Mono Lake

In the days when we could wander… Death Valley, Part 1.

D. Craig Young · April 21, 2020 · 6 Comments

There is always the desert. Although I thrive in arid landscapes, I find them difficult to photograph. Of course, there are waves of contrast in sand dunes, brilliant rocky outcrops, and magical golden-hour light, but so much of desert space is a great wide open, playas to mountains with subtle shifts in color. I occasionally come across exceptional images by the few who take the time to learn the desert light, and I continue to accept the challenge of capturing personal images in these cherished, sharp-edged lands.

We would meet in the Eastern Sierra, Erno had the idea, heading into Death Valley for a wide-ranging, end-of-winter tour. The Iceland team – ‘the stud puffins’ – gathered at StoneHeart at the foot of the Carson Range on a Saturday afternoon mid-February; Jeremy, Quinn, and Sandy had timely flights, and the weather cooperated to let Erno and Randy drive over from California’s Central Valley. We formed a little caravan of camping rigs, departing Nevada for the short drive to Mono Lake, our first stop.

**Simple evening**. The start of the trip was a pleasure, though my early images were difficult.

I scouted the sand tufa a few weeks earlier, but I have not had much luck here. I need to take more time with these unique tufa formations, but, for now, I am drawn to the lake. This is a pattern; I am still drawn to the big landscape but want to learn to focus on compelling foregrounds and the emotion of intimate scenes – I just need to take the time to do so.

Beneath starry skies, we camped just off the quiet highway – closed for winter a mile up from our sideroad stopover. The sunrise promised good light, so we were off in the pre-dawn to Hot Creek, a semi-iconic photo spot along a classically wandering Sierra-fed trout stream. Mist from the mid-stream hot springs can add perfect atmosphere under the right conditions. I have been here many times, but always focused on a post-climb/ski hot spring bath. And yet, in the past decade or so, the hot springs have become a dawn-t0-dusk managed and fenced viewpoint, deterring the use of the springs, which at times can be dangerously active and, well, hot. Enough people have gotten themselves into trouble, and not survived the hot pools, that even considerate use has been curtailed. One of those things.

**Hot Creek rise**. First light at the local icon.

Death Valley Collection

We took good advantage of the scudding clouds at sunrise, looking up canyon towards the Sierra highlands above Sherwin Creek. As is often the case, there were a few other tripods along the outcrop above Hot Creek, but it was worth the stop. We headed for Bishop under clearing skies, grabbing a late breakfast in town – seems a luxury now – before the long drive, chasing the day into Death Valley. The traffic increased, almost exponentially, as we worked our way through typically lonely desert, crossing through Panamint Valley and dropping into Stovepipe Wells. It was there we remembered that it was a three-day weekend (forgetting that was part of our plan too) and that it turned out to be a fee-holiday in the National Park. The roads and parking areas hummed with traffic, and campgrounds appeared near capacity.

Our evening photo target was the playa-margin known for polygonal patterned ground and salt formations. It would be a short hike, so we knew that we would have some solitude even amongst the pavement-bound crowd. Erno and Jeremy picked a pull-out and the team began the hike into the basin. In the meantime, I decided to roll into Furnace Creek to check our chances of getting a camp spot – would we have to head out of the park to find public land access in the dark? I rolled into Sunset Campground working my way among wind-blown pup tents, burly jeeps, cruise ship-sized RVs, random generators, and oddly lit banners on towering flag poles, to find some clear gravel at the terminus of the overflow parking. It’ll do. I ditched the trailer, paid the camp fee, and headed back to the sunset location.

With the light fading, I began my hike before I reached our team’s parked rigs. I worked my way into some salty seeps forming shallow swales that drained further basinward. I liked the lines leading in two directions, upslope toward the eastern mountains or directly into the western skyline. The clouds looked promising, but I could not decide which direction would be most promising at sunset’s illumination. I did not want to chase tonight – I had just finished chasing campsites! I wanted to settle in for a shot. After finding a long linear pool of still water, I stood for a while, gazing back and forth to opposite horizons. I sat down, watching the east, watching the west. As I decided on the eastward view and began composing an image, I turned to grab a lens cloth from my bag. At that moment the western sky, which had been at my back and not at all in my composition, caught fire. So much for the patience of avoiding the chase. This was why I was here, and it was only two or three steps backward to compose the convergence of the reflective line of the pool and the fiery wisps of evening cloud.

**Convergence**. The desert aurora of sunset in Death Valley. This is what you hope for.

For a few, all-too-short minutes, the clouds danced in a desert aurora as waves of orange, red, and violet descended into the evening. In the quiet I could hear the others whooping it up somewhere to the north, far out in the glow of the salty basin.

**Convergence 2, Death Valley, California**. The flames of sunset race to earth shadow.

Death Valley Collection

Keep going.

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

Luther Pass: Success of ‘Fourth Friday’

D. Craig Young · January 30, 2020 · Leave a Comment

As I mentioned in my previous post, after months of futile attempts, I have resolved for 2020 to stick to a pattern of ‘second’ and ‘fourth’ Fridays. Second Friday is an outback or travel excursion combining field studies and photography, while Fourth Friday brings in a weekend of focused local photography. I am not sure how this will work out in the long run, but I have started well so far. The Clayton-Ione weekend provided an excellent bout of gouging around volcanoes and arroyos, while this past weekend – Fourth Friday – produced a combination of experience and photography that resulted in some of my best photographic work. I hope you think so too.

