snow

Nevada High Points #97 – Paradise Range

D. Craig Young · January 5, 2022 · Leave a Comment

The mists of the basin on the clear, Sand Mountain, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

Sherman Peak

8957 ft (2639 m) – 2464 ft gain

2021.12.19

Sherman Peak – Paradise Range Collection

Winter’s coming, and the first snows have arrived. Although it snowed a little at StoneHeart in Carson Valley, I had watched the storms reorganize over the central Great Basin. How much would there be in the Paradise Range near Gabbs, Nevada? Well, a lot more than I thought.

**The long way**. The loneliest road lives up to its name in the early morning, Sand Mountain, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

Darren and I hit Highway 50 in the pre-dawn, fog hanging low along the Carson River. At Sand Mountain the low clouds receded up mountainsides, with misty dollops scudding along the dune and its nearby hills. We were closed in at Labou Flat and Dixie Valley – nothing but the black line of the highway leading onward.

Blue skies in Gabbs Valley. Turning toward Ichthyosaur State Park, we climbed between growing snowbanks into the Paradise Range. No off-road travel today, so we parked in a crunch of deep snow, creeping in four-low just to get inches off the plowed pavement. The sun burned and bounced off the white landscape. When we stepped into the snow-bound two-track, it reached just below our knees. We were headed toward south-facing slopes of Sherman Peak, it would have to thin out.

Sherman Peak rises to the left, Paradise Range, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

**Snow approach**. Finding more snow than anticipated, we worked slowly toward Sherman Peak, Paradise Range, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

No it would not. We traversed and traversed; the snow was deeper and deeper. I had not picked a long route and figured it would be just under three miles to the high point, that takes a couple hours typically. This was dragging on as we worked away along a contour that took us on to north-facing, waist-deep drifts in a skeletal forest of snags and blow-downs. I thought about turning back; we are in the shortest days of winter solstice and time could turn against us. It was not dangerous, only more than we had psyched up for. We kept at it, of course.

Summit time. A well-earned moment on Sherman Peak, Paradise Range, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

Darren finds the register in the typical summit cairn, Paradise Range, Great Basin Desert, NV, USA

The summit was a relieved reward where we turned into a newly biting wind and felt the chill of recent excursion, the heat of effort evaporating quickly. We did not linger. But our first steps downward found us stumbling and falling from snow-buried boulders, missing the next footfall we thought would be there. Repeatedly. When we got into stride we descended quickly; until we hit the deep snow of the rolling, forested slopes of the last two miles. We slogged, boots heavy with wet snow and accumulated ice. Happily at the truck, we were glad for the effort and impressed by the conditions that Paradise had thrown at us – even if our sweat had come in the relatively warmth of the solstice sun.

I realized after that I had not taken many photographs. At first humbled by the stark blue skies and bright white snow, I soon forgot the camera altogether as we focused on breaking trail. The views from the summit of Sherman Peak are exception, seeing a distance Sierra skyline, valley beyond valley, and the bulge of the plateaued ranges of the central Great Basin. It was dressed for winter, ready for the days to come.

Sherman Peak – Paradise Range Collection

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Nevada High Points #80: Cuprite Hills

D. Craig Young · March 20, 2021 · 2 Comments

Torrential graupel storms track across Stonewall Flat toward Mud Lake playa.

Cuprite Hills HP (Peak 6071)

6071 ft (1850 m) — 1503 ft gain

2021.03.10

When I first imagined a quest of climbing to the high point of each of Nevada’s named mountain ranges, as I studied my collection of topographic maps, it came as a solution to a problem. As a relatively new student of geoarchaeology, I wanted to experience the variety of landforms, eco-systems, and places in the outback of the Great Basin. How best to do this? I did not want to focus on the well-known, recreational hot spots or prominent, obvious peaks – if only to satisfy my occasional mountaineering urges. So, the quest was born; its goal not simply to conquer mountains large and small but to get out and visit the widest variety of terrain across Nevada, the epitome of Great Basin variability. I have managed to stay on the quest, in fits and starts, for over 25 years. I have recently returned to the journey in earnest, reaching high point #80 – a rather poor average of three a year, I admit – in the Cuprite Hills.

