In honor of Mountain Light Gallery

While I learned the art of nature photography through independent study, there’s no question that Galen Rowell was my professor. We had never talked and he had likely never seen any of my work. He died 15 years ago, just before I landed my first major publishing credits.

But about 10 years ago I got an opportunity to visit his Mountain Light Gallery in Bishop, Calif., which had become a museum for his life’s work. In addition to showing his classic prints, there was even a display case housing one of his lightweight Nikon 35mm cameras. I’m heartbroken on hearing the news that the gallery will close within the next few weeks. Everything — including the last prints bearing his signature — is priced to sell.

To be an artist, it’s imperative that you find your own voice, but you start that journey on a path others have laid.

Behind the scenes: 2 minutes and 24 hours

I was one of millions who braved traffic and potential gas shortages to drive to the middle of nowhere to see the total solar eclipse earlier this month. If there were any doubts as to whether the effort was worth it, they vanished the moment the sun disappeared behind the moon.

The two minutes and 10 seconds where the sun’s corona was visible in the midday sky were truly spectacular. But it was also only two minutes and 10 seconds. There were many more photographic opportunities during the 24 hours I spent chasing the eclipse. And I tried to take advantage of as many of them as I could.

There are no correct answers in art

When I first took up photography, I read a lot. I hadn’t studied art previously, so I didn’t know about composition, lighting, design — the elements that turn a snapshot into a photograph. And the more I read, the more I was turned off.

A common refrain was that there was a “correct way” to photograph everything. It quickly became obvious why all of the animal pictures I had seen in local photo competitions looked the same and why there were so many images of flowers growing out of old wagon wheels.

Bringing still images to life

When you take a picture, do you capture or do you express? This question gets right to the heart of the art of photography, and it’s a shift that you have to make as you evolve from taking pretty pictures to crafting images that mean something to someone.

Where do you find your vision?

I’ve spent more time thinking about my photography — why I do it and why my images look the way they do — over the past three months than I probably have over the preceding decade. I’m still doing interviews about my Rainbow on Haleakalā image, featured on a Forever postage stamp to commemorate the centennial of the U.S National Park Service. I’ve learned a lot about my approach to photography through the process of doing these interviews.

A few of the interviews focused on the thought process and effort behind the image (my favorite.) A few others concentrated on equipment and camera settings (my least favorite.) And a few fixated on the fact that I’m “self-taught,” I didn’t study — in fact, I detested — art in school. I think it’s really easy to take the latter the wrong way.

He who seeks beauty will find it

Since the announcement of the commemorative postage stamp featuring my Rainbow on Haleakala image, I’ve been asked a lot about my approach to photography. One quote that kept coming to mind each time I answered the question is the title of this blog post: “He who seeks beauty will find it.”

Show your work: Niagara Falls

We live in an age where virtually everyone is a published photographer. Many people now take photos every day. Most of these are quick snapshots to show off where they are, themselves or their dinner. Seconds later they’re published on social media for all the world to see.

There has never been a time when we’ve taken so many photos — and thought so little about taking them. So as someone who painstakingly crafts images, trying to produce a few that truly matter, I think it’s helpful to share the process that resulted in them. Those rare gems are usually the result of a lot of work.

That's not art, or is it?

There’s been a lot of talk lately in nature photography circles about what constitutes art. This discussion comes up every so often, but this latest round was spawned by what seems to be an absolutely amazing accomplishment from one of our own — not that many of his fellow nature photographers want to claim him.

Brainstorming on ice

People say one key difference between the amateurs and the professional photographers is that the professionals take a lot more pictures. That may be true, but there's another difference. The extra images are typically part of a creative exercise; they aren't random shots.

Ansel Adams once remarked that every now and then he arrived on a scene "just when God's ready for someone to click the shutter." I've had my share of images like that, but more often, I have to work at it.

For me, the process works a bit like this: Something strikes my eye, and I keep refining the composition until the image consists only of the essence of what drew me.

Happy anniversary, Wilderness Act

The Wilderness Act, which has preserved some of the most pristine areas of the United States, turns 50 next week. My absolute passion for nature photography has just turned 14.

The two are more related than they might seem.

One scene, infinite possibilities

I've always been a little envious of painters. If you're trying to capture a scene and the clouds aren't quite right, a painter can just make them right. Photographers have to make do with what nature provides — at least at that moment. As one grows as a nature photographer, however, the act of creating an image becomes more like creating a painting. And I'm not talking about the use of Photoshop.

Photography does involve being in the right place at the right time, but that doesn't mean it's always entirely left up to chance.

Desensitized to nature

I was standing at Tunnel View in Yosemite National Park recently, sharing the popular overlook with a couple dozen photographers. It's one of the most popular viewpoints in any national park. From this one point you can see several iconic granite peaks as well as Bridalveil Fall. If there's any one scene that says, "Yosemite," this is it.

But the sky was clear. The lighting was not dramatic.

"Let's go," a photo tour leader barked to his students, wanting to retreat to the lodge for hot coffee. "I have many pictures from this spot that are much better. You could get this picture any day." He ambled to his car and honked the horn at his students who were still snapping pictures.

He was right. But he's also wrong.

You get what you get

The image at the top of this post was supposed to be of a large flock of snow geese and Mount Baker. Instead, it's of a large flock of western sandpipers and Mount Rainier. And that's perfectly fine with me.

Cloudy skies, clear perspective

Someone who knows I'm a nature photographer, but isn't one himself, recently asked me what I do on cloudy days.

"On a day like today," he said, gesturing out a window toward the gray sky, "what would you photograph? Anything?"

Moving to eliminate distractions

Why is it that some people feel the need to carve their name into everything? I realize the cavemen did it, but they didn't have Facebook and DrawSomething.

Whatever the reason, the work of a modern day caveman was squarely in the middle of a scene I wanted to photograph.

Setting limits to remove limits

We are creatures of habit. That's well documented. In stores, we buy a particular brand simply because that's the brand we always buy. Many of us regularly check our messages whether or not we're expecting anything because we've gotten into that habit.

And as photographers, we're inclined to photograph a familiar subject a particular way simply because that's the way we've always done it. It becomes habit and we probably don't even think about why we're setting up the shot that way.

Getting to know all about you

For as much time as I've spent watching this bald eagle nest, I should be on a first name basis with the owners. The eagles don't talk much, so I'll just assume their names are Eddie and Ellen.

Raining? Use an umbrella, not a lens cap.

It's a gray day in Seattle, just like yesterday, the day before, and the week before that. It's the end of May, and I've been able to barbeque only twice so far this year. And one of those times was in the rain.

So what does this have to do with nature photography? If you only photograph (or barbeque) when the weather is just right, there may be long periods of time when you don't get to do it.

You may have to change your photographic style a bit.

Everything old can be new again

Last month, I wrote about sharing a small vantage point in Yosemite National Park with hundreds of other people, all hoping to catch one of the most photographed natural events in the park. This month, I want to talk about how to do your own thing despite that.

Everybody's doing it (and you should too)

I'm waiting in knee-deep snow for a natural light show that may or may not happen. So are hundreds of other photographers. Any parking space within a half mile of good vantage point was claimed three or four hours before show time.

We're all waiting for the setting sun to light up Horsetail Falls, a thin thread of a waterfall that occasionally glides down El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. For a few weeks in February, if the conditions are just right, the setting sun will make the waterfall appear as if it were on fire.