Freelance Photography

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Links and photography

Do you know what the easiest part about digital photography is? The photography itself. Do you know what the hardest part is? For many it’s not Photoshop, it’s not figuring out the menus on digital cameras, it’s not even color management. The hardest part is managing all those digital files.
For me, managing my digital images has created somewhat of a roadblock to my productivity. I know how to optimize my images for many end uses. I know how to get great looking prints, and I’m good at using my digital camera. But naming, managing, backing up, finding and using all those images? If there is one least efficient way of doing all that I’ve probably already tried it.
Digital Asset Management (DAM) is the latest buzzword in a field that seems to be nothing but buzzwords. From the moment you bring your images in to the computer, you’re in the realm of Digital Asset Management.
In a way, Digital Asset Management is a lot like Photoshop or even photography itself: there’s no one right way to do it. Much of it is personal preference and what methods make sense to you. And like Photoshop and photography, there’s a lot of information to help guide you.
During the time I’ve been struggling with this issue, I’ve discovered some great resources. In the interest of saving someone else all that web surfing time, I’ve compiled a short list of some of the more useful resources I’ve come across.
For starters, I’d like to recommend a couple of books that have been of great help. The first one is The DAM Book by Peter Krogh. This book is by a photographer and written for photographers. Though it’s written from the point of view of an assignment/editorial photographer, Krogh’s advice and solutions are applicable to the outdoor and nature photographer. The other book is Real World Camera Raw for Adobe Photoshop CS2 by Bruce Fraser. It’s one of the best references around for using Camera Raw. Though Digital Asset Management is not the main subject of this book, it does have entire chapters about workflow, metadata, and automation.

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Holiday Photography

For other outdoor photographers, an early alarm call normally means a rendezvous with daybreak. For me, the triumphant “Bonnngg !! “ of booting Macs is as familiar a dawn chorus as that of blackbird or skylark. The alarm silenced, I head through to the office just before 0500 for the most productive two hours of the day - before children awake, the phone rings or the e-mail deluge begins. I get my living by licensing rights to my pictures and articles and while my agents provide me with about 30 percent of my income, the other 70 percent has to be generated from this office. And that calls for a lot of early rises.

The day’s job list, compiled the previous evening, shows a characteristically varied schedule. Top priorities include making some high resolution scans of sea eagle pictures for a client needing them urgently for a book, building and sending out a couple of light boxes in response to requests that came in late yesterday afternoon, and invoicing. But the pre-breakfast slot is my golden time for writing and after a quick review of overnight e-mails, I get down to work on a short technical piece for one of the camera magazines. By 0645, a draft is ready for editing later in the day. It’s full swing now into getting everyone ready for work / school - and as much breakfast as I’ve time to eat. Once quiet returns just after 0900, I turn on the Flextight scanner and only then notice that one of my external hard drives seems to have disappeared into space. I’ve come to expect some sort of exasperating computer-related angst about once every three weeks but this one I have encountered before and Disk Utility’s First Aid repairs the fault. I make the scans, clean them with Polaroid Dust and Scratch software, drop in their keywords from the low resolution versions posted on my website and after putting them in the correct folders on different drives, burn them to DVD. My office assistant, Christopher, will finish off the submission when he comes in later in the day. I believe that even small stock businesses must have some additional help if the photographer is to use his or her skills most productively: So, Christopher deals with the time-consuming but essential tasks such as cleaning scans, preparing and uploading captures and scans to the website, packing and checking in submissions, keeping our contacts address database updated and running back-ups. When we have a big scanning order another helper, who has been trained to get the best out of the Flextight, comes in to deal with that. Perhaps the most important indirect help comes from the children’s care giver who looks after them on the days my wife works. Without her, working effectively from home would be quite impossible.
It’s 1030 now and time to press on with the light boxes for two conservation organisations who contacted me yesterday. They will make initial selections from these and only at that stage will we send high resolution files. We rarely ship original transparencies now, and the ability to e-mail light boxes, then scans (or captures), suits clients and saves me a lot of money in administration and postage. The light boxes are completed in half an hour and while I’m at it, I make another one for a proposal on eco-tourism I want to pitch to a lifestyle magazine. In the meantime, e-mails have come in requiring attention, which delays the start on the dozen invoices I need to issue today. The ‘phone remains mercifully silent - virtually all business comes by e-mail now - and I complete the chore, uninterrupted, by 1315. I’m tempted to get some lunch but just want to try processing some RAW files from my last shoot to see how they look, first. Well of course, it’s hard to stop once started and when I next look up, it is 1445. And since I’ve done the conversions, I may as well finish off the files in Photoshop so that Christopher can drop in the key words (already prepared on the evening of the shoot) and run the PS actions to make them web ready. He won’t have time to do all that, along with his other work, today so I make a note on the office white board for him.
I take an all or nothing approach when it comes to balancing image creation with office work; if I am at home to work in the office, that is what I do, no matter how attractive the conditions are outside. If I am in the field in my campervan on a shoot, Christopher keeps me posted (and deals with urgent requests it if he can) and I concentrate on making pictures and researching stories. Though this may seem inflexible, it has proved over time to be more productive than changing plans as the weather changes - and is certainly more sympathetic to family life.
It’s too late for lunch now so I start to reply to e-mails: “Thank you , but I’m afraid I can’t do a talk next year for £30 plus expenses”, “Just to let you know we received your scanning order this morning and will get down to work on it tonight”, “I’m glad you enjoyed that article. I’m gratified to know that someone read it” , “It’s very easy to become a professional nature photographer; much harder to remain one.” Now, at 1550, it is only 10 minutes before Christopher is due to arrive and I jot down a submission reference number so that he can write the delivery note for the sea eagle pictures. In the meantime, one of the conservation organisations has e-mailed their selection from the light box I sent earlier and I quickly determine how many high resolution scans we need to make and how many we have already, using the iView catalogue of our scan collection. Only two to scan out of the 8 requested for further review. I get these done while Christopher completes the sea eagle submission on the other Mac and deals with the invoices. Working together we get the new files cleaned, keywords dropped in and the whole order burned and packed by 1650. For the first time today, I go outside and walk to the Post Office with the day’s packages while Christopher runs the backup programme and continues preparing pictures for my website. I normally try to take a break at 1645 to get the evening meal together but my wife is home from work by the time I get back from the Post Office. The children, at least, have already been fed. At 1900 it’s their bath time and I can nip back and forth to the office changing DVD’s as Dantz Retrospect backs up new and amended files. By 2000 I’m free again but can manage only another half hour’s work - just long enough to edit and e-mail the essay I wrote this morning and to finalise the next day’s job list. I never did get that scanning order started but if I get up at 5 again, I’ll have it done before breakfast. One day I’ll get out to take photos again, I’m sure.