I had a field project mapping alluvial fans along the Gila Mountains near Yuma, Arizona, and that required a drive south on Highway 95 to Las Vegas and beyond. I checked my list and consulted my geographic database to see the Cuprite Hills standing lonely along my route. A hike into the dry hills would make a nice break from the day’s drive. Fortunately, the weather forecast called for stormy conditions with snow at elevation and scattered showers throughout the day – I prefer this to an unbearably clear blue sky when traversing the desert. The forecast was spot-on as I left the Walker River to climb into the landscape where the Great Basin eco-system (not necessarily congruent with the area of internal drainage defining the ‘hydrographic’ Great Basin) transitions to the warmer, drier Mojave Desert. The change becomes apparent south of the mining town of Tonopah with the appearance of iconic Joshua trees (Yucca brevifolia).

Cuprite Hills Collection

A stunted Joshua Tree (Yucca brevifolia) clings to an outcrop at the base of the Culprite Hills.

Dropping out of the Goldfield Hills, dramatic squalls intersect the highway and I am soon immersed in a rampaging graupel down-burst. Wipers on full throttle did little to improve the visibility, and nothing could compete with the sound of the pelletized snow pummeling the windshield. And here, at Lida Junction, I needed to turn onto a desert two-track to find my ‘trailhead’, an arbitrary dirt intersection on the alluvial fan somewhere beyond the squall. The graupel-depth could be measured in inches as I dropped into 4×4 and slowly worked my way up-fan. A coyote stared at me at a fenceline, his posture clearly showing his frustration with the incessant downpour. The battery dead in my camera, I missed his portrait. Of course.

I entered a graupel squall as I approached the snow-covered track on the fans of the Cuprite Hills. With snow building on the ground before me, I turned to see a dust devil approaching from the valley bottom.

From inside the storm, I could see the swirl of winds along the margins of the down-bursts where a swarm of dust devils raced ahead. Thinking this possibly a dream, I pulled my jacket on and packed up. I was two miles from the summit and had a mile and a half, give or take, to walk up the fan before hitting the quick slope of the mountain front. Starting out as frustrated as the coyote as the pummeling continued, I suddenly walked from the squall onto dry ground and into the calm on the storm’s back side. Odd and beautiful.

Left the truck in the turbidity of the graupel squall to walk a two-track to the slopes; summit high point on the right.

It is an easy walk up the two-track past some mining prospects to the moderately steep, cross-country climb to the hilltop ridge. I am back in the wind, more squalls climbing the western front of the range where views are truncated by curtains of storms. The isolated downbursts leave tracks of graupel in their wakes, like the wet trails of snails on a morning sidewalk. I can see my truck in the midst of a well-marked storm-track on the desert floor; the track at my truck seemed the most prominent, but it was accompanied by multiple white tracks across the valleys and up mountain sides. This is not something I had experience previously and would not have had the vantage point to observe the tracks if I had not been on a quest to this relatively minor Nevada high point.

Peak 6107 — the Cuprite Hills high point; the storm providing the drama for a typically undramatic hill.

On the ridge, which I thought would hold the high point, I noticed that an abrupt hill to the north was higher, if only slightly. I dropped into a swale and then climbed again to gain the actual high point, finding a little cairn where a small jar held a few pages of a rarely signed summit register. It had been a couple years since another visitor had signed in.

A track of snow marks the storm I left as I began the short climb of the Cuprite Hills.

Dust and snow swirl around Mount Dunfee to the southwest.

Storms continued to track the desert below me, leaving ephemeral white trails as they ran. I seemed to be standing just below the clouds and the wind tried in vain to push me northward. I needed to drop southward on my return, and into the leeward shelter of the hillslope I went. Number 80 on my list, some 272 left to visit. Summiting the Cuprite Hills, and other minor bumps in Nevada’s mountainous landscape, is not an impressive feat of mountaineering – it is not even a difficult walk, but when conditions are right, these small hills provide an experience equal to, or surpassing, any climb I have done. This was a good day, and I am glad to have taken a few hours out of my drive to enjoy these mostly unnoticed hills of scattered yucca, where the storms race to the horizon and dust devils dance in snow.

