landscape photography

Nevada High Points #75: Trinity Range

D. Craig Young · February 21, 2021 · 1 Comment

Trinity Peak

7337 ft (2235 m); Gain 2005 ft

2021.01.03

I have a long-held goal, contrived in the early 1990s, of climbing the high points of Nevada’s named ranges. I have known a few who claim to have achieved the feat, and I do not doubt their success. Although I doubt I’ll reach the goal of every highpoint summit, the goal has always been motivation (or, an excuse) to get into the Nevada outback and experience places I might not visit otherwise.

My successes have been limited lately, but it is time to ‘re’-turn in the direction of Nevada summits, those obvious and the many obscure. Maybe this is a resolution for the New Year, and 2021 is probably a good time for a reset. Besides, the outback is the muse to my photography-geoarchaeology-trail running pursuits that form most days. Although the goal may be unobtainable — I have catalogued 352 named ranges, mountains, and stand-alone hills, and several rest behind military fences, it gets us into the landscape where the interplay of art and science is always at-hand. And, it is just plain fun; let’s keep going…

A break in the weather called for a summit day, choosing an unclimbed range within, say, a three-hour drive of StoneHeart. Trinity Peak is the high point of a volcanic range rising in generally rolling hills west of the Humboldt River. Ragged Top has some interesting craggy outcrops, but it stands a couple hundred feet lower at the southern end of the range.

We left the interstate at Lovelock, turning west on the Hwy 399 toward Trinity Pass and the Eagle Picher Mine at Seven Troughs Road. Clouds hung low over the range but it looked a good morning for a walk. The two-tracks away from the main road were slick and slimey; it was warm enough to melt but cold enough to maintain a general snowcover. I immediately realized my gaiters were still packed at home. The snow was not at all deep, but occasional steps would bring a good batch of snow and mud over the boot-tops.

Trinity Peak Collection

We climbed easily across lower slopes, intersecting drainages and then turning higher to get a snowless ridge or outcrop. We did not rush; the temperature was perfect and there was practically no wind. One of those good days in the Nevada outback.

The Trinity Range is a north-south-trending range — like most in Nevada’s Basin and Range province — that bounds the expansive Granite Springs Valley to the west and drops to broad fans and the Humboldt River to the east. It is the western most range in a cluster of small mountains and hills in the ‘Blue Wing Triangle’ south of the Black Rock Desert, east of Pyramid Lake, and north and east of the Humboldt River, where vast dry basins are cut by often steeply faulted hills. There are few springs or other water sources. Pronghorn are common, as are soaring raptors.

Today, however, it is quiet and only a few of the little brown birds accompany us. We hit one false summit at about mile two. From this outcrop the summit rose from a boulder-strewn tableland. Yellow and orange lichen decorated the way.

Trinity ridge leading from a false summit outcrop.

We skirted the snow fields to keep our feet dry and enjoyed the casual walk. Our paths split to explore minor outcrops below the summit. Darren was on top first, noting the typical survey lathes and guy-wires from historic-era mapping efforts. A brass cap marked a prominent boulder.

Darren on Trinity summit. A good time to not hurry.

Summit register, nicely not a popular stop.

We planned future excursions into the ‘Blue Wing Triangle’. This is an easy day trip and better overland excursion area where six or seven additional highpoints remain on my list. Winter excursions remain possible and it is an all-season area in general, although watching for the swift changes of any winter storm is critical. Public lands grazing is most common activity in the ‘triangle’ but encountering others is relatively rare.

Granite Springs below. West view from summit ridge of Trinity Peak, overlooking Granite Springs Valley to the Shawave Mountains under low clouds.

Toward Majuba. Sun strike on foothills of middle Trinity Range, on approach to Trinity Peak, north over Sage Valley toward Majuba Mountains.