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Flowers in the dusk

When it comes to bird photography we all know that it’s very easy to spend thousands of dollars in photography equipment, but perhaps one of the most important tools can be had for only pennies. Why would you spend all that money on equipment only to walk right by that rare bird that’s singing its heart out only a few feet out of sight? Learning to recognize all the bird calls and songs can take up a tremendous amount of time, but I have found that it is worth every minute.
When first learning calls and songs it’s much easier to start with your local backyard birds. You will be surprised at how many birds sound similar, with only slight variations to some of the most common birds. I will never forget hearing my first Kentucky warbler and thinking “that sounds like a Northern cardinal mixed with a Carolina wren.” By establishing a solid foundation with the songs of your local birds, you will be setting the ground work for the more difficult songs you will learn in the future.
Bird photography is at its prime during spring migration and at no other time is the knowledge of songs more helpful. The forest and parks are filled with magical flutes and trills from the avian world. Without the knowledge of individual songs, photography can quickly turn into a very confusing free-for-all at this time of year. For the bird photographer who can easily recognize the song of that target bird, chances of getting that precious shot increases significantly.
Once you have set the common birds to memory you will also be quick to recognize songs that are different from the norm, or out of place from what you’re use to hearing. This can also be of great benefit for finding new photographic subjects that have wondered into your neck of the woods. Many times I still hear songs that I am not familiar with, and I stop immediately in hope of adding this new bird to my photographic files.
Another very significant reward for learning songs is the ability to identify many tough birds. I know very few people who can properly and consistently identify many of the Espionages (flycatchers) without hearing their songs and calls. This is true with many of the avian species, and can be as solid an identification factor as a purple wing bar.
Once you’re ready to move on to more difficult bird songs, first learn the sparrows and all their subtle chirps and trills. There is no better way to decipher the sounds of the prairie than the knowledge you gain by learning these songs. And once you think you know it all, proceed to the warblers for they have a song for you. Many of the warbler songs can be very familiar and difficult to discern, but don’t get overwhelmed - it takes many hours of studying and trial and error in the field to differentiate between these colorful birds. I can think of no other species that almost requires the knowledge of song to find and photograph than the elusive warbler.
There are a couple ways to study bird songs. Some bird photographers prefer CDs while others use websites that host audio files. Which ever way you choose, remember that nothing replaces being out in the field and hearing these musical masterpieces with your own ears. Once you have learned to get in tune with nature’s symphony, you will truly have a whole new appreciation of avian song, and I can’t imagine a better way to start one’s day.
For as the sun breaks over the horizon and the prairie grass glistens with dew, the faint song of a sparrow emerges like only a field sparrow can do.

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News and Photography

Some months ago I had the pleasure of meeting Doug Peacock. To some Doug needs no introduction; he is widely considered the inspiration for the character of George Washington Hayduke in Ed Abbey’s book The Monkey Wrench Gang. In real life his accomplishments are far more impressive: ex-Green Beret, author, cinematographer, vigilant activist for the preservation of wilderness, friend to grizzly bears, explorer, adventurer, and one of few people who knows Abbey’s final resting place (having buried him himself). After a fiery and passionate talk, in the few moments I had his attention I was able to relate some of my own experiences in the military and in the American West. I handed him my copy of his recent book “Walking It Off” for an autograph. He scribbled a few words and handed it back to me. A few days later as I opened the book to read it, I found this inscription: “To Guy, for all the wildness. Doug Peacock.” I was moved.

So what has this got to do with photography you ask? Well a lot actually. To understand any creative endeavor one must first understand the roots of the artist’s creative urge – the reason he or she would pick up a camera or a pen or a canvas with the intent of making something they can share with humanity at large. For nature photographers that reason is usually a personal relationship with, and perception of, the natural world. For some it is a collection of beautiful elements – shapes, colors, patterns, and textures. For others it is a spiritual meaning, a refuge, a political objective, a religious calling, or any number of other reasons that culminate in one thing - we care about it. We care about it with a passion that demands expression.
In the case of Doug Peacock a passion fueled by frustration resulted in some scathing articles and acts of rebellion, but also prompted him to produce some profound nature writing and sensitive wildlife footage that are as pure and beautiful and innocent as you will find anywhere. In my own case a turbulent history and yearning for the wild had led me to seek and capture raw beauty, whether in intimate detail or grand majestic vistas.
An ever-present tension among nature photographers (and photographers in general, especially in this day and age) is the ongoing debate of “manipulation” along with criticism from those who believe that many nature images are idealized views rather than representations of “reality.” Indulge me if you will for the next few paragraphs as I try to articulate my own thoughts on the value of “pretty pictures” and renditions that go beyond merely documenting a scene and into the realm of personal expression.
My initial forays into the natural world as a child involved roaming in fields that at the time seemed endless. Coming home from school I would eat a hurried meal, do my homework and run outside. My world involved shrubs and trees and insects and birds and caterpillars and snakes and tortoises and snails and small mammals, and I wanted to know and see and touch and learn everything I possibly could. I would peek into nests, attempt to feed, pet, and talk to just about any living critter. I was fascinated by everything around me and literally spent hours and days walking farther and deeper into the fields and orchards. It never occurred to me that there was a war going on, that money was scarce, that family members were ailing, that people were working and struggling, that the world was changing. The fields were always there and as a child I took it all for granted.
Growing up, I kept watching as the fields disappeared, as the things I used to know became pale shades of their former selves, as once-abundant species vanished, as ugly construction took over. I wanted to protest, but how?
Later in life I was introduced to the writings of Henry David Thoreau, John Muir, Aldo Leopold, Wallace Stegner, Ed Abbey, Jack Turner, Doug Peacock, and many more angry men than I can list; angry and rough and outspoken and rude and infinitely sensitive men who could relate to the beauty of the natural world with the same sacred and naïve fascination as I had in my childhood. Abbey could call for acts of sabotage while at the same time describe a desert flower with such delicate detail and emotion that you could almost touch it. Thoreau could fault everything about the industrial world while rambling about a simple walk in the woods with such passion that you could almost smell the damp forest air. Turner could hurl fire and brimstone at everyone responsible for the loss of wildness in our society, alongside gentle descriptions of the moods of mountains and the songs of pelicans. In these writings I saw myself and I knew I needed an outlet for my anger, not through fighting or politics or preaching, but through creative expression.
So, when I show you a beautiful landscape, don’t ask me if this is how it “really” was. I will answer yes every time – this is how it really was, and is, to me. This is how I want to see it and share it. Yet, as an artist I also seek to create something unique and personal. I can see the seeds of beauty, the potential for greatness, and sometimes the reflection of former glory even in the most mundane of natural scenes, and I consider it my duty to share them with the world. Yes, the common perception known as “reality” may be different from my personal rendition, but it is always in the spirit of the place and the scene and the emotion it inspired in me. If all I can show you is what you can see or create by yourself then what standing do I have as an artist? I want to teach and educate and arouse and inspire and prod my viewers. I want them to react with pleasurable surprise and demand to know more, demand to preserve the beauty, maybe ask why it is no longer as I have shown it to them and what they can do to help. I want to make them as angry as I am at those who would give up on such beauty and allow it to go unseen and unpreserved.
So please, let’s not dwell on the minutia of “manipulation.” What I place in front of you is how I interpret the scene; it’s how I want to communicate it to you and it is true to the spirit of the place.
All our views of the world are manipulated and filtered through a plethora of ideas, beliefs, preconceptions, and flawed senses. Bear with me and I’ll show you something truly special that you may never see had I not shown it to you. If I can’t, then I am no artist.