Cuprite Hills Collection

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Landscape Photography: Late Snow and Last Light on the Black Rock Playa, Nevada

D. Craig Young · February 27, 2021 · 1 Comment

I spent the day, having started well before sunrise, on an overland obsidian recce focused on the geomorphology and distribution of the Majuba and Seven Troughs toolstone sources. A series of dramatic snow squalls cut that effort short just as I reached the ‘High Road’ from Sulphur to Gerlach. However, as I broke out of the western margin of the storm, I could see a blanket of new snow across the dark space of the playa of the Black Rock Desert.

The playa is typically a dry, dusty basin — most experience this place in the summer and fall, with the denizens of Burning Man transforming the space annually (though the playa got a break in 2020). Snow is not typically in the playa experience. But as I dropped past Cholona, a white blanket spread before me and a long horizontal crack at the sky-horizon promised a show. I ditched the truck and climbed into the hills below Pahsupp Peak. I would wait and be ready.

**Calico snow**. The playa in its atypical blanket of white below the breaking storm.

Late Snow Collection

Traversing a series of alluvial gullies cut into lacustrine sediment of pluvial Lake Lahontan, I worked my way to a set of rocky outcrops highlighted by orange lichen dampened by the recent snow. From these rocks I could play with a variety of compositions in all directions.

I kept telling myself to go slow, pick a composition and work with the light that was building as the sun began to peak from the horizon on its way to evening. However, the receding squalls behind me — to the east — continued a shadow-play of cloud shapes and snow-fall curtains. While I concentrated on the light show in the west, I did turn for the occasional image in the darkening clouds — sometimes the two interacted and rewarded me with fantastic opportunities. This perspective called for a wide-view. Other times, I just watched in the moment. It was a special evening.

**Black Rock Playa at Trego**. As the storm receded it allowed the sunset to spread into the Black Rock Playa. (Please click for full view).

**Passing snow**. Dramatic mammatus clouds as the storm moves out of the Calico Mountains. (Please click for full view).

**Two track to Trego**. Traces in the snow hint at the old roads above the playa margin, it also makes a subtle pattern through the image.

**Shadows of Trego**. An experiment in black and white; I am happy with the compressed view of the sunset and the break in the Granite Range. The steam of hot springs rise in the mid-ground.

**Last Light at Trego**. The requisite near-far rock-to-sky scene. Not at all subtle, but this was the feeling at the close of a wonderful day.

Late Snow Collection

A long drive home remained, but everything about the day contributed to a perfect overland excursion. From obsidian maps to playa snow to the requisite afterglow, I count this among the special ones.

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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

Deep Freeze at Bridgeport Reservoir, CA

D. Craig Young · February 7, 2017 · Leave a Comment

I discovered YouTube. Silly me. I had, of course, spent hours browsing YouTube content, mostly checking out concert videos or while solving some home repair puzzle. But now the puzzles of Lightroom had sent me searching for tutorials and that, in turn, allowed me to stumble upon a couple channels that suddenly inspired me even further. I found Thomas Heaton and Nick Page. These guys – Thomas from the northeast of England and Nick from the Palouse in eastern Washington – are pros with a knack for teaching and sharing their photographic inspiration and talent, along with their joys and occasional failures. It’s dangerous binge material, not to mention the rather serious gear-envy with every “what’s in my bag” video. However, to avoid the danger, it is better to follow the inspiration and get out to photograph some landscapes, just like my new mentors.

Inversion fog forms misty strata above Bridgeport Reservoir. A seven-shot panorama of the Sawtooth Range, Sierra Nevada. Focused on the structure to emphasize the softness of the frosty background. 1/500 sec, f/5, ISO 200; Canon 80D, 18-135 mm.