Please remember to tread lightly and respect the resources and beauty of your public lands. Respect private lands, leave the gates as you find them. Pack it out. Nature First,

Trinity Peak Collection

A good start to 2021 and perfect for an easy Sunday morning adventure. We have plenty to look forward to. Maybe I can put a dent in the long list of high points yet to explore, one at a time, step after step.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

Twelve for 2020

D. Craig Young · January 2, 2021 · 12 Comments

Twenty-twenty might not be a year to look back on, especially for those whose lives suffered in the wake of economic setbacks, storms of fire or weather, and the unknowns and uncertainties of the insidious and unrelenting Covid pandemic. Communities, families, and friends suffered as misinformed and misguided (or worse) politics cut and infected deep wounds that may be more difficult to heal than the lingering effects of a virus. Still, hopeful moments rose above the noise as social injustices glared under focal spotlights and many sought connections with the natural world – these disparate things having in common entrapment, by history, by half-news, by the malnourishment of social feed, and, too often, by mandate. Would our masks help us see or simply add to our blindness?

I pursued my occasional photography in this turbid year with this conflict often in mind. My time in the landscape, whether as a scientist, chronicler, or photographer, provides escape, enlightenment, and rejuvenation. I remain hopeful and moving forward, letting the complex elements of light, space, and climate speak for themselves, sometimes to me, sometimes at me, and many times beyond me.

Choosing Twelve for 2020 goes beyond self-reflection, however. Or, at least, it can be reflection of a different sort. “Best of…” reviews are common, and many photographers compile year-end collections to create calendars and highlight portfolio imagery. Hearing a suggestion on a podcast that selecting your best images from the year can be a good way to critically review one’s growth or direction as a photographer, I decided to heed the advice. The podcast host suggested ten images, I picked twelve as a calendar exercise (though roughly chronological, they aren’t month-by-month). The self-critique comes from culling favorites down to a relatively small collection. It takes some thought and analysis of subjective data points to get down to twelve; the last few cuts are especially difficult and provocative. Internal arguments abound. It is, however, rather fun and I think I learned something (see above).

12 for 2020 Collection

You’ll find below twelve images from the landscape of western Nevada and eastern California, the area I am fortunate to call my home. Thank you for spending some time with TrailOption this year, and I know we can look forward to more.

**Forest within**. Taken in a snowstorm in the forests above Hope Valley, California. I don’t do much black-and-white. This was taken before the storm of the pandemic, but it has come to illustrate so much about it.

**Last light**. Captured in the iconic Alabama Hills in the growing shadow of Mount Whitney, in the days when the strange thing called Covid-19 had just started to make headlines. I had the pleasure of sharing this final ‘road trip’ with some good friends; we will gather and wander again.

**Patterned ground**. The Mesquite Dunes of Death Valley get loads of photographic attention, but small patterns between the dunes are revelations, like butterflies before the storm, of the processes that become the drama of the great vistas. I search for clues in the patterns, but the mystery of patterned ground remains. This is what I do.

**Self reflection**. Light in the afterstorm of Heartstone Hills near our home in western Nevada. This is my 2020.

**Into and gone**. One day in March I drove through storms at the edge of the Kelso Dunes in the Mojave Desert. The news was getting worrisome and uncertainty seemed to permeate so many thoughts. There was only one way to go.

**Pinto mesa**. I am very fortunate to ‘work’ in the landscapes of the Great Basin, where self-isolation is almost a way of life. The Black Rock Desert holds the light for me when I need the rejuvenation of open space and silence.

**Summer dark**. The fire season alters the light and lives of so many in western North America. There is the promise of beauty in the smoke-filled skies of the Carson Range at sunset – the backdrop to our home.

**Nowhere curve**. Captured near Monitor Pass, California. I do like roads; they are always hopeful if traveled in a good direction.

**Fallen**. A simple morning scene in a forest grove somewhere above Mono Lake, California. My wife and I have camped and traveled together much more this year; a pleasure to find these stories with her.