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Photography Blog

Malleefowl, Spangled Drongo, Mangrove Golden Whistler, Purple-gaped Honeyeater, Red Wattlebird, Striated Pardalote, Double-eyed Fig Parrot, Splendid Fairy-wren…
As I sit on a plane somewhere over the middle of the Pacific Ocean, a steady stream of exotic bird names constantly stream through my head. I am about half way through my 14 hour flight from Los Angeles to Sydney where I will embark on a year long journey in search of Australia’s endemic birds. For the next 12 months, my home will be a Toyota Landcruiser and my address will change nearly daily as I travel far and wide across the Australian continent.
This year is made possible by the Thomas J. Watson Foundation who awards 50 fellowships to graduating college seniors to sponsor a year of travel outside of the United States. Each fellow must propose their own project they wish to pursue for a year in one or more countries around the world. The range of projects that this year’s fellows are working on is quite impressive and I strongly encourage a quick glance through their webpage (http://www.watsonfellowship.org).
My project focuses on the avian life of the Australian continent. For now my plan is simple - see as much of the Australian continent as possible and use the pursuit of birds as an excuse to do it. Australia has roughly 700 species of birds that are regularly seen somewhere in the country. Out of these, over 300 species are considered to be endemic, meaning their ranges are limited only to Australia. Endemism in Australia borders the absurd with high species counts and nearly unbelievable proportions. Consider the birds for just a moment. About 40% of Australia’s birds are endemic. Compare this to the United States where less than 2% are considered endemic, about a dozen species. When considering other taxa like mammals or reptiles, in Australia the ratio of endemic species to non-endemic is at least three endemics to every one non-endemic - and often much higher. In Australia, the chances of seeing an animal or plant that you have seen elsewhere in the world is extremely low. This uniqueness is what makes this country so fascinating to me and why I have chosen to spend a year here.
The 300 endemic birds are my specific targets and I plan to approach them as a subset of the much larger set of Australian endemics across all taxa. These birds are found in every corner of the continent and in every type of habitat. Some are abundant while others are extremely rare. By pursuing these birds, I will have the great fortune to explore the world’s oldest tropical rainforests and some of the most hostile deserts, as well as every habitat in between.
In order to help me keep on task during the next twelve months, I have attempted to set up a few simply stated photographic goals. I feel like these are rather self explanatory, building upon each other to help me to push myself to make new and unique images. I have found that many of the more successful images I have made in the last few years are either a new way to look at a common species or tell some sort of story of the bird;
Photograph as many species of birds as possible with a specific focus on endemics.
Tell a story with each individual image.
Use the collection of images as a whole to explore the larger story of Australian endemism and isolation using birds as an example.
In a few hours I will set foot on Australian soil for the first time and begin my journey. This year should be quite an amazing experience and I still can’t believe I am actually on my way. I hope that you will enjoy following me as I experience a year abroad chasing a dream. Each month I will write a diary style photo essay for NPN as well as maintaining my own website with a monthly newsletter, a couple weblogs, and lots more images.

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What is your photography highlight????

