David Schneider

I am a storyteller and photographer. I focus on the world around me, and tell the stories that I encounter. Although I emphasize the American Southwest, I photograph from coast to coast. From wildlife, to nature, to scenic landscapes and beyond, I specialize in the bringing the stories and images to you. Join me for adventures, history, and journeys.

The Ultimate Fall Experience in the Great Smoky Mountains

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I love the great American Southwest. The vast, trackless deserts have an endless appeal to me, and I am convinced the sky out here has an entirely different shade of blue than anywhere else. Tall buttes, hidden wonders, and everything in between. The West has it all. Or does it? There are other stunning places to photograph, and sometimes, going in the completely opposite direction is the way to go. With that thought in mind, and now done with Colorado Fall Colors, I struck off to the east, headed for my next destination: Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee. It’s time for the ultimate fall experience.

Of course, I went in the fall so I could revel in the park’s glorious and gorgeous autumn colors. Even though I just finished up in Colorado’s aspens, I can’t get enough of the magic of leaves. I’ve been here before, and this time, I wanted to concentrate on autumn. Just so there’s no suspense here, it was an incredible excursion, and I couldn’t be more pleased with the results. I know, I know, I’ve spoiled the surprise, but truly, it wasn’t much of a surprise to begin with.

I had two main ideas in mind: fall colors and water. Rivers and streams, surrounded by colorful leaves, draw me in. And, especially waterfalls. Waterfalls are endlessly fascinating to me. Water and color abound in the Smoky Mountains, and I had to see a couple of the waterfalls.

I decided to add a few extra days to allow myself some time to get acquainted with the park again, as it had been a few years since my last visit. I remembered it well, but…. There is always the chance that my memory wasn’t perfect, so having a little time to explore was just the ticket. I’m glad I did, too, because it gave me time to work out the best scenes. I didn’t have a set plan, other than to wander and explore, to look and poke around to see what I might find. For this adventure, I vowed to go where nature took me. 

Autumn in the park is quite interesting. Leaves usually change all together, based on elevation. Or, at least that’s what I’m used to. The higher the elevation the tree is, the earlier its leaves turn to gold. Great Smoky Mountain National Park has a lot, and I mean a lot, of elevation change, so the leaves turn from gold from the top to the bottom of the park. Conveniently, you can readily drive to both extremes, so I had it covered.

On my first days there, the leaves where I initially wanted to photograph were still green, while up top they had already peaked and were dropping. That seems like a problem, but it wasn’t. It meant I was early. All I had to do was wait for the color to come to me. Waiting is never easy, but also, there was nothing for it. Besides, waiting around in a national park is always a wonderful experience, and it always feels like the time flies by. When you’re in a fall experience, time just melts away.

Day by day the color crept down the mountainsides. I made a few “classic” photographs from the top of the park, but ultimately, those didn’t have quite the magic I’m looking for in a finished photograph, so those found their way to the proverbial cutting room floor. 

Night by night I wondered if the next day was going to be the day. By now, I had a firm idea of exactly where I wanted to be, and more or less when, to bring my ideas to life. I was pretty confident in it.

Over the last few days, I’d explored, literally, every road and byway I could in the park. I hiked up small, and some not so small, waterways and spent a while standing in the middle of a couple of them doing my best to not get wet. Most, if not all, rivers and streams are strewn with rocks, which one can stand on. All rocks are wet, most are unstable, and many are far from the other ones, requiring a short or longer jump. All of which is to say the conditions were ripe for me to fall in. Miraculously, and I truly do not know how this came to be, I managed to stay 100% every day.

The day came, sure enough, as the color barreled down the mountainsides to greet me. The day also came with the steady drumbeat of rain, too. While that might sound like an issue, it was, in fact, perfect for what I wanted to do. Rain meant no sun, which in turn meant it would be a higher quality result for me. Rain also meant wet, and wet leaves and rocks truly show off their fall colors. I couldn’t have been happier as I headed into the park.

The fall experience comes to life

Now, though, I was on a timer. I had three photographs I wanted to create, none of which were close to one another, all of which were scattered across the park, and all of which required perfect conditions to create. Dang. This was going to be…difficult. But off I went!

The first stop was along the banks of the Little River. I’d found this place while I was rock-hopping and exploring. It represented exactly what I was looking for: flowing water, pretty rocks, and, best and most important of all, overhanging foliage. For me, this is the quintessential scene for a fall experience, and it was one of the foremost scenes I wanted. 

A fine-art landscape photograph of the Little River during autumn. The scene features a shallow, rocky riverbed with large, dark boulders in the foreground, leading into a dense forest of gold and orange deciduous trees that form a vibrant canopy over the water.

As before, I hopped, camera and tripod grasped tightly in my hand, my way to the middle of the river. And as before, I continued to stay dry. Well, to be fair, it was raining, so “dry” is a relative term. It’s more that I didn’t fall into the river kind of dry, which was the real goal.

Plunk! The tripod speared into the water, and I settled it in while attaching my camera. All before me was exactly as I hoped, and the framing and composition were easier than most. Being steady and careful, Little River ended up in my camera. I knew, deep in my heart, that it would come out. A few moments of careful rock-hopping and I reached the soggy shore. 

The gentle rain continued. The race was still on. 

Next on my list was Mingus Mill. This historic mill is at the far end of the park from me. It is right by a main entrance and a popular place. So, really, there wasn’t a lot of “exploring” for this, but I did spend quite a while considering how to best represent it. The main problem would be “tourists” and, gasp, other people. No, I never, ever consider myself a tourist. I am a photographer. There is a difference. At least in my mind, anyway.

The rain, though, continued to work in my favor. Tourists don’t like rain and often won’t get out in it. Sort of goes with being a tourist, I guess. Maybe, just maybe, there wouldn’t be many people I would have to work around.

Lo and behold, the parking area was empty! Once again, with camera in hand, I headed to the spot I had picked out. I truly adore this photograph.

A fine-art photograph of the historic Mingus Mill during autumn. The image shows the weathered gray wood of the two-story grist mill nestled against a forest of yellow and green trees, with a bright red maple branch in the upper left. In the foreground, water flows through a moss-covered wooden flume, creating small waterfalls.

In addition to adventuring, I enjoy learning about history and those who came before. Mingus Mill represents everything I could ask for: a strong photograph with a strong backstory. The people who built and ran this mill were as tough as they come and became a pillar of the community. Mills frequently were, and this one was no exception. They had a difficult time of it, but they prevailed. 

What I like best about this photograph, though, is the water seeping out of the trough before it ever reaches the mill. There’s just something about the water never quite making it to the mill that tickles my fancy.

No time to stay here, though! The rain continued, and so did my dash! One more! We can do it.

Now it was back through the park to Meigs Falls. This is a small waterfall, just a few feet high, and set back through the trees. It’s oh-so-easy to miss these falls, thus earning my title for this piece: Secret Fall. My title implies the falls are hidden, secluded, far away, and difficult to find. They’re not. They’re just right there. Sure, you have to look a little bit for it, and it isn’t really marked, but it’s not a big secret. 

Good thing, too, because it sure is picturesque! It isn’t, by far, the biggest waterfall in the park. Nowhere close. But to me, I love how it pulls me in. Surrounded by fall color and flowing toward me, this little waterfall is, without any doubt, my favorite one in the park.

A fine art photograph of a hidden waterfall nestled deep within Smokey Mountain National Park. The composition features a delicate, multi-tiered cascade of water flowing over moss-covered rock faces into a clear, shallow pool. The high-detail image highlights the soft, silky texture of the moving water and the vibrant variety of ferns and foliage, creating a serene and secluded atmosphere, truly earning the name "Secret Fall"

By now, the rain was letting up, but the leaves were still wet. The final photograph came out amazingly well, and looking at it as I craft these words, I still feel that sense of wonder and awe as I did when I first saw it. 

What a fall experience it was! Coupled with the Colorado aspens, my fall was absolutely outstanding. I can’t wait for next year.

Bring the Journey Home

Let’s not keep Secret Fall just on the internet. There’s plenty of styles and options to make it look fantastic in your home!

Colorado Autumn: When old and new adventures come together

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Seeing the “Welcome to Colorado” sign is a rite of passage for me every fall. Well, truly, I see the sign several times each fall, but the first one is always the one that I remember and remark on. It means, to me, that autumn has arrived, and what better way to celebrate that than with a Colorado autumn?