**Dendritic heart**. Taken in a riparian corridor of the eastern Sierra Nevada. This grove pulled me from my worries of an evening in late autumn. I took dozens of photographs of the aspens. It was only in later review that the heart popped out at me, sending a message that I must have known was there.

**Promised harvest**. Pinenuts have provided subsistence for millennia across the western and central Great Basin. Their productivity continues as insurance against the dark days of winter. The seeds abound.

**Winter stand**. Sometimes my photographic journeys are not productive. I often think the light is wrong, my mind is wandering, or I just don’t see. Wandering and chatting with my brother, I set my camera directly on the frozen pond, the long lens scudding on the thin ice. The image was unexpected, balanced, and strong. Taken just the other day on the shores of Washoe Lake, Nevada, we should cherish the unexpected. This winter stand will be colorful in spring, the water and wetland alive; we can be too.

I hope you have enjoyed the 2020 collection. I would, of course, be happy with the validation of you ‘liking’ the same ones from my varied galleries, but, in the end, these are about my year and, honestly, about me. I see quite a lot about my worries and conflicts in 2020, but I also see the beauty that as yet remains hidden in the landscape of 2021.

12 for 2020 Collection

I wish good things in 2021 for all of us. Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

Landscape Photography: Overland in Nevada’s Carson Sink

D. Craig Young · December 20, 2020 · 2 Comments

The Carson Sink is the terminal basin of the Carson River, draining from the Sierra into western Nevada. The sink is also, at times, the terminus of the Humboldt River; in years of high winter precipitation, the combined flows can result in an expansive, shallow lake in the typically barren sink. And yet, even in dry times, the Stillwater Marshes — a National Wildlife Refuge — reach into the basin at the delta of the Carson River. The life-giving and ever-changing wetlands have been the homeland of North Paiute people and communities for millennia; the still are.

Although the sink is relatively close to home, I have spent more time in the surrounding ranges and valleys than I have looking into the vast desert basin. I am beginning to take a closer look at the landforms, their timing and process, of this distal basin and an overland journey and geo-recce was in order. A pre-holiday storm dominated the forecast, so there could not be a better time for this trip.

Darren — my brother — and I turned off Highway 95 and onto the dirt track on the northern margin of the sink, along the toe slopes of the West Humboldt Range which separates the Carson and Humboldt drainages. The blue sky seemed to hide any evidence of the coming storm. Our traverse took us across desert fans where dusty badlands intersected the soft, effervescent playa of the former lakebed. We were alone and would be for the next few days.

Carson Sink Collection

We set camp south of Chocolate Butte on a series of bars and berms formed when Pleistocene-age, pluvial Lake Lahontan cut into the Buena Vista Hills. Our perch provided an overlook of the western sink with Lone Rock, a buried volcanic plug that protrudes from the playa, rising like a beacon. The landform, so significant to the Paiute people, captured our attention with sunset and at sunrise following.

The snow came in the night. Hearing the quiet that sometimes hints at morning fog, I looked out of the camper to see three inches of new snowfall. The desert landscape was now a white expanse, a few dark hills standing in relief. We wandered the old lake strands and berms under dramatic clouds with fog-laden breaks underneath.

Long view of the West Humboldt Range across the snow-covered playa of the Carson Sink.

The squalls seemed to be breaking up by mid-morning. Under clearing skies we made some breakfast on the skottle, re-loaded our coffee, and secured camp for the day. It had been many years since I had traversed the western bajada of the Stillwater Mountains — the bajada formed of numerous alluvial fans emanating from the many canyons along the mountain front. The coalesced fans form a two-tiered apron below the mountain and lead to a sand dune that piles and re-piles along the margin of the playa. Wind transports sand, momentarily paused in the dune-form, but water is the sand’s source. The delta is downwind where the river, mostly the Carson, sometimes the Walker, and maybe, though long ago, the Truckee, delivered sand to the fluctuating lake. The conveyor is still operating, but it has been running on little energy since the Pleistocene. Southerly winds, with the occasional redirection of a north-westerly storm pulse, push the sand to the valley margins. Starving for sediment, the dunes are now their own sand source, with new parabolic racers leaving exposed dune-core badlands in relief. Traversing the high sand faces and walking quietly through the skeletal-core, we soon encroach the playa expanse.