Introduction
As a digital photographer, if you haven’t been asked this question you eventually will: “Do you manipulate your photographs?” Sometimes it comes under another aspect: “Do you change the colors?” And occasionally it goes straight to the heart of the matter: “Is this real?”
There is a certain percentage of the public who believes that fine art photographs must represent reality. There are people who do not know that there are differences between what they see and what the camera captures. Finally, there are individuals who do not understand that a photograph is a two dimensional representation of reality and not reality itself because reality is far more complex, perceived by us through five senses and not just one.
Some people are willing to change their minds when these things are explained to them. Others have their minds made up and do not want to be bothered by the facts. Those are the ones that I am referring to in this essay.
The people in this last category not only believe that photographs must represent reality, they also believe that to achieve this photographs must be unaltered. They believe that a photograph must be printed exactly the way it comes out of the camera. While this may be true for certain types of technical photographs, when it comes to art and to my work I believe the exact opposite to be true, namely that photographs must be altered in one way or another in order to have a chance to represent the reality that I perceive.
My premise for this essay is that a fine art photograph, created by an artist with the goal of expressing himself or herself, is a representation of this artist’s view of reality - a representation of this artist’s vision - and not a representation of the world as others may see it. This can be a blessing or a crime, depending on your opinion regarding this matter.
Eventually, this is a matter of opinion. Personally, my opinion is that a photograph cannot capture reality as we experience it physically and I can back it up with facts (I do so in my other essays on this subject including Of Cameras and Art and The Eye and the Camera). However, I found that debating this point with people who do not agree with me isn’t necessarily the smartest decision. So, I propose a different approach, one that works well for me.
A little bit of history...
For a long time I didn’t know what to say when confronted by people asking me if my work was real, if I manipulated the colors, or if I changed something in the scenes I photographed. In fact, as a fledging artist unsure of where I stood, I felt threatened by these questions and was more concerned with defending myself than with anything else.
At that time I believed that explaining my artistic approach would help. So I answered by saying that this - the color changes, the manipulations, the modifications I made to the image - were representative of my style and that my goal was to show how I saw the world.
I also explained that I preferred to call what I do “enhancements” rather than “manipulations,” because the later was a derogative statement while the former was positive and complimentary.
Unfortunately, my efforts were to no avail. These fine differences in terminology were lost on these people. Furthermore, their minds were made up and they did not want to be bothered by the facts. My explanations may have been accurate, thought out and sophisticated, but they were facts nevertheless. While they may have had a chance to be heard in an academic setting, they were completely useless in a real world situation.
I also thought that doing all this would help in regards to selling my work. I believed that I could change people’s mind and that once this was achieved they would buy my photographs. What I discovered was how many people have their minds made up and don’t want to be bothered by the facts. I also discovered that people who do not believe what you say, or who do not like what you do, will not buy your work. After all, I am selling art. And to buy art, someone has to like the work and often like the artist as well. When people don’t like one or the other, or worse don’t like either, trying to make a sale is not just futile, it is delusional.
What I discovered overall was that my explanations had little effect on these people. While some believed me, most were unconvinced. What I did not know then, was that the majority of those asking these questions were primarily interested in starting an argument. They knew that what I showed in my work was my vision. They asked if it was real not because they wondered about what my answer would be, but because they did not like my vision of reality. Certainly, a few – a minority — really did not understand how my work was created. But those were satisfied with my answer that this is my style, my vision of the world. Those that I am talking about here are the others, those that wouldn’t accept that answer as valid.
I finally saw the light and decided on a different course of action. I decided that in front of obvious suspicion regarding the honesty of my answers, I would give the most direct and least questionable answer possible. I decided, in a sense, that I would act as if I was in a court of law, where the party being questioned, the party whose actions are at stake, is asked to answer with a simple “yes” or “no.” In short, and to get to the point, I decided to just say yes.
The Art of saying Yes
When you are asked “do you manipulate your colors?” and you answer “yes” you create an entirely different situation than when you start explaining why you do what you do. When you say “yes”, you state the facts and nothing but the facts: “Yes, I do manipulate my colors.” Although the person asking the question may not like your answer, it is difficult to question this answer without questioning your personal integrity.
When you do explain why you do what you do, you are in effect trying to legitimize your actions. In that case, three things need to be explained. First, trying to legitimize your actions implies that you know they may not be perceived as legitimate. Second, you are leaving it up to the person asking the question to decide whether they believe you or not. Third, you are opening the door for a lengthy discussion because the person asking the question now has the option of taking apart your answer point by point.
In other words, although I was speaking the truth when I tried to explain myself, I was giving control to the person asking the question. Once I had given my answer, they were in control because it was up to them to decide whether they believed my explanations or not, and up to them to decide how they were going to respond. I was also confusing the matter by explaining in a lengthy manner what could have been answered with just one word: yes or no. They could legitimately ask why I was not saying “Yes” or just saying “No”. They had grounds to question my integrity regarding what I was really doing in my work.
Once I decided to just say “yes,” I took control of the situation. Why? Simply because when someone answers a question in the most straightforward manner possible, the two only options available are to either believe this person or not. If you don’t believe that the person is saying the truth, then you must come back with a question as straightforward as their answer, and most likely you will hesitate doing so because you will expect a second answer just as straightforward as the first one. You also run the chance of coming across as insulting. After all, someone you just met answered your question in the most straightforward and to the point manner possible. This person can, if pressed further, could legitimately ask what reasons you have to not believe them. Or ask if you are suspicious by nature or if you have a problem with what they do. Finally, they could ask if there is something wrong with you in the first place. Neither option is bound to be pleasant for the person asking the questions. And as a general rule, human beings do not purposefully engage in unpleasant actions.
For example, if someone asks me “Do you manipulate your colors?” and I answer “yes” and they then ask “Is that so?” my answer will be another “yes.” I could say “yes sir” to emphasize my answer, or just because I feel that they need a longer answer, but that is all I would say at a show of my work. If they ask “how do you manipulate your colors?” I will answer “in Photoshop.” And if they say, “Oh, I see, you use Photoshop!” my answer will again be “yes” with or without “Sir.” Of course, the exact words being used and the exact questions being asked vary in their grammatical construction according to the situation, but in my experience, this is how things go.
Drama
Let’s back up a little. My Creative Writing teacher at Northern Arizona University, Allen Woodman, defined drama as being: “two dogs, one bone.” As we all know, such a situation can quickly lead to a dogfight because most dogs will want that one bone for themselves. Dogs rarely share with other dogs.
With humans, fights often occur for the same reason: two individuals both wanting the same thing for themselves. If we metaphorically apply it to the situation discussed in this essay, photographers or photography enthusiasts often enter into a conflict regarding reality because they both believe they describe reality in their work. However, their work looks radically different, although they both photographed the same subject. In this situation, who is right? Who can claim to represent reality? Clearly, it must be one or the other but not both.
This is usually what is at stake when someone looks at my work and asks: “Do you manipulate your colors?” or “Is this real?” They question whether I claim to represent reality or not. If I say that I do, most likely we are going to have an argument because most likely they see reality differently than I do. Therefore, if they believe there is only one possible reality out there, one of us will be wrong. Two photographers, one reality equals a problem.
However, my answer does not point to a conflict. My answer is not “yes, I represent reality.” My answer is “yes” I do manipulate my work. And “yes” I manipulate reality. Therefore, my reality may be different from yours. At conferences, I give a longer answer, explaining, “In fact I clone, change the colors, alter the contrast, even remove houses that look ugly in the middle of a pristine wilderness. In short, I modify reality. What you see is not what I photographed. What you see is how I felt when I created this image. What you see is the world as see it and as I want to show it.”
“Furthermore, I feel great about doing what I do. In fact, I love it and I have never been happier than since I gave myself the freedom of doing so! Not only that, but I write essays describing precisely not only how I do what I do, but teaching others how they can do it too. I even give workshops and seminars and conference presentations about both the techniques I use and the philosophical and rhetorical views that underline my position. And if there is anything else you would like to know about this subject that I have not covered yet, don’t hesitate to ask. I may have overlooked something, and if so I will be glad to fix it right away.”