January weather has been relatively calm in the Sierra; in fact, our snowpack is currently shrinking after a series of good December storms. Yet, the forecast for Fourth Friday hinted at a quick-passing, early-morning snowstorm at higher elevations. I loaded up early, a little after 4AM, heading for Luther Pass and Grass Lake. I am on Hwy 89 regularly and often gaze into the glacially carved basin of Grass Lake, where pines grow in fingers of glacial outwash that extend into a wetland basin. Aspen groves punctuate the surrounding pine forest. I have often visualized photographs at Luther Pass, either of a small grove of pines isolated in the wetland against a dark forest backdrop or of a stand of fiery-fall aspens rising among the forest at the wetland shore. When I thought of Friday’s possible storm, I immediately prepared for the former – I would snowshoe into the frozen, snow-buried wetland and work with the emotion of snow flurries or low-hung clouds. There were stars above my driveway, but I could see them fading toward the abrupt rise of the Carson Range. Even in the dark of pre-dawn, this meant clouds were blowing in.

The snowplows had carved some parking pull-outs along the stretch of highway at Luther Pass. I pulled in and sat in the dark. No snow fell as I shut down the headlights; my hopes in the forecast were similarly dimmed. Thinking the snow was simply late, I strapped on snowshoes, shouldered my pack, and headed into the snow-covered space of Grass Lake. My trees were there, and I set up my composition quickly as dawn approached. Just as quickly, I knew this was not going to work. Without the ambience of snow or clouds, I could not separate the foreground grove from the background forest. I waited.

The skies above were stormy with dramatic clouds dancing among the mountain peaks. The sunrise was fantastic, beaming through the small gap at the eastern (of course) end of the wetland perched above the canyon of the West Fork of the Carson River. I practiced some timelapse settings, but this was not the image I came for. My wait continued.

Finally, the sun broke through, spot-lighting the small grove, isolating it against the dark backdrop just as a snow squall broke over the distant forest. This was not what I visualized, but I was ready for it. The trees lit up warmly, like candles overwhelming the surrounding snow. It was good to be here. I like the image, but it lacked the satisfaction of my visualization.

**Standing out**. Waiting on the snow, the sunrise brought this momentary gift.

On Friday evening, after some time working and writing at home, having left my pack in the truck, I drove to the south end of Carson Valley where I climbed a set of hills to frame the expanse of Silver Peak and Raymond Peak, far south near Ebbets Pass. The clouds of the day still danced among the peaks, but the good light did not come. Still, I worked shots to continually develop the instinct of watching the land and using my equipment. Practice.

Luther Pass Collection

Although the weekend is about local practice, I decided that Saturday needed a journey to Mono Lake. Some of my friends from the 2018 Iceland trip are coming in February and I wanted to scout a bit of winter access to the tufa localities around the lake. I need not have worried; it has been warm enough to keep most of the paved and dirt roads clear. As a plus, the weather forecast called for a Sunday morning storm. Maybe its approach would award me with Sierra lenticulars or high clouds for a good Saturday sunset.

The South Tufa boardwalk was relatively crowded but, to my surprise, I was the only person only a mile west at the less developed Sand Tufa. I have wanted to photograph this tufa for a while, but a compelling composition is a definite challenge. It is an even greater challenge when the sky does not provide a backdrop. On the other hand, as the promised storm approached, having blocked all sunlight in the west, an amazing calm overwhelmed the lake.

**Mono still**. A vast serenity and the beauty of loneliness at Mono Lake.

This may be a greater reward than the drama of the near-iconic photography of tufa against a fiery sunset. The song dogs serenaded my walk on the placid shore. Nothing moved. I will be back for the icons later, but tonight this serenity is mine and mine alone.

I was home from Mono by 9PM. I am so very fortunate to have this as my ‘backyard’. I thought about the plan for Sunday morning. The coming storm seemed weak on radar, should I go back to Luther Pass? I made a promise to myself to focus on this weekend. Yes, I would.

Because I was keen on the working in the snow and still visualized the image I wanted to create, I realized I did not need sunrise. If the snow-bearing clouds arrived, I would have the natural diffusion I wanted throughout the early morning. I slept in a bit, but it was not too long before I was parked and donning snowshoes in the same pullout of two mornings ago. It was not snowing.

I dropped into the snowfield of Grass Lake and turned toward my target. A snow squall, like an expansive white sail, fell before me and a laugh sprung from my throat. Right on time. I could tell, however, that my little pine grove was fading into the snowstorm and its backdrop was too distant to meet my visualization. I continued on, heading toward a grove of leafless aspens I had spied in the autumn. Carefully crossing a creek, I climbed into a willow thicket and a new scene appeared before me. It was a version of my original hope, but it was framed within the forest rather than standing on its own. With framing and a compressed crop, I felt the image come alive. The snow was pounding and practically sideways in the wind.