The difficulty for me lies in wondering where to go. There are so many extraordinary places. Some I’ve been to year over year, and some are new to me. Fall, though, is a dynamic season, and I can’t count on the leaves being perfect every single day. So, I have to make choices, which means sometimes I get it right, and sometimes, it doesn’t work out at all for me. That’s OK. I would rather take a chance and be wrong than to never make the adventure. Last year, for me, fall was so-so. This year is an entirely different story.

Usually I have a plan, more or less. The plan, such as it is, is often something similar to “Go here and see how it works out,” which for me is the best kind of plan. I don’t believe in being constrained, and being flexible allows me to go where the fall color is the best. Weather, of course, plays mightily into this, because without ideal weather conditions, nothing else is going to work out. 

I wanted to see a place I had heard about but had never been to, as well as see a couple of places I hadn’t been to in a long time. As it seems like the most appropriate way to begin an adventure, we will begin with the old and end with the new. Let’s begin our Colorado autumn tour.

I went to Alta, Colorado, for the first time many years ago. Today, Alta is more of a parking area before starting a hike; it’s a ghost town. There are a few old buildings, some of which have been preserved, and some of which are crumbing away, but that’s about it. There’s just not a lot here except a lot of history. 

Back in the day Alta, like so many mining towns, was booming. What made it unique, however, was its access to electricity. Its mill was running full-tilt, and like all mills, it needed power. The mill owner realized that electricity could be used to power the mill, and so he contracted with a nearby power plant run by George Westinghouse. Yes, that Westinghouse. The arrangement worked out incredibly well, and the mill hummed along, day after day, until the mines played out. So, in that sense, Alta was historic. But in the broader sense, and not to take anything away, Alta was just like every other mining town. Boom, then bust, then ghost.

There is one structure, though, that offers a very photogenic opportunity. You can look in one window and out a window on the other side. This perspective offers a view of Mount Wilson, which is the same view you would have enjoyed had you been in the cabin. How many people daydreamed out the window as they looked at Mount Wilson?

Today, though, the “cabin” is barely standing. It’s not possible to be inside it at all. The roof is missing. The floor is missing. Most everything else is missing. So, naturally, I had to include some of that interior because to me it tells the story of the moment, both past and present.

Alta View

Alta View is that moment that occupies past and present. Yes, I realize it doesn’t have a scrap of fall color in it, and this journal entry is all about fall color, but also, the time of the year is critical. I wanted the mountain to showcase the coming of fall, and here it is, cloud-wrapped with an incoming snowstorm. It has that certain look and feel that winter is coming, and it is coming right now. The day was cold and gloomy, with good reason, but everything came together to let me create this piece.

I explored Alta a little more, but this is the photograph I came to make, and I like how it came out. It was time to head back down the mountain! Step one of Colorado autumn was complete, even if it doesn’t feature the classic fall colors.

We’re going to go out of order here and jump to a different day, a different place, and even an entirely different trip. But we’re on an adventure, so we can break some rules. Why not?

I’ve been to Gothic, Colorado, many times over many years. When I started photographing, in fact, Gothic was one of the first places I’d been to. So, in many respects, it feels like home to me and holds a special place in my heart. Every few years I go back there, just to revisit and enjoy it. I look around, remembering the wonderful adventures I’ve had this year.

And this year, I added more memories for my Colorado autumn adventure.

The road from Crested Butte to Gothic is one of my favorite roads. It is a windy dirt road, but every corner holds a different view, and more amazing than the last view. I end up stopping every ten feet or so. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, and it probably is. Furthermore, I guess I end up stopping every twenty feet or so. Maybe thirty, but absolutely no more than that.

This year the leaves were perfectly at peak, and the weather was ideal. I had an image in my mind that I wanted to create, and I knew the ideal spot to try. Hopefully, it would work.

I was excited as I made my way there. That didn’t mean I didn’t stop a lot to get out, enjoy, and photograph, because I did. But I was on a mission. It took me several hours to go just a couple of miles, which is pretty quick for me, but I did make it to where I was thinking of. Much to my delight, everything came together! The leaves were perfect. The weather was cooperating. I parked and scouted around, looking for the best spot.

Aspen Inspiration

It didn’t take long to make my decision. I set up carefully, and I knew in my heart of hearts that the photograph would come together. It did, and Aspen Inspiration is the result. It is a new photograph for me, but I know it will be one of my favorites over the years. Both because of how well it came out and also for the memories it holds for me. It’s like coming back home, and there is no better feeling than coming home.

I also really, as in really, like how the photograph pulls us forward. You can barely see the mountain in the background, so we know we’re headed there. The road is wide and easy, so there’s no drama about that. The colors are rich and vibrant, with a beautiful mix of yellows and reds, and even the lone pine tree in there lets us know we are indeed at the height of fall. For me, all these elements come together, compelling us to continue down the road.

And I did just that.

We’ll jump days again to a wholly different place for our final stop on our Colorado autumn tour. I have long known about a certain group of aspens whose trunks were unusual. It was time for me to see them with my own eyes.

For this photograph to work, I didn’t want any sun, and if anything, I wanted rain. It was a race against time for me. The leaves were ideal, but the weather was not. Would I get my cloudy, or even rainy, day before the leaves went past peak? Every day I checked. Every day the leaves were getting better, but any day now would be “it,” and they would begin to fade. I was getting more anxious by the day, hoping it would work out for me this year.

Finally, on what I thought would be the last day, the weather cooperated! It was a gloomy and rainy day. Perfect!

I headed off outside the town of Ophir, Colorado, which is as specific as I’ll be for this location. I located the stand of aspens, and there, before me, lay one of the most unusual sights I’ve seen.

The aspen trunks are all curved! It’s as if they are swaying and dancing! I couldn’t shake the feeling that the aspens truly were dancing as I made Dancing Aspens, which explains my title for this piece. Yet, the more I looked, the more enraptured I became, and after I created the photograph, I just stood there in the rain and enjoyed the scene. 

I was sad to leave Colorado autumn. But I’ll be back. You can bet I’ll see the “Welcome to Colorado” before long.

No one knows what caused these trunks to curve like this. Perhaps it was natural, or perhaps someone long ago curved them when the aspens were young and flexible. I, personally, think it is a more natural cause. There are other aspens in the general area that have some curves. These are more individual aspens, and the curve isn’t as pronounced, but it is there all the same. The more you look, too, the more you can find. So, surely, this must be some odd natural phenomenon, but beyond that, I cannot, and will not, hazard a guess.

My Colorado autumn trips were now complete, and I headed back to New Mexico and the “Welcome to New Mexico” sign I know so well. Colorado was in my rearview mirror, but I’ll be back again!

Bring Colorado Autumn Home

Alta View, Aspen Inspiration and Dancing Aspens look great in this story. Now imagine how amazing they will look for you! Don’t wait. Order one of these incredible photographs for yourself.

Note: Dancing Aspens is available by special order. Please contact me and we’ll get one made just for you.

Alaskan Nights Let Us Watch Beautiful and Phenomenal Northern Lights

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Once more, into the night, I set off. I’m no stranger to the world after sundown, and the transition of dancing shadows into the time of darkness is alluring to me. The quietness that creeps in as the rest of the world heads to sleep sings loudly in my soul. I hear, I listen, I embrace the darkness, and I revel in the land without light. In the depths of winter, the Alaskan nights are pierced and dispelled by the dazzling displays of the Aurora Borealis—the famed northern lights.

My adventures in Alaska have been, to say the least, amazing. I’ve photographed majestic bald eagles and been inspired by their grace and intensity. While bushwhacking along unarmed streams on an uninhabited island I’ve encountered bears that I was searching for. And I’ve even chartered a boat to sail the waters of the Inner Passage allowing me to be up close with the phenomenal humpback whales. 

Yet, these daytime adventures are only part of my Alaska experience—the Northern Lights are an adventure in and of themselves.

On the surface, photographing the northern lights is as easy as it gets. All you need to do is wait for nighttime. Then, stand in front of a decent foreground. Finally, snap a picture of the lights. What could be easier? You’ll have the perfect snapshot with no effort at all, and you’ll wonder what all the fuss is about.

Until, of course, it comes time to actually do that. Reality has a way of crashing the party.

And so does discouragement, whom we’ll meet in a while.

You can see the northern lights in many places—Iceland and Norway spring to mind, but Alaska is my preferred location. The lights can appear any time of the year, too. However, summer nights are the shortest nights, and in the northern latitudes, the least dark. Winter nights are the longest and the darkest. So, we’ve narrowed it down to Alaska in the winter. Which also happens to be the most difficult time of the year because, well, it’s winter. And winter means cold. 