What I am saying, to go to the root of my message and of my artistic position, is that there isn’t just one reality. Instead, there are multiple realities. And if we limit this discussion to just myself and the person asking the questions mentioned above, then there are at least two different realities: their’s and mine. We both see the world in different ways. I see the world the way it is depicted in my work, and they see the world whichever way they like. That is OK. They can have their reality, I can have my reality, and I don’t see a problem with that whatsoever.
I don’t claim that their reality is wrong or that my reality is right, or that their reality is right and mine is wrong. In fact, I really don’t care which reality is right and wrong. All I know is that I love my reality. It makes me feel great, makes me want to get out of bed in the morning to create more of it, makes me want to go further in describing in greater details exactly what it consists of, and above all it makes me want to experience it as much as I can. In short, I love my reality and I live in it happily. All I ask is that they don’t impose their reality on me anymore than I impose my reality on them. It is a free country and they can do whatever they please, but their freedom stops where mine begins. We have the same rights, and we should both remember that. We may both believe that we are right in depicting the world the way we do in our work, but we could just as easily be wrong, not just them, me or you but all of us.
Technique is meant to be seen
There is another aspect to this, and that aspect is technique. Technique, in my view, is meant to be seen and should be visible. If this technique involves manipulating or enhancing the image, depending on which side of the fence you stand on, then this enhancement, or manipulation if this is what you want to call it, must be visible. Why? Because I want others to see it. Because I want my audience to see what I did to the image, see how I made my vision a reality through the use of this technique or that technique. In fact, I want this to be visible so much that starting April 2006 I am providing the master file to my images with print purchases. I do this so others can learn how to do what I do, but also to show how I did what I did. That is, I am taking advantage of one aspect of digital technology, which is that the digital image file can be duplicated countless times and still be as good as the original. Such is not the case with a negative or a transparency, whose quality degrades dramatically with each copy made from the original.
There is also a matter of quality. The only way to tell if a technique is good, effective or again mastered by the practitioner, by the master, is to see it for ourselves. Otherwise, we rely on the word of others, on the opinion of someone else but us. Mastery is something that must be witnessed, something that must be seen. If one wants to be recognized as a master, one cannot have as a goal to make his technique transparent. One must try as hard as possible to make his technique something that can be seen, something visible to all.
Technique, in other words, must be or become part of the work. It must not be just the path that lead to the creation of this artwork, it must be part of the artwork. To return to my main point in this essay, and to just saying yes when asked if my work is enhanced or manipulated, I must give this answer in order to tell my audience that it is my intention to make my technique visible. Indeed, I often emphasize my yes answer, by saying yes! In writing, there is no other way to show this subtle difference besides placing an exclamation point after the yes, but in reality this slight change conveys my love and my passion for the work that I do and for my desire to share this with my audience.
Conclusion?
Bringing a conclusion to this essay is difficult. On the one hand, there is a lot more to say on the subject. On the other hand, some may argue that such an essay should never be written. The first position is correct the second one is incorrect. There is a lot more to be said on this subject, and this essay does need to be written because finding the proper answer to these questions is very difficult. As I said at the beginning, if you are a photographer and you show your work to other people, regardless of whether you sell your work or not, you will be asked these questions. If you haven’t yet, you eventually will. It is only a matter of time. As the popular statement goes: it is not a matter of if, it is a matter of when.
And when the time comes, you better have an answer. Otherwise you will join the ranks of the stumped. I don’t know about you, but personally I hate being stumped.
So yes, this essay definitely has a reason to exist. This reason is to help you find out where you stand. My answer is “Yes” because I do believe, and for good reasons, that I manipulate reality. Your answer may be different. For example, if you believe you do not manipulate reality, then your answer should be “No.”
My goal is to create images that represent the world not as it is, but as how I see it, how I feel when I am in a specific location and how I perceive this location as a whole. Not just the part that I see, but the part that I don’t see: the melting sap of Pinion pines on a warm summer days; the call of a blackbird bouncing off a canyon wall; the heat waves floating in front of me over the bare sandstone; the multitude of sensory inputs that are, by nature, non-visual. After all, a photograph is nothing but something we can look at. Yet, the reality of the world is much more than that. We experience this reality through five senses: smell, touch, hearing, taste and finally sight. A photograph only makes use of the fifth sense. It is a partial perception of the world, representing at the most 1/5th of all that we sense. I wish those that argue that unaltered photographs can represent reality would understand that. But, as I explain, it is not in my power to change their mind. Therefore, I limit myself to just answering “yes” when they ask me questions about whether my work is manipulated or not. Of course my work is manipulated. How could it be otherwise? Only a fool would believe that it isn’t. Yes.
To some extent, my goal is to include in my photographs as much of what we perceive with these other four senses as is possible to include in a two dimensional medium. It is also to transform the world from what it actually is to what I wish it was. For example, I may photograph a depressing yet otherwise beautiful scene, and if all it takes is remove the houses that mar this scene, or brighten the colors, for this photograph to bring joy to my heart instead of sadness, then I will unashamedly do so, regardless of what others might think. If someone wants a depressing photograph, or a photograph in which all the houses that mar the hills in an otherwise beautiful location are present, I know for a fact that there are countless photographers out there, and that one, if not several of them, will either have exactly what these people want or will be willing to create exactly what they want.
So no, don’t write to me saying that you wish I didn’t do what I do, or that you wish I didn’t manipulate reality, change the colors, remove things, or alter the contrast. Don’t write to me to ask that I do not make the world more beautiful, more joyful, more inviting, or more attractive than it really is in your opinion. Instead, write to me to tell me that you like what I do and that you wish I would go further. Write to me to say that you see my point, that your mind is not made up and that you are willing to be bothered by the facts. Write to me to say that you love my work.
Why? Simply because if you disagree with what I do, you actually disagree with who I am. You see, what I show in my work is part of me, part of who I am and part of how I perceive the world. It is that part that I make visually accessible to all. It is that part that I am willing to share with others. And no, I am not willing to change. Definitely not. I am not willing to see the world as a depressing or gloomy place. Call me delusional if you wish, but do keep it to yourself.
Audience
There is another aspect to this, and this aspect is the audience I am addressing. I am addressing an audience who loves what I do. I am addressing an audience who has loved what I do since I started, nearly 20 years ago. I am addressing an audience who is growing daily and who wants to see me go further in my approach, in my practice and in my style. An audience who knows that I manipulate colors, change things around a little, and who not only does not care one bit that I do so but actually loves that I do what I do. I am addressing an audience who loves my work for what it is.
So no, don’t even give it a try. And if you do, don’t expect me to care. I don’t and I won’t. I have already answered the question, and the answer is yes. Yes, I manipulate my work, change the colors and much more; and yes, I feel great about doing so; and yes, I am proud of it and have no remorse whatsoever; and yes, I have no intention whatsoever of changing this approach. In fact, this is my style. This is me.
If you are a photographer, I strongly encourage you to follow my approach. If nothing else, it will free you and liberate your creativity. I know it does for me. Remember that you must be free in order to be an artist. If you do not feel free to create whatever your heart desires, then you might call yourself an artist, but you are not really an artist. Art is personal expression. It is the expression of your personality, of your vision, or your view of the world, of your perception of reality. Art is not doing something because you believe someone else may like it better than what you would otherwise do. Art, in short, is freedom.
In closing…
What is art is another discussion altogether, one that I will address in a future essay in this series. For now, remember that the most effective answer to a question designed to stump you is the shortest, most direct and most honest answer you can possibly think of. In this situation it is a resounding Yes or a resounding No. It all depends whether you believe that your work is manipulated or not.
In general, and in closing, it is best not to act defensively when you find yourself confronted by someone asking questions such as the ones I mention in this essay. Often, these questions are aimed at making you take a defensive position. Unfortunately, if you do so you find that you have to defend yourself in regards to actions that you are perfectly free to conduct. Actions that, eventually, are nobody’s business except your own. Actions that, furthermore, are perfectly legal but that your interlocutor may want you to feel are not. Unfortunately for them, what is illegal are things such as loan sharking, drug dealing or pistol-whipping a priest. It does not include image manipulation. You can’t be arrested for doing it, you can’t be taken to court and you can’t be placed on probation or otherwise legally punished.
The best solution for people who really do not like your work and who do not want to be bothered by the facts is to move on and go look at the work of an artist that they like. Therefore, if they ask you questions, there is no reason for you to feel threatened or act in a defensive manner. Just tell them the truth, and let them believe whatever they want to believe. Remember, if they don’t like you or your work, they will never buy your work. And if they compliment you about your work, they are either lying or pulling your leg. So just say yes and let them be. That is what I do.