Checking the level, Carson Sink, Nevada.

Our second night is long and cold. The darkness of the Winter Solstice is almost upon us; nightfall is early and we pass the long hours of the evening with a camp dinner and a quiet fire. The Geminids meteor shower teases disappointingly, so we share stories and plans for the new year — ways to make the most of our time in the pandemic. Outback travel continues to seed hope and heal with a bit of distraction.

Carson Sink Collection

A second storm approaches on Sunday morning. We pack camp and continue southward; today entering the east side of the Stillwater Marshes so that we can cross the delta from east to west before once again hitting the highway. Rain squalls come and go as we traverse the silt dunes of the North Road and finally venture into recent snow-cover at Papoose Lake.

I will have several field seasons of work coming in the geography of the Carson Sink. This refresher overland re-set my thinking and provided a new foundation for investigating the open space surrounding that vast playa.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

A glow that had to last — Death Valley, Part 3

D. Craig Young · October 12, 2020 · 9 Comments

It was time for a shower. Climbing out of Death Valley, we arrived at Lone Pine, California, in the late morning, seeking refreshment and food. The hotel was not crowded so we checked in easily, cleaned up, and wandered across the street for BBQ. It was not that we ate poorly in Death Valley, we just needed to fuel up for our last outings – an evening and early morning in the Alabama Hills. Lone Pine felt strange. I had worked here for extended periods last year, and I had typically camped in my trailer. Now I was a tourist staying in town and making excursions to the Hills; the role had been switched.

Cyclops arch, sunset on Whitney, Alabama Hills — **Cyclops rays.** Scouting the arches and an experimental wait to catch the last light of the blue day.

The evening was clear with blue skies settling toward a sudden sunset. Heading toward the portal road, Randy and I grabbed a late coffee and ice cream to go. But the first curve disengaged me from my vanilla, and it dropped surprisingly in my lap (sorry about the any spot I missed Randy!) – one should not juggle espresso and a cone when chasing light. We headed north toward the ‘boot’ and the ‘cyclops’, meeting up with the team as we hiked in. With the sharp and abrupt light, and with the forecast suggesting potential for an interesting morning with storm clouds over the Sierra, we used this as a scout. Our trip would culminate in the morning.

Death Valley Collection

Quinn, Randy, and I met in the parking lot well before sunrise. We wanted to check the Milky Way potential at the ‘cyclops’. It is always a highlight of early morning walking in the star-lit desert, waiting for the granitic outcrops to loom in the light of headlamp. A distant owl warns of our approach. In the darkness of the hills the Milky Way is clear as it settles in a broad arch above the eastern horizon. The promised clouds are evident in dark patches masking stars as they tear away from the mountain front. Some may curse clouds in an astro-shot, but I have always liked any well-placed clouds especially if they simply add glow to a few of the brighter stars or provide depth and scale to the otherwise dark landscape – I am a minimal light-painter. We did, however, light the arch’s interior and committed to working on galactic images until the sun turn our attention to the Whitney massive beginning its glow in the west. The storm was at almost the perfect position, rolling over the summits with a misty gauze below the dark density of water-bearing clouds.

astrophotography at Cyclops Arch, Alabama Hills, California — **Cyclops way.** Patches of a coming storm approach the Milky Way arch over the Cyclops.

Alpen glow on Lone Pine Peak, Sierra Nevada, Alabama Hills, California — **First light**. First sun hits Lone Pine Peak overlooking the Alabama Hills. A scene I had not witnessed during the previous summer and fall camping below the peak.

Black and white image of Mount Whitney in the coming, late winter storm — **Whitney incoming**. Turning a long lens on the shroud of storm clouds on Mount Whitney.