The Alaskan cold is nothing to take lightly. It’s not a cold you can shrug off. You need to be prepared for it, to embrace it, and to come to terms with it. It’s not for the faint of heart. The Alaskan nights are brutal, and photographing the lights will push you to, and beyond, your limits.

Well, OK. You can be comfortable seeing the lights. There are resorts with heated glass domes where you can see the Aurora Borealis if it appears. You can even have someone wake you up, too, so you don’t have to stay awake. But—that doesn’t work for me. I cannot, and will not, photograph from inside a dome. I need to be where there are no artificial lights spoiling the darkness. Vast landscapes are not found within a city or resort. No, I need to be miles and miles away from everything, alone in the Alaskan night, hunting the northern lights on my terms.

For me, there is no other way.

As much as I complain about being cold—and I frequently whine about cold weather—I am prepared for it. My parka is as warm as they come, my gloves and mittens are top-notch, and the rest of my gear is up to the challenge. Alaska has taught me, if nothing else, what the true meaning of cold is. 

Standing still in a snowbank in the middle of a February night in howling wind and sub-zero temperatures tends to be a good teacher.

I’ve learned many lessons. There is more to be learned, of course, but I feel I am on the right track.

This was the set up for my first grand northern lights photograph, River’s Aurora. I was north of Fairbanks out along the Steese Highway. The Steese is a favorite haunt of mine, thanks to it being paved for a long way and heading out into the remote wilderness. Plus, it has some staggeringly good foregrounds and views, too. Perfect!

River’s Aurora was made along the Steese. That night, although the sky was perfect, the lights had decided to take the night off. There’s never a guarantee you’ll see the lights on any given night. Usually, you have a good chance of seeing them. But that’s a chance, not a certainty. They might appear directly overhead or miles away. They might hang out all night, or you might see them for only a moment. You never know, but the only way to photograph them is to be out there waiting.

That means standing in the cold, watching. There is no better way to be cold than standing still, too. When the wind is blowing, well, that just adds to the cold. Believe me when I say this is some of the most intense cold you are likely to encounter. There is nothing for it but to endure it, waiting, hoping the lights will appear.

They will or they won’t. But you will be crazily cold, either way.

So, back to River’s Aurora. The windy night, despite perfectly clear skies, was shaping up to be a bust. No sign at of the lights. Several times, I thought they might be appearing, but it was just my mind playing tricks on me. I persevered, though, and continued my vigil. I was going to outlast the Alaskan nights!

And, remarkably, I did. 

Just after 2:30am the lights danced out of nowhere. They swirled and whirled across the sky, racing to their own secret destination. They appeared to be emanating from one point, though, and I realized that by standing in a snowbank over a frozen river, I could create this composition. I now waited, more impatiently than ever, for the exact right moment. I shivered. The lights danced.

And then it happened. The exact right moment came together as I willed my frozen fingers to life. River’s Aurora is that result.

Let’s fast forward a couple of years later and push out further away from Fairbanks. We’re getting into very remote areas which means the darkest possible skies you can find anywhere. There are no humans, no artificial lights, and nothing at all for mile upon countless mile. This. This is Alaska.

Up at the top of a pass there exists a panoramic view that captivates me. There’s something about this view that I can’t put my finger on. The mountains are far from the tallest I’ve ever photographed—far, far from that. The peaks, such as they are, are low and rounded. There are empty fields with a few trees scattered here and there. In so many other places it is a decidedly unremarkable view. Yet here, at night, the mundane transcends into the sublime. 

Mountain’s Aurora is the fruit of patience. Not only did I wait for the Aurora Borealis to appear over a night, I waited it out over several nights over several years. I knew, deep in my heart, that a magical photograph was possible. I just had to go back, time and again, year after year, waiting for the moment.

That in itself isn’t easy. I go out early in the evening, waiting for full dark to envelop me. My heart is full of hope as I wonder what awaits me. I might see a faint display or perhaps even a simple sheet of color. As the night drags on, though, and no magic happens, it becomes harder and harder to keep the faith. Discouragement creeps up alongside me and wraps itself around me, keeping me company. As dawn begins to make itself known, it’s time to pack up. The drive back is three, maybe ten, times as long as it was on the way out.

Then I do that again the next night. This time, Discouragement is there ahead of me. I try to keep it at bay, but before long we’re best friends again.

The cycle repeats. The nights become colder. 

It would be easy to say “No, not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.” But that’s giving in to temptation. Faith requires strength, and so I gird myself to face the cold once again. I make the trek back to the mountaintop and defy the cold. Discouragement is there, waiting for me, but I tell it we can no longer see each other. It slinks away as the sky dance begins, off in the distance.

It’s different this time. Very different.

The lights are not faint. They are bright. They are not a single sheet of green. Not only that, but they are defined bands. And they’re colorful. Bright. Vibrant. Lighting the heavens above and my heart within. Discouragement takes a glance at the sky and runs for cover, knowing it has been vanquished. 

Mountain's Aurora

Mountain’s Aurora comes to life! There is no cold nor discomfort. There is only light and color cascading across the sky. One awesome moment is transcended by the next, and it’s challenging to know which is the best moment to make the photograph because they are all amazing. I choose the best one, though.

Looking back on that experience, just one of the many Alaskan nights, I don’t really remember the cold nor discomfort. I only recall the elation I felt and how inspiring the display was. I can remember exactly when I made this photograph, and I can recall precisely how I felt as I did. The entire moment is seared into my memory. And I think that comes through in this photograph. 

I could go on forever, but I think we’ll begin to draw this adventure to a close. Next, we’re heading several hours south of Fairbanks because there is one photograph I wanted to make. It doesn’t involve soaring mountains. Instead, I wanted the aurora over water and ice, and I knew just the place to go.

There is a small, intimate beach next to a river that showed excellent promise. “Beach” is more of a euphemism, I suppose, because it’s not a traditional sandy beach you might think of. It’s more of a way to access the river, but “beach” is as good a word as any to describe it. 

Interestingly, on my drive there I saw Discouragement hitchhiking along the road. It had its thumb up and was trying to grab a ride with me. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even slow down. In fact, I sped up and pointedly ignored it. It had no place with me tonight.

From the small beach I had a safe and easy way to photograph over the water. All I needed was the aurora. I began to set up my gear, carefully preparing it. I bundled into my warm parka, fussed with my mittens and gloves, and generally got everything ready. Furthermore, I was so focused on preparing for the wait that I forgot to look at the sky. 

A glint caught the corner of my eye, and I glanced upward. I almost fainted. The aurora was out tonight, and was it spectacular!

It held itself poised, waiting. It curled and whirled, unwinding itself as I approached my camera. I framed the photograph, and just as I was ready to create the photograph, the aurora exploded into the most incredible display! 

Aurora's Glory

My parka was even fully zipped as I made Aurora’s Glory, but I never felt the cold. Now I had the photograph I wanted. It’s as if it saved a special treat just for me. Sometimes, everything comes together just as you planned it, and sometimes, like tonight, it comes together even better than you hoped for!

There are so many more Alaskan nights to share, but this is a good place to stop for now. Occasionally, it takes patience and the willingness to be mightily uncomfortable to create the photograph I want. Other times, circumstances come together seemingly on their own to create it. The results, though, speak for themselves. I’ll be back in Alaska, both in the daylight and after dark. There are more adventures waiting for me!

Oh! And Discouragement? I saw it on the way back as it was still looking for a ride. Too bad. It’s just not for me.

Bring the Journey Home

You don’t have to stand in the cold to enjoy the Northern Lights! Mountain’s Aurora can be created, just for you.

Death Valley has some of the most extraordinary night skies

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Death Valley National Park is one of the larger National Parks, sprawling over 3.4 million acres—the largest national park in the Lower 48 states. It is a remote park, located on the far eastern edge of California, with a small area tipping into Nevada. It’s remoteness and size has long held my attention, and it remains one of my favorite parks. Over the years I’d visited, I developed a fascination for creating one certain photograph—and to spoil the surprise and suspense immediately, I did. But I’m going to make you wait until the very end of this story to see that result.

I’ve written about Death Valley National Park before in The Playa. That was a marvelous adventure, and one I thought long and hard about recreating just for the joy of it. But I was on a different mission, so focused on creating the vision I was after.

In reality, I had a couple of goals in mind. The first was exploring more of the park, so let’s concentrate on that one first. There are a couple of paved roads in the park, one more or less leading from east to west, or west to east if you prefer, that carries most of the park’s traffic. It leads to the most popular areas, including Furnace Creek, which is the heart of Death Valley. 