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Shots of quality

In the conceit characteristic of our times, we are inclined to forget that we are not the first civilised people to have our lives affected by climatic change. The exodus of Norwegians, for example, from the fjords south of Bergen in the 8th and 9th centuries took place at a time of better harvests resulting from more favourable growing conditions. The system of inheritance that required an equal division of property amongst heirs meant that, with an expanding population, new land had to be found. Accompanied by “the poor man’s cow” (the goat) these pagan farmers - Vikings - sailed west, some settling the Faroe Islands, half way between Scotland and Iceland, in the middle of the 8th century . The same conditions that made the Faroes a challenging environment for these pioneers - their topography and climate - today provide photographers with simple drama and excitement.

Make no mistake - this treeless archipelago of 18 volcanic islands warmed by the North Atlantic Drift is no wilderness. The Viking’s goats made short work of the native juniper scrub and today, whatever land is accessible to sheep, is grazed. 43,500 people also live here, mostly in coastal redoubts affording a safe anchorage. But the wildness of the landscape is intact. In many places, the flimsy green mantle worn reluctantly by ice-sheared mountains slips to reveal the hard igneous heart of the land beneath. Few of today’s numerous streams and rivers gnaw deeply into their bedrock, instead skimming over the surface, sometimes scarcely channelled, in their haste to find the quickest route to the sea. Wooden houses in jaunty colours, even those with turf clad roofs, appear superimposed on a landscape full of stern crags, abbreviated slopes and uncompromising precipices. Gardens of mutant-coloured annuals seem even more incongruous - but essential if people are not to be overwhelmed by the intractability of the land or vastness of the sea. Ice-honed summits snag every passing cloud bank - and on this freeway for cyclonic weather systems, there are many of those. Only in the construction of gallant tunnels that link islands and bore through obstructive mountains do people seem to have defied natural process.
The Faroe Islands is a self-governing protectorate of Denmark but you would no more call a Faroese a Dane than you would call a Canadian, British. The clarity of Faroese national identity owes much to a vital tradition of narrative passed down through the generations in the form of the chain dance - a method of storytelling once common throughout Europe. This combination of community cohesion and geographic isolation has also allowed Faroese to survive as a distinct language, similar to that spoken by the original settlers.
The country’s export economy (with an annual GDP of approximately one billion dollars) is over 90 % dependent on fish and fish products. While Denmark, which provides a subsidy of about 15% of total GDP, is a member of the EU, the Faroes are not and thus retains exclusive fishing rights in water within 200 nautical miles of its coasts. The Faroes, in one sense, is in fish and in photographing the cultural landscape, attention is inevitably drawn to fishing communities.
In midsummer the sun rises about 2.30 am and sets about 11.30 pm; in reality it doesn’t become properly dark on a clear night. Yet, the silent, low cloud which more often loiters in high corries and caresses the rough slopes better reflects the mood of the islands than a blue sky. And the combination of austere light and a lack of variety of natural hue (it’s mainly green in summer) means that sometimes a black and white rendering is the most appropriate. Here are some of the photographic highlights of all but the most northerly islands:
Vagar
The most western of the main islands, Vagar has the only piece of flat land large enough for an airport. It is linked to neighbouring Streymoy by undersea tunnel.
Bour. Not only is this fishing village full of interesting detail (such as turf roofed houses with orchids growing in them) but the view west along the foreshore towards the extraordinary island of Tindholmur is an iconic Faroese seascape.
Gasadalur. Before a 1700 metre tunnel connected it to the road network in 2005, the small village of Gasadalur was accessible only on foot, by sea or helicopter. A spectacular waterfall drops straight over the cliff into the sea nearby.
Sandavagur. Not far from the airport, Sandavagur has been voted the Faroes’ best kept village and indeed its red and white Lutheran church wouldn’t look out of place in Legoland. On approach to the village from the west, there are fine views to the south east of the massive cliffs of the island of Koltur.
Streymoy
Kirkjubour. South of the 17,000-strong capital, Torshavn is the medieval ecclesiastical settlement of Kirkjubour, a site chosen for the regular supplies of drift wood that could be collected. The ruined St Magnus Cathedral is though to be predated by the adjacent parish church, still in use today. The traditional black and red turf-roofed farm houses are the principal attraction.
Route 10 and on to Nordradalur. Heading north from Torshavn, you may take either the coast or the mountain road. If the conditions are clear, try the later and find some locations to frame Koltur, in the west.
Cliffs west of Vestmanna. You’ll need to book for this one, at the Vestmanna Tourist Centre on the quay. These two hour boat trips cruise beneath some of Europe’s highest sea cliffs, in places exceeding 600 m, entering narrow grottoes, weaving between lofty sea stacks and sailing under massive arches punched through by the ocean. There are many sea birds but few are easily photographed.
Tjornuvik. The most northerly village on Streymoy, Tornuvik huddles at the end of a short fjord, affording it protection from all directions but the north. In addition to its own attractive location, it is an ideal place from which to frame the two sea stacks, Risin (75 m) an Kellingin (73 m) lying off neighbouring Eysturoy.
Haldarsvik. If its octagonal church doesn’t interest you, there is lots of littoral detail to detain you, from seaweeds to rusty chains and derelict boathouses.
Eysturoy
Oyndarfjordur and Hellur. These are tiny fishing villages with lots of character, surrounded by big mountains with flower-filled meadows on the lower slopes. The Rocking Stones at Oyndarfjordur are a curiosity rather than a photographic priority.
Gjogv. The road from Eidi to Gjogv passes through some of the most rugged landscapes in the Faroes and under their highest mountain, Slaettaratindur, reaching 882 metres. The village itself has many interesting buildings - even a turf-roofed kennel - and the cafe / gift shop owner also takes boat trips out round the stunning adjacent coastline.
Suduroy
Suduroy is the most southerly of the occupied islands and although superficially similar to the others feels, if anything, even more tranquil. It is accessible by relatively inexpensive roll-on-roll-off ferry from Torshavn (buy your tickets on board). The passage takes about two hours.
Beinisvord. Instead of driving through the tunnel just south of Lopra, take your courage in both hands and attempt the convoluted mountain road instead. This route gives access to the steep grassy slopes leading to the top of vertigo-inducing cliffs that, in drama, are equal to those of Vestmanna.
Famjin. The approach to Famjin, with sheltered lakes either side of the road, is almost as interesting as the village itself where waterfalls, severe cliffs and strips of cultivated land could occupy photographers for days.
Skarvatangi. Although the last 150 metres is a bit of a scramble over large boulders, the shallow sea cave is worth the effort. Here, the basalt has been worked on by the sea and is further patterned by mineral leaching. Safest to visit during low tide and when the sea is calm.
Frodba. Just beside the main road leading out of the village are two basalt quarries where the delicately-coloured rock has been split into angular shapes, providing a perfect foil to the hardy plants that sprout from fissures.

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More chance of beauty

When I arrived in Sydney at the end of July, I had no firm plans except for a reservation in a hotel for my first night and a reservation for a pelagic trip for mid August. The hotel room meant little to me except it was a place to deposit all of my luggage and gear, but the pelagic, now it was full of possibilities.
But first, let’s start from the beginning. Most people out there don’t have a clue what I am talking about when I mention a “pelagic trip.” Some fishermen have a vague idea and all but the most intense birders just shake their head knowingly. By definition, a pelagic trip is a trip to see those creatures which live on the open ocean, whether they are fish, whales, birds, or anything else that lives in the middle of the sea. In this case, I was after some of the largest, most graceful birds that one can hope to see, the albatrosses of the Southern Oceans.
In order to see, much less photograph these birds, you must do one of two things; either travel to a remote rocky island where they breed or spend some time driving around the open ocean in a boat dumping spoonfuls of ground up dead fish over as chum. Take the stench of dead fish and diesel fumes and combine that with high seas and either a set of binoculars or a camera and it becomes easy to understand why most people who know what a “pelagic trip” is cower at the mention of it.
However, I was not to be turned away and just before dawn on a Saturday morning in August, I was boarding the Sandra K with binoculars, camera, field guide and foul weather gear in hand, and Bomine in my system. We departed the port of Wollongong, a couple hours south of Sydney, shortly after sunrise on a crystal clear morning with only a very light breeze - nearly perfect conditions. It didn’t take long before the first birds began to show up behind the boat and within an hour or so we had our own little flock of albatrosses tailing behind the boat. I was amazed to find that two species in particular, Black-browed and Yellow-nosed were not only common, but abundant with 25 of more birds of each species behind the boat several times.
As we continued out to sea, other species began to show up including shearwaters, petrels, terns, and many more albatrosses. Now, it should be mentioned that albatross taxonomy is quite a complex, intricate, and controversial topic that I don’t pretend to understand, nor want to explore here. For example, Black-browed Albatrosses have two forms, one with a pale eye and one with a dark eye. Some authorities say these are two races or subspecies while others state they are separate species. For my purposes, I am following the former theory for simplicity’s sake. I mention this only because as we got further from shore a wide variety of Wandering Albatrosses began to join in the flock behind the boat. Wandering Albatrosses are the largest albatross and we saw at least four of the races of this enormous bird. By the end of the day we had recorded either five or eleven species of albatross, depending on which school of thought you belong too.
As far as photos go, pelagic trips are quite challenging. It is a fantastic chance to photograph these birds but it is far from easy. They are typically in-flight and the boat is always rocking which makes composition more than a bit challenging. Birds like petrels and shearwaters tend to make one pass by the boat and then go on their merry way, so they are even more difficult. Albatrosses have their own difficulties; they are large birds with disproportionably long wings which tend to sneak out of the frame when you aren’t paying close attention. That being said, we had nearly perfect conditions and since it was a winter day in the mid to high latitudes, photography in decent light was possible nearly the entire day.
I took full advantage of the D2x frame rate and buffer and used my Epson P2000 until the battery died. Next time I imagine I will be a bit more controlled in my approach and my camera will sound less like a machine gun, but it was my first experience with the classic birds of the Southern Oceans and there was sure never a lack of subjects. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat, no matter the conditions. Would I recommend it to others? Only if you don’t mind the smell of ground up fish, have a sturdy set of sea legs, and an ample supply of your favorite motion sickness medication. Take plenty of flashcards or film and be ready for one of the experiences of a lifetime.