We could tell it would not last long. The gift of alpenglow was fleeting but I think we made the most of it. I had one of my most relaxed mornings of our trip, feeling in-the-zone. I reached for long and close images of Lone Pine Peak and the needles of the Whitney summit ridge before backing away for a wide, multi-image panorama of the Range of Light. Its name written in the first cast of dawn. Our trip came to a close.

Panorama of the Sierra Nevada at Mount Whitney, Alabama Hills, California — The glow that had to last — Range of Light, California

Death Valley Collection

I write this many months and a pandemic or two later. Little did we know as we parted, separately leaving Lone Pine in the late morning, that much of our freedom to roam would fade as the mountains disappeared behind the storm clouds, replaced by seemingly intractable problems brought about by a polarized, dystopian loss of trust and community. We had these few days that we could look back on – the days when we could wander. These few photos, and the memories of comradery, remind me that, with care and effort, our wandering will return. As the landscape and its emotions teach us, let us not take it for granted.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing

High Sierra Photography on Horseback (2019): An abundance of clear sky

D. Craig Young · April 5, 2020 · 7 Comments

Desna, my wife and partner, is into horses. I am comfortable around horses and like them, but I am mostly the local ranch-hand in charge of construction duties that come with having a couple horses here at StoneHeart. Ok, I truly enjoy sitting on the fence at sunset, sharing a beer with the one horse that enjoys a few sips. I can stay upright in a saddle and, although lacking the appropriate horseman etiquette and skill, I can get them to go almost where I want them to go – as if anyone really can, they pretty much do what they want.

So, it was quite the surprise when, in January of last year, Des brought up the idea of doing a pack trip in the Sierra. While researching the possibilities of attending some cow-camps with Jahtz, the beer-sipping horse, she had gotten a friend’s recommendation to check out the offerings of the Rock Creek Pack Station. Now, I am all in favor of Des heading off to cow-camp, but the horse is much better company on those outings than I would ever be. And yet, something else caught Desna’s attention. The pack station has teamed up with photographer Ken Lee, offering a photographic workshop and tour, via horseback and backcountry camps set by a pack team in the high reaches of the Pioneer Basin of the Sierra Nevada.

Des stewed on it for a few days, thinking she would have to coax me into even considering spending five days on horseback. She thought it would be the best of both worlds, horses and photography – activities we often do independently – in the mountain environment we love. When she proposed the trip, I took a quick look at The Art of Seeing, the portal to Ken’s photographic creativity, world travel, and instruction. I was immediately all in. She was as surprised at my quick acceptance as I was to her original proposal. It is our 30^th summer together, so in August 2019, we would have the perfect celebration.

**Heartblaze**. Desna captured this image outside our cabin at Rock Creek. Our icon for everything leading to this trip in our 30th summer.

Eight Months Later: August 2019 –

We spent the night at a rustic little cabin at Rock Creek Resort. Rock Creek is only a couple hours from StoneHeart but we splurged a bit on the creek-side cabin, knowing we would be tent-bound for several nights to come. It had been a while since Des had ground-camped for more than a night or two, so she was a little apprehensive. I, on the other hand, had never ridden a horse outside of a fenced paddock or pasture since I was a pup at summer camp. I was about to climb in the saddle for an 11-mile trip over Mono Pass. I was very apprehensive but figured I could just as easily hike the route if my horse lost track of me. Des presented me with a lambskin saddle pad, knowing well where the future pain points might be.

Pioneer Basin Gallery

The Logistics

We are at Rock Creek Pack Station at 6:40 AM for a 7:00 start. We find organized chaos as we pull in behind Roy and Robin unloading in a staging area among feed bins and tie downs. Horses and mules shuffle in place as saddles are prepped. We shift the personal gear from the truck to communal tarps. We were each given a 35lb limit for field gear (not including tents) but it piles up as folks continue to arrive.