Here, you’ll find everything you might desire. Camping, hotels, and the assorted supply and gift shops. I spent a few lazy afternoons here waiting. I’ll admit that sitting on a bench under a palm tree, while eating an ice cream cone in Death Valley is one of those surreal experiences I won’t forget for a long time, if ever. It is a scientific fact that Ice cream tastes a thousand percent better under a palm tree.

The paved roads also extend to the very popular Badwater Basin, which we’ll revisit shortly. But I was keen to explore more of the less-traveled areas, and so I left the pavement and headed out into the wilds of the park.

Out on the western edges of the park, you’ll find some of the best Joshua Trees anywhere in the west. A park ranger told me, and believe them, that the Joshua Trees here are larger and healthier than those in Joshua Tree National Park. And after seeing them, I believe it. 

It took a while to reach them by way of the dirt roads, but the effort was well-rewarded. I wasn’t in any hurry, either, preferring instead to stop, explore and see what wonders are hidden from view.

A Joshua Tree in Death Valley National Park

The trees in the densest area were every size, and sprawled absolutely everywhere. Unlike a traditional forest, however, Joshua trees do not grow close to each other, so the “forest” is a far more spread out than you might expect. 

A "forest" o Joshua Trees

This photograph illustrates how many trees there are. And for Joshua trees, they are enormous indeed. You can tap/click on the photograph for a larger view. I’ve been to Joshua Tree National Park and marveled at those trees, but after seeing this hidden gem, I totally agree with the ranger: these trees are magnificent.

A weirdly-shaped Joshsa Tree

Everywhere I looked there were more and more trees, each more oddly shaped than the last, and I could have spent days here wandering and exploring. And in fact, I almost did. But I had something else to create so I kept to my primary goal.

As an aside, one fun surprise at the edge of the Joshua forest was a small cabin with an outhouse tucked down a very short side-path. The cabin is well-known, but it was the outhouse that caught my eye. There is something about the entire scene that captured my attention and delighted me.

Loo View

And no, I didn’t use the outhouse. It scared me to even open the door, frankly, and I decided that was more adventure than I was looking for. Some things are just better left unknown. 

But, I digress from my goal, which lies back on the eastern side of the Death Valley. I was looking to go deep into the night skies, and especially during the winter months.

The Milky Way is the faint band of light that we can see from Earth, and is one arm of our galaxy. Best of all, it is full of stars—so many, in fact, that we can’t see them all, nor even make them all out. The center of the Milky Way is one of my favorite photographic targets, and one I seldom miss a chance to photograph. But the Milky Way offers more than just the core.

As the seasons change, so do our views of the Milky Way. Usually, the Milky Way is photographed from spring through fall, since that’s when the core is visible. But the winter months offer a different, and unique view—this is what I was truly after on this adventure. 

I wanted a wide, open expanse, and what better place than Death Valley? Here, with some of the darkest skies possible in North America, I had the best opportunity to photograph the night skies without any light pollution. There were two photographs I wanted to create, and, remarkably, both worked out.

The first one I wanted to create was at Zabriskie Point. I’ve been here many times during the daylight. Zabriskie Point, in fact, showcases a remarkable sunrise. But I knew that it would take on an entirely different look at night. I couldn’t wait!

The day offered the perfect set up for the night. There were no clouds at all in the sky, and the forecast said the night would be clear. I waited anxiously through the day, hoping the forecast would hold it. It did. The day was windy, too, which threatened to become a problem, and I was also hoping the forecast was wrong about the wind speed. Alas, it was not, and the winds were indeed problematic for me.

I don’t know why, but lately the winds seem to follow me around. No matter what the forecast says, the winds swirl around me, pick up dust, and threaten my photography. Perhaps I was the God of Winds in a former life? I really need to find a way to make peace with them, though. One of these days, I will. I hope.

Into the dark of night

I scouted around as the sun was setting and worked out exactly where I wanted to be, then began the vigil. The sun set, the sky remained clear, and the winds continued to blow. This was going to be a long, cold winter night in the desert. There was nothing for it, except to bear it out and hope I dressed warm enough. I was, but not by much.

It isn’t the cold that is the problem, really. It’s the standing still in the cold that is difficult. If I was moving from here to there, then my body heat would keep me warm. But standing there, in the cold and the wind, quickly saps whatever heat you might have had, and there’s no way to gain it back save by shuffling around. But you can’t go too far, meaning you can’t generate much heat. And the result is you just end up cold. It is a feeling I am all too familiar with.

As full darkness set in, I began working on the photograph. The familiar daylight scene transformed into one of mystery, and the sky shown bright with stars. I was able to bring out some structures seldom seen. We are used to seeing the sky full of stars, but the heavens contain more than stars. There are also vast emission nebulas, normally not visible to the naked eye. By using a modified camera and some careful processing, I brought these nebulas out. 

Zabriskie's Night

Zabriskie’s Night is the final result. The constellation of Orion is setting over Zabriskie Point. And we can plainly see the reddish hues of the emission nebulas, and especially the large arc known as Barnard’s Loop. To me, this represents years of thought and planning and having everything come together into one mystical photograph is the culmination of all my effort.

This area of the sky, only visible in the winter months, is one of my all-time favorite parts of the sky. I adore looking at it, staring at, and into, it. Every time I am outside and Orion is visible, I stop and look at it in wonder. To be able to create this photograph, then, at one of the most iconic locations in any National Park, is truly a dream come true for me. 

I was fighting with the wind far more than I cared for, but eventually, I won out. Normally, some wind isn’t that big of a deal, but at night, it complicates matters considerably. I need longer exposures to image the sky and the slightest movement of the camera, no matter how tiny, will spoil the photograph. Dead calm is the ideal situation and gusty winds the worst. This night the winds were blowing steadily, which complicated things, but I was able to overcome them. Whew.

I really need to figure out how to come to terms with the winds.

I planned this photograph for years. And now, at least, I completed it, and it looks even better than I had imagined it would.

But, there is more to accomplish! There’s another photograph to bring to life.

And for that, it’s time to return to Badwater Basin.

Death Valley’s Badwater Basin has exactly what I wanted—a wide, sweeping and interesting foreground combined with dark skies. As Badwater Expanse illustrates, the salt flats of the dried lake bed are fascinating. During periods of heavy rain, a lake forms here. As it dries, it leaves behind hexagonally shaped patterns of salt ridges which stretch into the distance. During the day, this makes for fantastic photographs, but at night, it takes on an otherworldly feel. I could hardly wait.

Badwater Expanse

Once again I watched the forecast which said clear skies are likely. And once again, it was supposed to be windy, but with luck it wouldn’t be quite as bad as at Zabriskie Point. I waited non-too patiently for the sun to go down.

It did, eventually, although it seemed like it too forever to do so. It was breezy, to be sure, but not nearly as bad as it was at Zabriskie Point. As the full dark of night settled in, I set about to create a broad, sweeping panorama of the winter Milky Way in ideal conditions.

Badwater Radiance

There’s a lot going on in Badwater Radiance. I was careful to make sure we could see the basin itself. The distant mountains are in shadow, but that was by design. And the night sky! Here, up above, we can see countless millions of stars, the gentle arc of the Winter Arch and even more of the fabulous emission nebulas. 

All told, there are hours and hours of work, and years of planning, to create Badwater Radiance, but it is the photograph I was hoping for.

It was difficult to pack up my gear at the end because I didn’t want the night to end. And once I was packed up, I just stood there, enjoying the stillness of the night and the glory and magnificence that is the Winter Arch of the Milky Way in Death Valley National Park.

Bring the Adventure Home

You can purchase, and fully customize, Badwater Radiance and Zabriskie’s Night. You can also purchase Zabriskie Point, too.

If you don’t see an option that works for you, contact me. There’s lots of options to create the perfect piece just for you.

More Adventures

You can also read the adventure of when I visited Death Valley’s Racetrack.

Peek behind the scenes with the remarkable making of Twilight Crescent

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I adore being outside, especially after dark. Or, perhaps more accurately, I adore being outside and enjoying the transition from daylight to nighttime. There’s something magical, mystical even, as the day fades and night begins to creep in. At first, the world loses its color, but then it transforms into something even more intense as starlight illuminates the landscape. It’s during this transition, though, that the world becomes very interesting, and even more so when the moon is involved. Twilight Crescent is the culmination of a long journey for me to create the vision I held.