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Freelance photography

The Essential LandscapeThe Rest of the StoryText and photography copyright Guy Tal. All rights reserved.
Every image tells a story, but no image tells the whole story. Some say images take a 3-dimensional scene and render it in a 2-dimensional rectangle. Often ignored is the fourth missing dimension – time. No one image tells the story of the events leading up to and following the blink of the shutter.

Truly this is a double-edged sword. The image has the power to distill, to enhance, to place emphasis, and to eliminate superfluous elements. Still some things, some stories, need to be told. An image may be worth a thousand words, which is often enough, but not always.
What we present may mean one thing to us who created it, yet something entirely different to others. A beautiful composition standing on its own merit is certainly a worthy goal in itself but in the telling of a story can be just as limiting as it is liberating.
This is not to say that an image should be explained; in fact I hold the opposite to be true: I believe that the greatest joy we can experience from a work of art is derived from intuition rather than from analysis. Rather than explain the image, I am suggesting that in some cases some images are enhanced by the intimate knowledge of their context.
A privilege often reserved only to those who know the artist personally is that of the story – the where, the when, the what, the why, the who, and the how – the smells in the air, the chill, the swirling songs of wrens in the crags, the distant howls of coyotes, that near-death experience just moments before or after, the sense of being lost, of being alone, of laughing, of crying, of yearning, the conversation or the silence.
The image stands mute witness – reducing the story to its visual elements alone. A good image will retain all the essentials of the moment – the mood, the light, hints of the thoughts and feelings. But sometimes, well, sometimes that’s just not enough.
Keeping a sporadic journal and writing about memorable moments, whether associated with images or not, is often an exercise in discovery for me. While I find myself vividly remembering specific images - key moments and events, it is not until I come to write about them some time later that I realize how much more remains hidden in the back of my mind. Rendering the story in words is every bit as pleasurable and meaningful as devising a visual composition and studying the details of a fascinating scene.
With no small amount of trepidation, I decided to share one such journal entry.
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Glen Canyon, October 2004
When Steve called to ask if I was up for a hike into one of the lower canyons of the Escalante I was thrilled. He mentioned it has become his favorite canyon, and coming from Steve this is about the highest endorsement for a canyon as I can imagine. Steve has seen and experienced more of the Colorado Plateau than most people ever will. He is also one of the best hiking companions you will ever find – at the same time a guide, a mentor, and a good friend.
After the long drive down Hole-in-The-Rock Road we popped a couple of cold cans of Cream Soda and took our time arranging our backpacks. The day was cool and bright – a perfect autumn day in the desert. The silence disturbed only by the occasional chit-chat, the rustle of various gear stuffed into the packs, and the calls of curious ravens hovering above.
One thing I always appreciated about time with Steve is that everything becomes part of the experience – every activity, whether technical or mundane, whether in remote wild surroundings or just loafing around camp is given due time and attention. Nothing is rushed. Being in a sacred place (and to Steve and me this certainly is) there is joy to be found in everything.
The hike down canyon is typical of this environment – a wide wash growing ever steeper and narrower as we move towards its main artery, the arid and barren quickly giving way to hidden riparian treasures, alive and verdant among the precipitous walls. After a couple of hours Steve points to a giant alcove a short way off the canyon floor and declares “We’re home!”
The alcove floor is covered in soft welcoming sand, its huge arc providing ample shelter from the potential thunderstorm, and a group of large smoothly-curved boulders make for surprisingly comfortable seating. A closer examination of one of the boulders reveals a small but obvious bowl – a metate - a shallow bowl used to grind corn and other grains into flour. As is often the case when coming upon evidence of ancient cultures I try to imagine what it was like to have lived here long ago. Little imagination is needed here – the place had probably not changed much since. The real difference is that then one would not have had to leave at a given time.
We take our time to set up camp, then put together light packs and continue down canyon for the afternoon. Steve promises that the best part is right around the corner and I am filled with anticipation. Indeed I did not have long to wait. As the canyon rounds a corner we find ourselves at the edge of a deep pool nestled between steep red walls, the crystal clear water curving around the next bend towards more unseen wonders. The sun is now low in the sky and lights up the opposite cliff, casting a warm golden glow on the inner walls. We stand in awe for a few seconds to admire the scene and the silence. We then switch to Neoprene socks and Steve motions me to go in first.
Entering water is always a jarring and alien experience for the first few seconds. Slowly and carefully we tread the water, scaring up crawdads and water striders. The water is waist-deep in places and we are grateful no swimming is required.
The pool gives way to a large alcove. There is now a steady flow of clear shallow water flowing in smooth fluted pathways along the exposed sandstone floor. The passage is about 20-30 yards wide in most places, with walls stretching up about 500ft on either side. Each alcove protects a small sandy hill, covered in soft grasses, small groves of scrub oak, the odd sacred datura, rabbitbrush, and other staples of this magical desert.
At this point we decide to head back to camp for the evening with great anticipation of returning the next day.
Back at camp we cook a hot dinner. Night time temperatures are just chilly enough to soothe the lungs with each breath but still afford comfortable warmth inside the sleeping bag. Before going to sleep I set up my camera in the darkness, pointing towards the alcove opening, hoping to record the star trails in the distance.
I have not slept through a full night in over fifteen years and this night is no exception. Around 3AM I crawled out of my sleeping bag to close the shutter before the dawn light. I was surprised to see the wall on the other side of the canyon emitting a faint glow. The moon was rising behind the alcove and though I could not see it, its pale light illuminated the canyon quite a ways in and I just sat there on the large boulder by the ancient metate, enjoying the silence and the peace. This was no time to sleep. There was too much to admire.
True to our state of mind and reverence for the place, we took our time in the morning. The sounds and scents of the desert slowly awakening mixed well with the freshly brewed cup of coffee, the hot sweet oat-meal, and the chilly air.
As it warmed up, we put some provisions in light packs and headed down canyon again, eager to see what beauty waits beyond.
After several sweeping turns we came to a long corridor. The sun now illuminating a small portion of the top of the wall reflected in the shallow water, making a path of pure gold below our feet. The walls are now straight and rise hundreds of feet to either side and we are but two diminutive figures in awe of the monumental scene – an immense cathedral in a scale that defies comprehension.
We walk steeped in magic for what seems like hours, though time has become all but meaningless and imperceptible here. Alcoves, corridors, grottos, the occasional surprising dip into quicksand, all in slow succession leaves us feeling saturated, all our senses on high alert to take in as much as we can from the place and ultimately giving up and just savoring each moment.