We wait. A couple people missing and it is 7:20; declarations of leaving without them. As Craig London DVM, proprietor, starts the pack station introduction, the last car rolls in. Held up by errant planning, and a variety of comical excuses, a mother and son duo scramble about trying to catch up. The mules are basically loaded according to an interestingly precise dunnage system; Trent, our quiet lead packer and expert guide, begins a reset.

Finally, the introductions are made. Ken, our leader, steps up with Craig and introduces himself along with the general plan. It’s breakfast time and we gather among introductory conversations. Roy and Robin are brothers. Roy has been on several of Ken’s trips, including a previous ride into Pioneer Basin. His brother Robin, from New York City, has joined him this week. I look forward to traveling with these guys.

We sit with Janet (Seattle) and Adrian (Maryland); Dave (San Diego) soon joins us. The meal is hearty mix of fried eggs in toast (egg resting in a clean circle in each slice of bread), sausage, and fruit. A box of sandwiches appears for our traveling lunch. It is unsafe to carry packs on our individual horses so we are given a small “horn pack” where we can stow a water bottle and a few other bits of gear.

Penny, our cook, gives us a safety presentation with one of the horses. It is pretty much what you would expect, serious things to be attentive to, but in the end, have fun, don’t die, and “if you don’t wear a helmet, you’re an idiot”. I have chosen not to, however, confirming the idiom. I would second-guess this decision several times in the coming days. And then we meet our horses…

**Cisco**. A daily partnership in the backcountry.

Cisco will be my partner for the next five days. He’s a tall, white and gray, probably some kind draft horse mix, with a bright red halter. I’ll need a rock to get on the giant. Kayla, our second packer, helps with the bridle and reigns and then I load up. Des is on a chestnut Haflinger; they look great and it should be fun for her as we head into the John Muir Wilderness. But first we stand and wait a while. Some skittering about as the late-comers continued to shuffle with their personal odds-and-ends.

Finally, Kayla led out of the corrals and into the forest. The horses took up their habitual positions, trail-wise, end-to-end. They were also ready to go. I missed it, but Trent must have left with the mule-train while we were having breakfast.

We rode a long gradual ascent, with rocky granitic steps. The horses climb impressively and mostly carefully. They wrestle a bit with ones in front or behind. I set in with conversations with Jeff (Pittsburg; who I thought was a second “Ken” for a while) as he rides behind me. We stop once to check straps and have a rest below Ruby Lake. This is much easier than I anticipated. I feel fine as we begin the switchbacks to Mono Pass. The views have become expansive to the south toward Bear Creek Spire and Mount Abbot. It is perfectly clear as we traverse the pass, dropping to wade into the sandy delta of Summit Lake. The views in every direction are inspiring as we begin our drop to Trail Lakes, the spot for lunch.

I refill my water bottle from the creek below Trail Lake. We don’t have a filter readily available, but Penny lets me know that they’ve been using the water at this elevation straight from the streams for many years. If I’m going to stay hydrated, I’ll need to embrace this. The pack station gear list had water filter as optional. We’ll see.

The downhill is tough, on the horses and the riders. It seems an endless series of short switchbacks dropping into the forest near Mono Creek. The horses pause at stream crossings to drink heavily or simply lollygag prior to continuing the descent. It is impressive that there are no mishaps on the way down; the horses are careful generally even as they twist and hope, with marginally sure footing of steel shoes and granitic rock.

The climb out of Mono Creek is relatively short in a pretty woodland before we pop out at grassy lake and see a group of tents on a boulder-strewn ridge to the water’s east. This is our camp. There is a field kitchen and a cluster of lawn chairs. A dug privy occupies a ragged but functional tent cover. I find a sandy patch to set our tent (we brought our own) and then we lounge before dinner.

Prepping for night photography, campside.