Wolf Moon was one of my first photographs and remains to this day one of mine, and your, favorites. It has a certain ethereal quality to it that defies description. Everyone notices, and remarks, on it. It has this certain quality to it that transcends time and space. I’ve tried, many times, to create a companion piece, and despite several excellent versions, never quite succeeded. 

Wolf Moon

I’ve thought long and hard about what I wanted to create, and eventually had stetted on a plan. I wanted a rising crescent moon, in a deep blue sky, filled with stars. Simple, right? But, as it turns out, not so much. It took me a lot, and I mean a lot, longer than I would have ever expected. The making of Twilight Crescent would take longer than I hoped.

At first, I thought I would wait for the precise right phase of the moon, step out my back door, photograph it, and present my masterpiece. Funny how that simply didn’t work out.

The two most difficult obstacles I had were clouds and place. Yes, the moon has the phase I wanted each month. But either the moon rose before or after twilight, or I wasn’t in a position where I could photograph it, or, clouds were in my way. Because I travel, I am not always in a place where I can create a moon photograph at exactly the right time. I know—it sounds simple, but in practice, it is not. And, as it turns out, there were only a few windows of time every year that I could use.

Or, if I was in the right place at the right time, clouds would obscure the moon. While the clouds provided the exact right atmosphere for Wolf Moon, my vision here was absolutely no clouds at all.

The conditions, as I knew they would, eventually came together. When they did, I learned another lesson: this wouldn’t be straightforward at all. Figuring out the correct exposure, framing and timing turned out to be way more complicated than I anticipated, so a couple of times ended up being a learning lesson. I know, I know. I could have tried again the next night, but I am quite particular, and it has to be “just right.”

So back to the drawing board I went, now waiting for the exact right phase the next month, which meant I was back to my time and space, as well as clouds, problem.

Anyway, you get the idea. This took me far longer than I ever expected, but… when you are looking for the perfect image, it takes time. 

Twilight Crescent

The final result, Twilight Crescent, is one I am proud to present to you. It represents the vision I had so long ago, and it feels good to complete this simple, yet fantastic, photograph. It has the feel and the vibe I was looking for. Furthermore, it tells the story I wanted to tell, and it came out exactly how I wanted it to. The making of this photograph was a mini adventure in itself, but it sure ended well!

I couldn’t be happier with it. Now, it’s on to the next adventure!

Twilight Crescent will look great in your home

Bring Twilight Crescent home, and place the moon where you can see a perfect moon every day, rain or shine.

A perfect fall day for the Sandia Mountains

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I have a particular fascination with the Sandia Mountains that tower over Albuquerque, New Mexico. This is hardly a surprise since I live right next to them. Still, for me, creating a stunning photograph of them is something I am constantly striving for, and occasionally, I succeed. Serene Sandias is one of those moments.

The autumn morning was crisp, although gloomy. All in all, it was a typical fall morning for New Mexico. Still, it held some promise and maybe, just maybe, today would be the day. The trees were changing into their autumn display, but not every tree was changing at the same time. The variety of colors made for an impressive scene: all I needed was for it all to come together.

As the day wore on, the clouds, and gloom, began to break up and the sun peeked through here and there. I waited, and waited some more, hoping the scene would come together. The Sandia Mountains change rapidly–all I had to do was wait and hope.

Fate was with me! Just as a few Canadian Geese settled onto the Rio Grande river, the sun broke through the clouds, lighting up the Sandia Mountains. The geese, together with the broad range of fall colors and clearing storm, created the perfect moment.

Serene Sandias

This stunning combination all comes together in Serene Sandias, available now. You can create your own stunning masterpiece by selecting the perfect combination of frame style and size. With a wide variety of options, you can match your decor perfectly, and together, this unique piece will be one you treasure and enjoy forever.

From a small, intimate size to a large statement piece, we can create something unique to you. You’ll enjoy this perfect fall moment in the Sandia Mountains every day, with its panoply of fall colors. And every day you will be reminded of the beauty that is all around us. 

Bring the Sandia Mountains home!

Bring the journey home with Serene Sandias!

Valley Spirit: Wild Horses Running Free In Monument Valley

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The spring morning was crisp and quiet, as only the mornings in the desert can be. Although there were, perhaps, distant storm clouds cresting the horizon, they remained a tease more than a threat. The storm clouds made a meager and ill-fated attempt to appear ominous, then decided that was ineffective. The solitude of the sands remained undisturbed. Valley Spirit was yet to be made.

Except for the distant sound of hooves drumming on the sand, that is. The gentle nickers and snorts of the horses, whom the hooves belonged to, wove into the tapestry of the morning, the drumbeat quickly growing louder and more intense. Finally, the horses themselves appeared, cresting a low dune, running toward whatever destination they had in mind. They ran wild and free and ran for the sheer joy of running. Manes and tails splayed out behind them, and they left a small dust cloud in their wake. The horses tore across the valley, emblazoned with, truly, the spirit of the west.

Valley Spirit

Monument Valley is an iconic location. It has represented the archetype of the American West throughout the years in countless movies and photographs. Towering buttes, jutting one thousand feet straight up, rise from the valley floor. The contrast between the sands and the sandstone rock is hard and striking, yet it also weaves into the fabric of Monument Valley’s mythology. 

Yet, it is the horses, running wild, free, and with the spirit of the west, that capture the essence of the valley. 

Before long, their run took them over another dune and out of sight, leaving only the echoes and memory of their headlong dash into freedom. 

The Backstory

Great story, right? Hopefully, the photograph Valley Spirit and the story bring to life what you might imagine the American West is. And truly, the scene and the story are precisely what happened. I’m thrilled to have made this photograph, and throughout my career, it remains one of my all-time favorites. It has stood, and will continue to do so, against the test of time and succeeded.

But there’s just a little more to this particular photograph and story. This photograph, although it accurately represents a fantastic moment, is an illusion. Here’s how it came to be.

One fine day I was wandering through Monument Valley, exploring its nooks and crannies. I was searching for just the right place where I could create a wonderful photograph that you don’t see every day. To achieve that, I wanted to find a place where few photographers go in the valley. I wasn’t successful in that quest, but while searching, I was thinking about all the western movies filmed here. It didn’t take me too long to think about horses and how awesome it would be to photograph wild horses in the valley.

As it turns out, there aren’t any wild horses in Monument Valley, nor, for that matter, anywhere close to the valley. So, my dream photograph wasn’t going to happen by chance. I was going to have to make it happen. I figured if the movies can do it, then so can I. Maybe.

There are a few families who live in the valley, and one of them owns horses. It took some effort and some explaining, but eventually the plan came together nicely. Horses and wranglers would be hired. The major hurdle was no more.

With the basic “how it was going to happen” sorted out, we led the horses over to the far side of the valley in a single group. The theory, which turned out to work, was that once prodded, the horses would head back to their home. I positioned myself where I thought the horses might go, gave the signal, held my breath, and waited. The horses were on their own now.

The horses knew where to go, and, luckily for me, they went; they decided to run—and conveniently right in front of where I positioned myself. Valley Spirit was made.

As for the illusion, what you don’t see are the wranglers just behind the horses, nor everyone supporting the effort. It simply appears as the horses happened to be running by, and I happened to be there. By carefully framing the image, I was able to create the vision of the horses being alone in the valley. Photography is often the art of illusion, in the end. As a photographer, I decide what to include, and importantly, what not to include in the image. This lets me tell the story that I see and want to present.

As for the reality, at that moment, the horses were indeed wild and free, running with abandon, seemingly for the joy of running. Perhaps, then, Valley Spirit isn’t fantasy, but rather, represents the inner spirit of the horses.

The Future Story

There was a time when wild horses were indeed running free in Monument Valley, but that time has long passed. Today, society is far less tolerant of wildlife in general. We remove horses whenever we can, lest they spoil the forage for other livestock, such as cows or sheep. We round them up and corral them. A few lucky ones find new homes. The rest, well, their stories end. 

We can change this. It is never too late to find tolerance and to enjoy the spirit and the freedom that only a wild horse can bring. The drumming hooves pounding on the desert sands, the braying in the distance, can once again be a part and parcel of the west. We can let it be wild again if we have the will. It’s up to us. All of us.

Bring Valley Spirit Home

If Valley Spirit calls to you, and I hope it does, you can bring the adventure home. Here on the website, you’ll find Valley Spirit in a couple of standard sizes. If you have specific requirements, I can make a custom piece just for you. I can create a special version that matches your space and can create it in custom sizes. I can even create a custom-framed piece that will be spectacular. So, if the standard options don’t quite fit your needs, contact me, and we’ll create something just for you.

Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah’s Wonders: Revealing unseen hoodoo marvels

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New Mexico is known, among so many other things, for its badlands. Here, you’ll find torturous and twisted hoodoos and rock formations, each more fantastical than the last. Some formations are small, and you have to stoop down to see it’s twisted shape. Others tower above you, and you need to step back to take it all in. The Bisti Wilderness is the most well-known of these formations, yet I prefer a different one: the Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah Wilderness. For here, you’ll find incredible Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah wonders, both large and small.

It’s challenging to know even where to begin in the badlands. There are no trails, nor any marked path. One merely sets off in “that direction” and keeps going until it is time to leave. I think this is such a marvelous way to explore! As each formation catches your eye, you head toward it to investigate it further. Once there, you’ll see another one, and then another, and before you know it, you have no idea at all which one to go to next because they all look so astonishing.

I can spend hours and days in the wilderness, and in fact, I have. And it appears that I never see the same formations twice.

The Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah Wilderness is in northern New Mexico, immediately to the north of Chaco Canyon National Historical Park. In fact, the northern border of Chaco is just across a dirt road from the southern edge of the Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah. Interestingly, Chaco Canyon doesn’t have any significant hoodoos or rock formations. You can find a few here and there, but they are few and far between. Yet, once you’re in the badlands, the landscape transforms into a fairyland of wonder.

Usually, in my articles, I make you wait until I reveal the photographs that I am featuring. This time, however, we’ll get right to a photograph. After all, why wait? Seeing is believing, after all.

Hoodoo Dance
(Don’t forget you can tap/click for a much larger view!)

The afternoon was one of those rare times when I knew, I just knew, something magical would happen at sunset. The clouds were thick, but not too thick, and the upper-level winds were moving them about. In other words, the clouds had some life to them and showed promise of something interesting happening. I was, naturally, in the Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah, exploring a section I had been to previously, but wanted to go back to for further examination.

The hoodoos here are smaller than in other places, but what they lacked in size they more than made for in numbers. There were hoodoos, quite literally, everywhere. It was difficult to walk in a straight line because there were so many. No, that’s not quite right. It was completely impossible to walk in a straight line at all. It was like weaving my way through a maze, but a maze where the walls were only about knee-height. Naturally, I adore this area. It truly is an area of Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah wonders.

Scouting amongst the hoodoos

I spent the afternoon scouting several locations for sunset, and I knew exactly where I wanted to be when the time came. You’ve already seen the photograph, so you know already how this turns out. I’ll spare you the details of how I was hoping it would, in fact, be an outstanding sunset and instead merely point out that the clouds cooperated perfectly. The late afternoon light just before sunset was sublime. All in all, I could not be more pleased with how Hoodoo Dance turned out.

The three larger hoodoos on top seem to dance with joyful abandon, while the smaller hoodoos to the right bask in the waning warmth of the day. The serene purple hues in the clouds tie it all together, and Hoodoo Dance is, well, what an incredible photograph it is!

The wonderful thing about the badlands is the wonders don’t cease when the sun goes down. In fact, sunset is only the beginning of the magic that happens.

The period of time after the sun has set and before it is completely dark is known as “blue hour.” Although the sun is no longer in the sky, it still provides a lot of light, although now the light is far more blue than yellow. Longer exposures bring out the blue tones, and it is possible to photograph long after the sun has departed for the day. Occasionally, these photographs take on a magical quality to them.

Such is the case with Twilight Hoodoos. I made Twilight Hoodoos almost 45 minutes after sunset with an extremely long exposure. At first glance, you don’t notice the blue tones, but as you absorb the details, you quickly begin to notice them. The result is a fantastic mixture of golden and blue tones. Best of all, there are still some purples in the clouds, giving a whole other-world feel to the photograph.

Twilight Hoodoos

The rock where I made Twilight Hoodoos is more white, providing, almost, the appearance of snow. It’s not, though. It’s just hard, smooth white rock, which I think provides a perfect base to build the rest of the photograph from. I am constantly amazed that moving just a few hundred yards in a different direction provides an entirely distinct setting, and it looks like I, instead, traveled a hundred miles. How is this even possible?

But, I can hear you ask, what happens when the sun goes down in the badlands? Weren’t you going to talk about that?

To which I say: the badlands become even more magical. As a case in point, take Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah Starscape.

Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah Starscape

Here, the Milky Way soars above the badlands, and the landscape transforms into an entirely alien world. These skies are dark—as dark as any you’ll find in New Mexico—and the Milky Way shines as bright as it possibly can. You can see, I think, millions of stars, and you can peer deep into the core of the Milky Way. It’s easy to become lost while looking up into the sky. There’s no other humans anywhere close to you, so the silence, along with the darkness, is absolute.

An experience like no other

Standing alone in the desert in the darkest of all skies, staring at the heavens soaring over the hoodoos really drives home a sense of place and scale for you. We humans are but one small mote of a never-ending universe, and here, you can feel that at your very core. It is an experience that will transfix and transform you. You cannot help but be moved by standing there. Such is the magic of the Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah wonders.

And, as fate would have it, an asteroid streaked through the photograph, too! This, for me, was simply the icing on the cake, and this remains a favorite of all my badlands photographs. Talk about everything coming together and precisely the right moment!

Alas, our dark skies are threatened. First, we have the issue of the oil and gas wells in the area. Over the years, more and more wells are being drilled. The wells themselves aren’t an issue, but their lights are. In truly dark areas, you can see the tiniest of lights from a long ways away. A flashlight can be seen for miles and is enough to spoil a Milky Way image. Small pinpricks of light carry a long way. Imagine how far away you can see the bright lights of the wells.

Worse, it isn’t just the wells themselves. There are processing and holding areas, too, and these are exceptionally well-lit at night. Where once I couldn’t see a light, anywhere, in any direction I looked, now the horizon, both near and far, has a glow to it in all directions. What was truly dark is now mostly dark, and when creating photographs at night, “mostly dark” is a vast, and very unwelcome distance from “truly dark.” And it is getting worse every year.

This area is an excellent case in point. When I was last here after dark, I couldn’t see anything. Now, I had to take exceptional care to compose Ah-She-She-Pah’s Starscape to make it look as if it were completely dark. It was, in fact, not. There are oil well lights just on the other side of the hoodoos, but by careful positioning I was able to hide them just enough to pull off the effect of darkness.

Such is the price of progress. I get it, I really do. There are competing interests for the lands, and as much as the oil and gas people are as careful and thoughtful as they can be, they do create substantial light pollution. Now, it is no longer a matter of “leaving the city,” but also trying to find a place where progress hasn’t happened yet. These areas are getting fewer, small and further between and I fear it won’t be long before it is not possible to find a truly dark sky.

But, let’s not end on that note! I typically showcase three images in my long reads, but let’s add a bonus image as we end in a wonderful place.

Purple Hoodoos

The sunset on this particular day was truly incredible. As the sun began to slip below the horizon, the clouds kept lighting up, and the purples and pinks were as intense as any I’ve seen. Purple Hoodoos shows us just how strong the colors were, and made all the more so by the stark whites of the hoodoos.

I adore the contrast of colors in this photograph. From the small, almost colorless hoodoos in the foreground to the intense fire in the sky, the photograph becomes a study of contrast.

Truly, the Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah wonders are unbelievable, and I’ll be back there again before you know. It is one of my most favorite hidden gems, and one that draws me back and again.

Postscript: After finishing this article, I decided we need just one more beautiful photograph. So, with that in mind, here’s Throne’s Glory! OK. Now we’re done.

Throne's Glory

Now we’re done. Really.

I just can’t leave it alone, can I? Throne’s Glory is available for purchase here on the website. But if the other images speak to you like they do me, contact me and we’ll build something wonderful, just for you.

Badlands Wall: Embracing fury and beauty of Badlands Storms

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It’s been a while, to say the least, since I’ve journeyed to South Dakota’s Badlands National Park. I have fragmentary memories of it as a small child, and although I can’t recall any specific areas of the park, I can recall the incredible formations and knew, deep in my soul, I would one day return. That promise was fulfilled, and it is every bit spectacular as I remembered, and even more so with my adult eyes. When the ideal conditions come together, nothing can beat the fabulous vistas and views of the badlands wall! Especially when a storm comes, as we’ll see.

