous place we call home.

I was driving back to Pueblo from the New Mexico badlands wilderness. The sky was almost completely overcast, but I noticed a thin line of blue sky on the western horizon. “Gap Light,” I thought. Gap light occurs when there is a break in the clouds on the horizon, and it creates some of the most amazing sunrises and sunsets. I pondered whether I should stop at the Great Sand Dunes NP and wait for sunset. By the time I got to the Sand Dunes, sunset was two hours away, and the sky was dismal looking, The clouds seemed to be getting thicker and no blue sky could be seen. I wasn’t anxious to wait two hours for a busted sunset, especially since that would mean a couple more hours of driving in the dark over La Veta Pass, infamous for suicidal deer and homicidal truckers. But I knew there were two other locations yet to come on my drive home, so I kept driving, figuring I could resort to ‘Plan B’ or ‘Plan C’ if conditions improved. But by the time I got to ‘Plan B’–La Veta, the sky was even more dark and dreary, so I kept going, not expecting much from ‘Plan C’–Lathrop Lakes–at this point. When I got to the State Park, I could se the frozen lake in the distance, but the dull sky was still there, and I was more anxious to drink beer and eat chicken wings back home than to wait another hour for a sunset that surely would be quite boring.

I drove another five miles, into Walsenburg, and any opportunities for good sunset compositions were behind me, since the mountains run north to south and and I was about to drive to the eastern side of the range. Just as I entered town, I glanced in my rear-view mirror and caught a glimpse of a glow on the horizon. I remembered that thin strip of blue, and knew the clouds were moving from west to east. I thought to myself, “It would be an embarrassment if someone who wrote a whole book on forecasting good weather for photography were to miss a stunning sunset…” The lure of beer and chicken wings called, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to give the sunset a shot, so I made a U-turn and headed back for the lakes.

I drove into the State Park, and circled the main lake, looking for a good spot to photograph sunset. I pulled off to a fisherman’s cove, and got out to hike along the shoreline, scouting the best view. But the wind was biting cold, and there was still 45 minutes to sunset. The sky looked darker than ever, and prospects for sunset looked grim. Chicken wings and beer continued to tempt me, so I got back in my car and headed out to the park exit…the sunset was going to be a bust, I decided.

Just as I exited the park, suddenly a ray of sunlight broke through on the horizon, from just a small break in the clouds. But this was enough–damn it, I could wait another 30 minutes in the cold! So, yet another U-turn, and this time I was committed. I got back to my scouted location just in time for the first color to start appearing over the twin peaks of Spanish Peaks, the thirteen-plus thousand volcanos of Wahatoya, the most prominent landmark of southeast Colorado.

For the next twenty minutes, the sky erupted into a blazing nuclear display; one of the most incredible sunsets I have witnessed in my over ten years as a landscape photographer. I fired off a couple dozen exposures to cover four different compositions; the best three are posted here. Chicken wings and beer were now a celebration of nature’s finest. The only chore left was processing the shots, which proved to be nearly as challenging thanks to chromatic aberration and extreme dynamic range. While no photograph can truly capture the brilliant red light shining on the frozen lake, I was glad to have caught a memory of this magnificent event.

On Halloween, I studies the weather maps and decided there was a good chance for a terrific sunrise the next morning. So, after a few hours of sleep, I drove three hours to arrive at Estes Park and the Bear Lake Trail head. I met up with a photographer friend, Kane Englebert, and we hit the trail a couple hours before sunrise. THe last time Kane and I hiked this trail, it was raining and sleeting and despite a brief break at sunrise, the peaks never really lit up. This time, the weather cooperated and we ended up with a beautiful sunrise from Two Rivers Lake, a small lake that is off-trail. Kane used his GPS to give us a short trip off the trail to reach the half-frozen lake shore. The colors were already starting to blossom when we reached the lake, and I couldn’t resist taking one shot of the brilliant colors to the east!

Then, I slipped along the ice on the shoreline in search of a good angle on the lake and distant peaks. The wind was really starting to pick up and it was biting cold; between the wind and the ice it was tricky finding a steady spot to place my tripod. But persistence paid off and I came away with a couple of my favorite shots from one of the premiere spots in Colorado.