Finally the canyon opens up and we arrive at one of man’s most vile incursions into the Colorado Plateau – the reservoir that drowned Glen Canyon and in a twist of cruel irony was named after the first man to oppose it - a sobering reminder that things are not as they used to be, and also that this is as far as we can walk. We turn our backs on the “cesspool”, all too eager to walk back into the womb of the glowing walls.
The camp ritual repeats that evening and the following morning. I have one more night left before I need to head back and we decide to hike out of the canyon, move the vehicles up the road a ways, and hike back out to a prominent ridge above the Escalante River where we hoped to photograph the sunrise the next day.
The hike takes us down a gentle sandy slope and onto a large sandstone plateau. There are no marks here, just a sea of slickrock. Every so often an easy-to-miss cairn signals the trail but otherwise there’s nothing but gently curving rock in all directions. Within an hour or so we reach the edge of a tall cliff overlooking the confluence of the Escalante River and Coyote Gulch, many hundreds of feet below. Not too far away a large slab of rock has slightly separated from the cliff wall, creating a narrow passage to a large sand dune below that is sometimes used by hikers as a shortcut into Coyote Gulch. The plan is to sleep under the open sky on the flat sandstone, right on the rim and set up at the edge to photograph at dawn.
In the distance I notice thunderstorm clouds gathering above the Kaiparowits plateau but Steve is not concerned. Nightfall finds us in our sleeping bags, using our backpacks for pillows, with miles of sandstone stretching in 3 directions and a steep cliff behind us.
Around 10PM I woke up to a strange sensation. Still drowsy I finally realized it was raining. I stuck my head out just in time to be blinded by lightning strike no more than a mile away. This was not good. We were exposed with nowhere to hide – an approaching storm to one side and a huge drop-off to the other. I shook Steve and yelled that we need to get the heck out of there quickly (ok, I didn’t use “heck”).
It was obvious the storm will be on us soon and in the absence of trees or prominent formations we were the prime targets for a lightning strike. Steve ran towards the edge to check for potential hiding places and asked me to wait so he wouldn’t have to carry his pack until he found a spot. I used the time to capture a quick shot of the approaching lightning.
Within minutes Steve was back with the bad news – there is nowhere to hide. Considering our options and the rain that was now coming down hard we decided our best bet is to try and squeeze through the crack down the cliff, and hunker down at the top of the large sand dune where we will not be the most prominent objects around, nor too close to the cliff wall (which can conduct the lightning strike).
The rain had turned into a downpour by now. Lightning was hitting ever closer and the following thunder rang loud in our ears, reverberating off the canyon walls for several seconds after each strike. At the edge of the cliff we realized our large backpacks would not fit through the crack. We grabbed our sleeping bags and plastic tarps and with great effort squeezed our way through the wedge-shaped passage. Out the other end we moved away from the wall, and wrapped ourselves in the sleeping bags and tarps which were soaked and barely kept us warm.
We were now right above the confluence, with Stevens Arch looming across the canyon and the Escalante flowing far below. It was raining hard. Every few seconds the entire canyon was lit in a flash of bright pink as a spider web of cloud-to-cloud lightning shattered the darkness, followed by an immense explosion of thunder bouncing and echoing off the canyon walls. We were awed and terrified at the same time. We joked about the very real possibility of not making it out but feeling fortunate to be witnessing what was for both of us one of the most amazing spectacles we ever encountered in this place.
Though shivering violently and worried about what may still be in store for the night, I still could think of little else but the beautiful fury of the storm unfolding in front of me. I didn’t want to miss a single lightning strike - the instant searing itself into my memory – bright pink light, jagged webs in the sky and the sandstone monoliths flashing out of the darkness below and vanishing the following instant in a massive explosion of thunder. The show lasted for hours.
Around 3AM the rain had slowed to a trickle and lightning strikes were far enough between that we were confident the storm had moved far enough and we were out of immediate strike danger. There was still the very real danger of hypothermia though. We were cold and morning was still hours away. We decided to try to hike out.
After fighting our way up the crack and back to the slickrock ledge we examined the map and tried to determine our bearing. There were obviously no footprints or path on the sandstone to follow. We hoped to spot the cairns in the darkness and started following the compass, dead reckoning.
To further complicate things, our vehicles were parked at the end of a narrow dirt road that is perpendicular to Hole-In-The-Rock Road. Missing the exact intersection with the parking area, we could continue walking past it for miles without ever realizing it. Knowing it took us about an hour to walk to the edge from the moment we got on the sandstone we decided to walk the same amount of time and reassess.
The hour passed. We did not see a single cairn or anything that looked like the sandy path to the parking area. Concerned that we might walk right past the cars we decided to stay put and reassess at first light. However staying put also meant staying cold and exposed. Anything we may have otherwise used for a fire was soaked from the rain. We finally discovered a pack rat nest under a sandstone ledge that was full of dry twigs. We “borrowed” some of them (Steve left the local inhabitant a small pile of pine nuts in exchange) and were able to start a fire. Knowing the twigs will not last us long we managed to set fire to a large bush that was half dead. The dry twigs generated enough heat for it to catch despite being wet. This kept us somewhat warm for the next couple of hours.
As the dawn light began to appear we decided to walk up to the top of a nearby sandstone dome to survey the area and see if we can tell where we were. Cold and tired, we were dreading, though still reluctant to admit, we may be lost and the thought of having to haul our packs for hours before reaching Hole-In-The-Rock, and then back out to the vehicles was not a pleasant one.
Filled with gloom we shouldered our packs (now much heavier with our soaked sleeping bags) and slowly ascended the sandstone slope. There at the top were our cars, a mere 200 yards away.
We were stunned for a second to realize we bivouacked so close to our vehicles and never realized it. We exchanged looks and burst out laughing, the weight of the night’s events lifting instantly. Now looking at the rising sun we noticed the slickrock plateau in front of us had thousands of little water pockets. As the sun lit the sky red, the water reflected the clouds dotting the landscape with iridescent red spots as far as the eye could see – yet another marvel neither of us had seen before.
The drive back home is now a blur. My mind was so overloaded with the events of the trip and lack of sleep that time and distance compressed into the moment before and the moment after. By the time I got home I couldn’t even tell the story to my wife. The following day I found myself sitting at my desk at work with my mind still flashing images of the golden canyons, the lightning and thunder, and the glowing puddles at sunrise. Around me were cloth cubicle walls and people going about their business; people who may never know the sensation a harrowing night in the canyons. I felt out of place. More than anything I wanted to jump in my car and go back and do it over again.

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