Badlands National Park’s primary feature is its wall. The rock formations that make up the wall vary in height from a few feet to a few hundred feet, and carve an east-west path through the heart of South Dakota. Much of the wall, while not impassable, per se, is very difficult to cross. Instead, it is far easier to traverse the wall at a pass, which is an area where the wall is less steep. You might have to go way out of your way to get to the nearest pass, but it is the only way.

The wall formed due to erosion and uplift, and in so doing, created layers of rock and a geologic record. The wall is in-process, and up to an inch is eroded every year. An inch doesn’t sound like much, but over time it certainly adds right up.

So, picture this in your mind: the wall has steep sides, jagged rock formations, has spires and peaks, dips and valleys, and is hundreds of miles long. It is, for me, an irresistible magnet, one that called to me from my childhood, and its siren song was answered.

Before we continue, I’ll point out that Badlands National Park also features vast swathes of prairie. Here, the untouched prairie, with tall grasses and wildlife such as bison and prairie dogs, rolls for endless mile after mile. I wandered through those undulating hills day after day, and in a later adventure, we’ll come back to those explorations. What at first glance appears to be nothing more than grasses is, in fact, a diverse, comprehensive ecosystem with untold wonders within it.

For now, though, we’ll stay on, in and below the badlands wall in the North Unit of the park.

Overlook: Badlands

This photograph, Overlook: Badlands, is an excellent introduction to the park, I think. Here, you can see the rock formations of the wall, as well as get a sense of the sweeping expansiveness of the park. I’m perched on an overlook several hundred feet above the rest of the formations just after sunset. This particular sunset was one I didn’t think would work out. The late afternoon was cloudy and overcast.

I was certain the sun had no chance of making an appearance, meaning there was no chance of anything interesting happening at sunset. How wrong I was! Just as the day was ending, the clouds started breaking up and clearing faster than I thought possible. The sun, taking full advantage of the broken clouds, laced the sky with surreal purples and pinks, something which I, and you, will come to appreciate later in this story. For now, though, here at this vantage point, the rocks below reflected the colors of the sky, creating this dramatic scene.

As I watched the drama unfold before my eyes, I thought back to the days of long ago. What was it like before there were roads, and paved roads at that? What were we thinking as we wove our way through the wall, ascending and dropping back down as we found our way? I can only imagine these experiences, and frankly, am glad that we move freely through today’s park.

I stayed at this overlook as darkness crept in and stole the color away, but we have so many more scenes to explore.

As I moved through the park, there were several places that caught my attention and I found myself drawn to. I know, I know. That’s not easy when the entire park demands your attention, but for whatever reason, some areas spoke to me more than others.

Badlands Spires

These spires are one of the areas that captured my imagination. I photographed them numerous times, both at dawn and sunset, as well as even the middle of the day. I photographed them from the road. Not only that, but I climbed a peak high above them, just to see what the view held for me. I photographed them as a sweeping panorama and up close and intimately. In the end, I like this version the best. Although the spires are rugged and jagged, and tell the story of how difficult this landscape is, I think it also speaks to the splendor and beauty of that very harshness. There is beauty here, all around, and for me, Badlands Spires showcases that.

As I kept coming back to this scene, I noted how the rocks changed character and color throughout the day. Each hour of each day brought a different mood to the park and its wall. At times, the rocks were bright and at other times, dark and reflective. When the sun was high overhead, the rocks were pale and stark, but during the early morning and late evening, each place took on a life and character of its own.

Badlands Closeup

This view, Badlands Closeup, shows off the wall during sunrise. The sun was barely cresting the distant horizon over the prairie, lighting up the wall. The early morning light, coupled with the long and dark shadows, creates an intricate interplay on the rock. The striations vividly stand out, and the overall effect is magical. As the sun soared into the sky, the scene changed yet again, creating an ever-changing landscape. As I mentioned earlier, it’s hard for me to pick just one scene to share with you, since each one was incredible in its own way.

Badlands Storm over the wall

During my explorations of the badlands wall, one day in particular was fascinating. In fact, it was the forecast for this day which drove my decision-making to be there in the first place.

When deciding when and where to photograph, weather is almost always a primary consideration. After all, since I am a landscape and nature photographer, by definition, I am outside, and the weather affects everything I do. I knew I wanted to photograph Badlands National Park, and looked for a promising set-up regarding weather. I found it. Although there are never any guarantees when it comes to weather, I knew I had to try. A series of summer storms was in the forecast, and hopefully, those would happen.

They did.

I left myself plenty of time to become acquainted with the park again. It had been forty or more years since I’d been there, so I was starting with fresh eyes. I spent some time scouting for the locations that looked promising, then settled in and waited to see if the forecast was right.

It was.

The day began with clear skies and looked like any other summer day. Hot, with gentle breezes, the morning said it would be the same as any other. But by mid-afternoon, the hints of change were there. Wispy clouds began appearing in the sky, and the previously gentle breeze now had an intensity to it. The thin clouds began coalescing and gathering, and it was now apparent that something was going to happen.

As the afternoon wore on, the white clouds were now tinged with gray and grew thicker. The breeze was now a genuine wind, and continued to pick up speed. Now dark storm clouds began to roll across the sky and the sound of distant thunder rolling over the plains was audible over the wind. Speaking of the wind, it was now steady and strong, and continued to intensify. It was so strong, in fact, that bits of sand stung my face as the wind hurled them at me.

The storm was coming.

It was going to be much bigger than I expected.

I could hardly wait.

Amazingly, the dark and heavy clouds did not cover the entire sky, and the sun still shone. This coincidence allowed me to create Badlands Storm.

Badlands Storm

I really like this photograph. I was a short distance from the wall itself. Close enough to pick up the details in the rocks, but far enough I could create the photograph as a panorama. The green spring grasses, covered in yellow flowers, provided the perfect foreground for the wall itself. And the storm! It was coming in toward me over the wall. The wind was howling when I made this photograph, and I was having trouble standing without being blown over. The rain coming in, too, and I was pelted by sand and rain at the same time—that was an unusual sensation. I am used to being out in inclement weather, but the intensity of what was coming straight at me was frightening. The wall of clouds, rolling over the wall of rock, was a sight I won’t forget, ever.

Just as I completed this panorama, the storm broke over me, and I ran for cover. There was nothing to do but wait as the storm roiled over me, unleashing a fury that only a summer thunderstorm can bring.

What I was truly waiting for was not the storm itself, but the moments after the storm. It is in these moments that I’ve made some of my best photographs, and I was hoping today would bring another opportunity.

It did.

Two of them, in fact.

The first opportunity came as I was driving out to an overlook I scouted before. This particular overlook, in my opinion, is the prettiest in the entirety of the park, and it was here that I thought I had the best chance for an astonishing photograph. I was slightly out of position, though, mostly because I was working on the previous photograph. That was no problem—it was only a short way there. It would take a little while for the heavy storm clouds to move out and, hopefully, leave me with awesome skies to work with.

But along the way, I checked at another area I had been looking at. It’s difficult to put my finger on what caught my eye here. It wasn’t that it had the best views—for it did not. But now, with the storm-tossed skies and the late-afternoon sun once again streaming across the land, the view transformed into something else entirely.

Badlands Sunset

Now, the golden light poured over the rocks, bathing them in an ethereal glow. Shadows played across low hummocks in the foreground, and the wet greens of the spring grasses absolutely glowed in the light. True to the hope, the sky was filled with interesting clouds. Everything came together to create Badlands Sunset. The pact and the promise of the storm was fulfilled.

This is what the badlands wall looks like when the conditions are perfect. I could not have been happier.

And I was about to get even more happy.

The sun was already low on the horizon, and I knew I needed to scoot quickly to my chosen location. I was hoping against hope that the post-storm conditions would hold up, and I would be able to make the photograph I envisioned.

I arrived in plenty of time, and so far, everything was looking good. Moving quickly, I gathered my equipment and headed off for a short hike to wait. Where I immediately learned an important lesson about the badlands.

Earlier, when I scouted the locations, I had no problem moving around. I could go up and down any hill I wanted, and the surface was smooth, hard, and easy to walk on. I didn’t even think twice.

But after a rain? Ah, that was a different story. After the first couple of steps, I felt my feet were heavier than normal. I didn’t think much of it, and figured I was tired. It had been a long day, after all. In another couple of steps, and truly, it couldn’t have been more than a dozen, my feet were really heavy. I looked down and realized that I was now wearing mud overshoes! Every step I took added more and more mud, and now I was having trouble moving. What was a solid surface was now almost liquid. I was not expecting that!