So, I’m up in the pre-dawn of a brutally cold Saturday morning driving happily, once again, the dark two-lane of Highway 395. Driving through here a couple weeks ago in a deep snowstorm, I thought the sunrise on the Sawtooth Range of the Sierra from the perspective of Bridgeport Reservoir would challenge me. It’s an expansive range, with a ragged high-point I climbed many years ago; and with the frozen conditions and new snow, this should be fun!

Bridgeport Deep Freeze Collection

Knowing the reservoir was frozen, I wanted to use it and the lifting fog to highlight the range in the first sunlight. That was the plan, and it worked out pretty well. What I didn’t anticipate was just how cold it was going to be. First, I could not find a good place to park due to the plowed berms along the highway; the road crews had worked to clear the highway after the recent storm but they didn’t see the need or have time to create convenient photography pull-outs. Dropping into 4×4 Low, I made myself a parking spot where I thought the turn-out to the reservoir dam might be. Oh, and it was now -16F, so the cold smacked me hard when I jumped out of the truck. Luckily, I loved the viewpoint and thought I had several good compositions I could capture just short distance from the truck – maybe I could even climb back in with the heater running once things were set and I waited for the light. The sun was unlikely to ever reach me, so ambient warmth was not coming soon.

I had my new tripod and remote cable trigger so I was ready to be a real landscape photographer, and I was earning it! I’d even cut the finger off one my gloves so I could work the touch-screen on the camera and easily adjust the buttons. I did not, however, plan on losing the feeling in that finger! It soon felt and looked like a dried-out, pink eraser on an old No. 2 pencil. I could not feel a thing, that finger was useless. But the light was coming, and it was awesome.

I tried several tricks that Thomas and Nick had touched on. With the highlight being a seven-image panorama that I stitched together in Lightroom. I wasn’t able to work with anything in the way of foreground interest, but the control building at the dam is a cool feature of the pano, and the scene from the frozen lake is about the space. I was very happy with this first outing with a tripod, having weathered the brutal cold common in the Bridgeport basin.

1/30 sec, f/5.6, ISO 200; Canon 80D 18-135 mm.

The pre-dawn chill at Bridgeport Reservoir. I think the panorama at sunrise a few moments later captures the expansive valley better (above at top); a multi-exposure pano provides the wide view that can, at first, feel limited in a crop-sensor camera. I should have gone for a greater depth of field here, compensating with a longer exposure given that I was using the tripod.

1/400 sec, f/11, ISO 200; Canon 80D 18-135 mm.

Sunrise on the Sawtooth Range and Matterhorn Peak, Sierra Nevada, above Bridgeport Reservoir. Starting to think clearly about my camera settings, and emphasizing some depth. The freezing inversion keeping some softness in the distance. Climbed a couple Class 5 pitches to the Matterhorn summit (left peak) in 1994, on a much warmer day.

1/1250 sec, f/5.6, ISO 200; Canon 80D, 18-135 mm.

As the sun hit the reservoir near me, the ice reflections mirrored the freezing mist beyond the frosty tree. This drew my attention away from the distant mountains, and toward the nearby shore. It’s a simple in-camera zoom and reduction in depth of field that alters the composition from the preceding image — augmented by a slight addition crop in post-processing. Along the with panorama, this one captures the deep freeze of the winter morning at Bridgeport Reservoir.

Bridgeport Deep Freeze Collection

Some small steps forward with Lightroom processing, especially syncing and working with the panorama creation. I also saw the benefit of cropping and zooming. I’ve somehow since lost the RAW files from this outing, however. The Canon 80D performed flawlessly in the cold, and I remembered to let it warm slowly in it’s bag for the several hours of driving later that morning. Plopping the cold camera on the desk in the warmth of home may have allowed water vapor to condense in the lens or elsewhere. Don’t do that.

The upper layers of my fingertip actually fell off after turning black several days later. Frost-nip on the exposed portion, the result of a smart move altering cold-weather gear and stepping into the deep freeze. I never had that happen to me in the mountaineering days; I had to wait to experience that while standing on the edge of a frozen lake with a camera, on a tripod, and pointed at a mountain. Perfect.

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