From one spot, with only minor – but ultimately significant – movements, I created a pair of images that met completely the hopes of my visualization after months of driving across Luther Pass.

Luther Pass Collection

So, Fourth Friday. I kept to my plan and it paid off. Maybe it is a breakthrough. It feels like it might be. However, what is the most important thing I learned? I benefited from a string of days that include consistent focus and practice. Although I responsibly spent part of the days working with Des around StoneHeart, I made sure to keep focus, getting out for extended shoots and experiences each day. It is ultimately good to keep focused time set aside because I cannot photograph every day, or each week for that matter. I may not benefit from dramatic conditions when on a Second-Fourth schedule such as this. And yet, I will have my camera in hand with regularity and consistency; if I keep my eyes open and my feet moving, I bet it pays dividends. It did in January 2020.

Keep going.

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

Tufa and Smoke, Mono Lake, CA

D. Craig Young · July 29, 2018 · 9 Comments

It was time to take advantage of a break in the work routine. The summer monsoons had recently encroached on the Pine Nut Mountains above StoneHeart, so maybe there would be some dramatic clouds and lightning to chase. Or, the exhausting California fires would continue to pour smoke onto the eastern Sierra, creating another saturated sunset.

I checked my radar apps all afternoon but the bright red blobs of the past few days were absent, and only a few yellow-level squalls bloomed momentarily and then scurried away in the afternoon heat. Nothing to chase in those. But I saw cumulus remnants in the direction of Mono Lake, so I steered south-bound on Highway 395 – a little later than I planned – with the goal of wandering among the near-shore tufa formations at the Mono Lake Tufa State Preserve. Smoke from the Ferguson Fire, the one that closed down Yosemite National Park for at least this week, should add some character to photographs of the tufa.

Tufa and Smoke Collection

It is always a good drive through the Walker River Canyon. The drive was relatively quiet this evening, probably due to the smoke-filled skies keeping tourists away. I notice once again several outcrops and exposures along the canyon that could make splendid compositions in the right light and with the addition of some low-hanging clouds or a back-drop of fog. I will have to plan for that.

The Reserve basically circles the lake, and with the light fading fast, I dropped in to the easy access of the Old Marina parking area just north of Lee Vining. It isn’t the most dramatic tufa on the lake, but there are plenty of outcrops and towers – some with nesting Osprey – where one can find a composition or two. I dropped the three-dollar fee into the bin, grabbed my pack, and hiked out the boardwalk. I could see a group of hunched-back photographers at the distant end of the boardwalk, a workshop almost certainly; only a couple other photographers strayed from the cluster of tripods. With a happy hello – they did seem to be composing their images at the prime and fleeting moment of the smoky sunset – I circled away from the small crowed, eastward, off-trail among the sedges and flat-lying tufa mounds. It was getting dark fast, but I liked the darkening mood as the last light saturated the smoke and blurred the horizon.

Looking back, I noticed the group had departed, but a lone photographer remained, and for some reason he seemed to be composing his shot where I would be in the frame. I did not notice anyone working this direction when I passed by. I hope I’m not ruining his composition, or maybe he wants me for scale. I am, as yet, unaccustomed to wandering among landscapes with other photographers in them.

My feet were soaked and I’d stumbled into some deeper shoreline bogs here and there. But I’d found what I hoped for. Wading into knee-deep water, I picked out a tear-drop shaped rock leading to a set of tufa towers under a fiery, glooming sky. I set up a wide, vertical composition to get the low dynamic range, with hints of saturated color, from sky to foreground. I took a few images in case I needed to focus stack, but I ultimately liked the first capture.

**Immersed**. Smoke at sunset over Mono Lake tufa formations. 2.5 sec, f/20, ISO 100; Canon 5DmIV, 17-40 mm.

I waited into the blue-hour and the smoke settled into red-to-pink pall as I zoomed to the middle-ground towers to get them in the mirror of sky and water. As I was packing away my gear, a large coughing or huffing sound echoed from a nearby outcrop. I froze for a moment as the sound repeated itself. Where and what was it? It was strangely loud for being invisible, though it was practically dark. And then two large deer bounced from behind a tufa block, pogo-sticking through the grassy wetland of the nearby shoreline. Cool.

**Tufa and Smoke**. A long exposure as early darkness set the mood at Mono Lake Tufa State Natural Reserve. 2.0 sec, f/11, ISO 100; Canon 5DmIV, 17-40 mm.

I returned to the lone photographer at the boardwalk and apologized for possibly crossing into his image. He had no concerns and was merely waiting for the full moonrise. I set up to wait with him, trying to capture the red, smoke-tinted orb. I had no luck, having not practiced much on the puzzle of the quick orbiting moon in a long lens with little or no foreground. It was an awesome sight, however. I left for the highway and turned toward home, where it would soon be midnight.

Tufa and Smoke Collection

I processed the two images shown here to capture the mood of the smoke-filled basin and subdued lake in the coming night. The images are dark and saturated, captured after the heat of a long day as the destructive fires weigh on our minds and we cannot yet see the season’s end.

Keep going.

Mono Lake

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