There was nothing for it, though, and I trudged onward, now much slower and far more careful. Somehow, I managed to minimize the amount of mud that I took with me. I made it to where I wanted to be, and waited.

The sun slid below the horizon within moments of me being there, and I readied myself. I was looking for the moment after sunset after a storm, and it would work out in the few minutes or never. I did my best to remember to breathe.

The distant horizon showed some pink. My heart beat a little faster.

The pinks spread across the sky, little by little, then racing across it. The pinks gave way to some purples and the hues intensified and deepened—a rare treat, indeed!

Now I was not breathing at all as I made Badlands Vista.

Badlands Vista

And just as soon as I did, the hues quickly faded. The pinks and purples turned into gray quicker than I thought possible. Perhaps distant clouds covered the sun, but it was OK. The moment I planned for, traveled for, and hoped for came to me there on the badlands wall in South Dakota.

I stood there for a while, not to make any more photographs, but to enjoy the moment and the park heading into night.

Eventually, I headed back, and a funny thing happened. The mud was gone, and the surface was now smooth, dry and hard again. It was remarkable how quick the water was absorbed. At least the walk back was easy for me!

This won’t be the last time I’m at Badlands National Park, and it won’t be the last time you are, either. There are some stories of the prairie and those that live there to be told, too!

Bring the Journey Home

Imagine how stunning Badlands Sunset and Badlands Vista will look in your home. Oh wait! You don’t have to image at all. I can create these beautiful photographs, just for you, and you can always have some of the badlands of your very own!

Winter Bison: Delve into astonishing Yellowstone in the winter

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Winter is often a quiet time of reflection and contemplation. Idyllic days spent beside a roaring fire are on top. For the more adventurous, skiing, replete with cozy ski lodges and tales of the diamond-level run, is a perfect way to spend a cold winter’s day. For me, however, winter means heading into the depths of Yellowstone National Park just before a snowstorm comes in to experience the park, and its winter denizens, at its most severe. There is, in the end, no place like Yellowstone in the winter. Winter Bison explores the magnificent bison herd.

My goal was simple: photograph the bison in the winter snows. And indeed, in the abstract, it is straightforward to do that. But, as in so many areas of life, the difficulty is in the details, and especially in staying safe and warm.

Much of Yellowstone is technically closed for the winter. Most of the roads are closed in the fall and left to the ravages of the winter snows until they are plowed, with a Herculean effort, in the spring. One road, through, is usually open all year. This road goes from the north to the northeast entrance, and every effort is made to keep it open. For me, though, this is perfect and provides me with access to the winter bison herd.

In practical terms, Yellowstone never really closes. Snow coaches and snow machines use the roadways to move throughout the park once enough snow covers the roads. For my purposes, those options wouldn’t provide me the sustained access I needed to create the photographs I had in mind.

Instead, my plan was to wait for a storm, then position myself to be in the park as soon as the storm broke, if not a little before then. This would, I reasoned, give me the freshest setting possible. Luckily for me, there are plenty of winter storms in that area of the country, so it was merely a matter of finding a big storm, but not so big the park ended up being inaccessible for days.

I packed up my winter gear, braced myself for the cold, and headed into the park after one such storm.

Where I immediately discovered that just because the roads are “open” doesn’t mean they are clear nor easy to drive. Quite the opposite, in fact! Moving around the park ranged from “challenging” to “what am I even doing here.” Some steeper hills had sections that were shaded from the sun, and those proved to be especially challenging. Often, the road had a thick layer of ice, which made driving more like sledding and hoping you ended up where you wanted to go. And, just to tease me, every once in a while I would find a section of the road that was perfectly clear, with no snow nor ice. Those were few and far between, but nice to find, all the same.

There was one very scary moment which still bothers me. I had just turned around to head back to a scene which caught my eye. The road was slick and icy, and maybe I wasn’t as quite on the road as I thought I was. In any event, the tires slid off whatever surface they were on, and I began a slide off the road.

Alarms I didn’t even know my SUV had began going off as the SUV began heading for a signpost, and beyond that, a ditch. Once in that ditch, there was no way I was getting out of that by myself. Miraculously, and I am still not sure how, a tire somehow found traction, and I was catapulted back onto the roadway. Against all odds, I found a bit of control and somehow stayed on the road. All in all, it was an unpleasant reminder of just how difficult the roads can be.

Hah. We’re here for the bison photographs, aren’t we. I just wanted to set the scene for you first. Let’s get to the photographs, then!

A few bison are in the foreground, while snow-covered hills are in the background

We’ll start with Forever Yellowstone, which was one of the first photographs I made on the excursion. The road crested a hill, and looking out from the top gave me spectacular views of the winter-encrusted park. In a clearing below me, a few bison are doing bison kinds of things. A couple were moseying over to a new patch of ground; they were in no hurry, and just taking their time.

Then again, the snow was deep, so walking was not something you could do quickly, either. One was looking at me, wondering what I was all about. And two of them were butting heads. It didn’t appear to be anything serious, though, and although they were scuffling, they didn’t put significant effort into it, and soon separated to find grass buried under the snow. For me, though, all the elements came together, giving me, and now you, our first amazing view of Yellowstone National Park in the winter.

I adore these long, sweeping views and Forever Yellowstone gives a perfect sense of what winter looks like in the park.

Another photograph that gives a good sense of what the park looks like in winter is Bison’s Moment. Here, two bison, their faces covered in snow, stand before a hillside full of trees. The snow-covered trees recall the winter storm which was just here. The bison use their powerful neck muscles to sweep their faces from side to side, uncovering tasty grass. This results in plenty of snow on their faces, and for me, completes the photograph.

These are wonderful photographs, and I adore them. Yet, I was looking to create something else, too. A photograph of a single bison that evokes the majesty of Yellowstone. For that, I needed more bison, and so, I went onward, searching for them.

I initially thought it might be difficult to locate the bison, especially since there was only a single open road. I didn’t need to worry, though. The bison were, quite literally, everywhere. Plenty of opportunities provided themselves.

For example, this bison was climbing a hill not far behind me. She had come up from the plains, far below, and was going, well, I have no idea where. Presumably, she knew where she was going.

As she was lumbering along, I made this remarkable photograph. Every step she took kicked up some snow, and I think this photograph depicts that action perfectly. Even today, as I write this, I can feel her power and she moved through the park.

Still, though, there was a photograph that I was looking to make which I hadn’t yet. I kept searching, day after day. I would stop every time I saw a bison and wait. Furthermore, I’d look and see if the setting was perfect. It was, almost always, not. I’d continue to wait to see if the bison would move to a better setting. It’s during these times that the cold would set in. The bison had countless millennia to evolve, perfectly adapting to their environment. Heavy, insulating fur provides them the protection they need from the elements. I had my heavy winter parka which, while warm, wasn’t as warm as their fur. Perhaps in another few millennia I’ll personally evolve to have a built-in parka, but meanwhile, I shivered and waited.

And then I waited, shivered, and waited some more, day after day, Until I didn’t. I finally found the moment I had been looking for, and I made the most of it.

I wanted to showcase a single bison in winter. Not only that, but I knew what the photograph looked like in my mind’s eye, and so I evaluated every scene I saw with that in mind. Several times, it almost worked, and I had my hopes up. But, this time was different.

I saw a single bison off in the distance, walking slowly and deliberately, She was on a mission and had a clear goal in mind. I positioned myself to where I thought she might walk in front of me and waited, not quite patiently. She kept moving forward, and with every step, my hopes rose. Before I knew it, she was precisely where I wanted her to be, and Bison Trek was made.


For me, this one photograph is the essence of the bison in Yellowstone in the winter. A simple, yet powerful, photograph that showcases the stark whiteness that is winter, with the bison moving steadily, relentlessly, onward toward her goal. She wasn’t going to let snow stop her, not at all. She kept her steady pace, one step at a time.

As much as I love a soaring scenic view, like the ones I opened with, this photograph was the one I wanted, and the one I treasure the very most. Every time I look at it, I see the power of the bison, making her way through impossible conditions.

A Gratuitous Wolf

Of course, bison aren’t the only animals enduring winter in Yellowstone National Park. Plenty of other creatures brave the cold, too. For example, I encountered this wolf sitting and waiting patiently for its prey to emerge from the snow. How could I not take a moment and create a photograph?

The prey never broke the surface of the snow, and eventually the wolf went searching for something else. In any event, this post isn’t above wolves, so we’ll leave it as just that—a single lone wolf.

If you ever have a chance to experience Yellowstone in the winter, take the opportunity. It is incredible and not to be missed.