Ken introduces the plan for the coming days, talks a bit about altitude and acclimatization. Penny is already working on dinner. We get to know each other a bit – Michelle (Portland) and her aunt Judith (Salt Lake City), Judith is an appellate court judge. Sarah, Zach’s mom, is not feeling well, barely managed to stay upright on the descent. Some concern over her wellness, but we are hoping she can rest and improve in the altitude. Zach doesn’t seem too concerned. He’s studying some Mountain Medicine books, prepping his collection of film cameras, and thinking about a hike to lakes further upstream. Sarah would rally over the coming days, and I believe everyone took something special away from their time in the backcountry.

After a pasta dinner we disperse around the lake for our first evening shoot. The mosquitos are going to enjoy us. They seem thick for August, but I was ready for this. Still it is hard to concentrate, and the clear sky is losing my attention. I decide to turn in, Des having been way ahead of me. In my sleeping bag, as I wait for sleep, I am still swaying from the day’s ride.

The Photography

The strategy for the next few days consisted of short morning hikes to various lakes in the Pioneer Basin, usually followed by an afternoon ride to a more distant location along Mono Creek and into the Fourth Recess. Ken let us operate independently, working with individuals or groups as questions or requests come up for discussion. Each afternoon we gathered for a discussion and presentation under the trees adjacent to our camp kitchen. I liked his approach.

Pioneer Basin Gallery

**First light**. Up early the first morning in the backcountry, I had no idea the sky would remain unchanged for the trip. I enjoy reflective panoramas, the simple (cloudless) backdrop highlighting the music of the subject.

The problem on this trip was the weather. It was perfect, for riding, hiking, and relaxed camping, but not for photography. The skies were clear and remained so, with very minor exception, the entire time. This is never what one hopes for, especially when enthralled and inspired by the vistas with each day’s hike above treeline. I love photographing mountains, but I struggled each day. I did not have my mind wrapped around black-and-white composition nor did I find satisfaction (on this trip) searching out intimate scenes in the forest or among the rocks.

However, it was amazingly beautiful, and we had great company. My Lightroom catalog says I took over 500 pictures; I captured a handful that I like. In fact, my favorites may be the moonlit images captured when most folks had turned in for the evening. Working with the contrast of moonrise on the jagged ridgelines was something I visualized prior to entering the backcountry. I like my one strong black-and-white panorama of Mono Rock and the Recesses.

Pioneer Lake #2 Mornings

**Pioneer rhythm**. An early morning hike to Pioneer #2 revealed reflecting pools of blue with the mass of Mono Rock beyond.

**Pioneer portrait**. Ken took to a lakeside outcrop, where I chose to play with the light. I added some haze and vignette to emphasize the blue-hour portrait.

**Rock**. I seem to have many images of granitic rocks in vivid, reflective pools.

Night Photography at Camp

**Milky Way camp**. An instagram cliche, but that doesn’t make it any less fun. When skies are clear, night photography calls.

**Moonrise camp**. As the moon dissolves the Milky Way, there is new drama in the crags of Third Recess.

**Alpine moonrise**. Moonlit approach to the Third Recess.

Afternoon Recesses

**Into the riffles**. Roy working the intricate cascades of Mono Creek. We spent afternoons searching the dappled light of the forest.

**Fourth Recess**. A few clouds on the last afternoon in the beautiful Fourth Recess.

Pioneer Basin Gallery

Special thanks to Ken Lee. A mindful photographer and excellent, patient instructor, Ken is one of those people I would look forward to travelling with, or running into, anywhere. I appreciate his outlook on landscape and travel, and he deserves continued success. After my excellent Iceland experience, I had thought I might not join another workshop, preferring to travel on my own or in smaller groups, but I am so glad Des brought us together for a few days. The endless blue skies were not his fault.

Des played with photography on a few outings and she enjoyed Ken’s instruction on capturing images with mobile devices. She took our favorite and iconic heart image on the night before the workshop. Done. Drop camera. Ride horses. We enjoyed the sunny days as we have enjoyed the 30 years. They ain’t all perfect, but it was fun getting there.

Keep going.

Please respect the natural and cultural resources of our public lands.

#naturefirst #keepgoing