Tag Archives: landscape photography

Relapse with a Bounce

Posted by dkrashb on

I had to quit cold turkey.  It was tough, but after I got through the initial withdrawal, I discovered there were endless subjects to shoot besides the Chattanooga riverfront as seen from the North Shore.

The toughest step of my recovery was having to go through my photos and delete about 7000 images to free up drive space.  I think 5000 of those images were of the Chattanooga riverfront.

But then yesterday, I was walking in the park with Tisen.  I was going to go for a bike ride afterwards, but the clouds started rolling in and, well, I skipped my ride in order to shoot.  I guess we could call it a relapse.

When I started gathering up my gear, I peeked out the windows to discover a double rainbow forming in the East as the sun cruised toward the Western horizon.  I rushed to find a good view and get setup, worrying that I would miss the rainbow.

As it turned out, the brightest rainbow remained visible for the entire 45 minutes I was shooting.

The second rainbow never did get very bright–it just sort of hovered on the edge of visible.  It’s visible in the second image if you look closely.  As much as I love seeing rainbows, I find I enjoy shooting clouds more.  Perhaps because it’s difficult to get more than one perspective on a rainbow, but the clouds continually shift and create new images for you.

I’m not sure where my fascination with clouds started.  When I was a child and my family went on long road trips, if there were clouds, we would amuse ourselves by finding complex and, often, outrageous shapes in them and trying to get everyone else to see what we saw.

Every time I fly, I hope for cloud cover.  I love looking down on clouds–especially when there are thunderheads or other masses of clouds that look like some sort of special effect created by hollywood.  Of course, when I’m in a plane, I wish they were just a special effect!

As part of studying for our hang gliding rating, we learned a little bit about clouds and how they can help predict the weather–a life and death issue if you’re a good enough hang glider pilot to stay aloft for hours (my longest flight so far was about 4 minutes–makes weather changes sort of a non-issue).  We learned hang glider pilots look for big puffy cumulous clouds as a sign of thermals. From the look of things, the thermals were in full force.

I vaguely remember a dream I once had of falling through a cloud.  In my dream, the cloud was soft and warm–as if it were somehow slowing my fall.  It wasn’t the kind of fall that makes you wake up before you land; it was the kind of fall where you know you will bounce.  Perhaps I already knew that thermals were pushing back underneath?

Above Infinity

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Now that the heat has returned to Chattanooga, it seems like the perfect time to re-live part of our trip to Glacier National Park a couple years ago, where it was cool enough that it even snowed.

We started in Portland, visiting my dad, jumped on a train to Seattle where we met some friends.  Then, we went on across the continent (or so it seemed) overnight until we arrived at the tiny West Glacier train station.

Deposited at the depot so early in the morning that it wasn’t open yet, we stood on the asphalt area that served as a platform. surrounded by our rolling luggage.  We looked around in wonder.

By the time we discovered our rental car hadn’t been dropped off for us, got picked up by the rental company, and were outfitted with a four-wheel drive vehicle that was twice as big as anything I’d ever driven, we’d seen enough to be reminded why we love the Rockies.

But these Rockies seemed . . . rockier.  More rugged, bigger, bolder somehow than the Rockies of Colorado or Alberta.  But then again, I think I feel that way every time I return to the Rockies, no matter which part.

Our friends were only staying a couple of nights and then they were heading back without us.  Since they weren’t hikers, we took advantage of having a couple of non-hiking days to adjust to the altitude by doing things like driving to overlooks and walking on gentle paths around lakes.  There was an amazing amount of beauty to take in without pulling any muscles.

When we drove past a helicopter tour place, we girls were determined to get the guys on the copter.  I have often skipped helicopter tours opting to spend my money on a nice dinner with a decent bottle of wine instead.   But I always regretted skipping the helicopter tour in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park.  This time, I wasn’t about to miss it.

I laugh as I remember how hesitant the guys were to join us.  I really think they wanted to save the money.  I don’t think either one regretted having spent it by the time we landed.

There is something so spectacular about mountains.  To see them from above, with clouds nestling below their peaks . . . I imagine scenes from Greek mythology of the gods having a meeting or perhaps playing chess.  If I were immortal, this is definitely where I would hang out.

I cannot logically explain the effect mountains have on me, but I think it’s a common experience.  That sense of awe, grandeur, amazement.  The sudden stillness that follows the feeling of inspiration.  Feeling part of something bigger than my imagination. Perhaps a sense of being part of something infinite–the world seems so endless from a mountain top.

I wish these few photos contained that feeling.  Unfortunately, these are very low resolution versions of the originals (which, I hope, are stored away in an archive somewhere).

60mm (Almost)

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Does 14mm really matter?  For my non-photographer readers, in this case, I’m talking about focal length.  In short, focal length determines how close or far the subject appears through the lens.  The more millimeters, the closer things look.

I tend to like zoom lenses, which offer a range of focal lengths in one lens.  This may be because when I am done working for the day, I don’t want to make any more decisions.  When I get out my camera, I don’t want to have to decide if 50mm is going to be what I need.  However, generally speaking, lenses with the biggest range of focal lengths often have the poorest image quality.  I guess to get all that range, you have to give up something.  As such, I try to buy the best quality lenses with a reasonable range of focal lengths I can.

Over the course of several years, the range of focal lengths I could cover has grown from 17-55mm and 70-300mm to 16-55mm and 70-560mm.  Yet, I never could cover that 14mm gap from 56-69mm.

For a long time I thought I could live without those 14mm.  But then I started running into situations where I really needed a focal length between 55 and 70mm and I didn’t have it.  Granted, moving is often an option.  However, when you’re shooting from a train, a car, a boat, a balcony, a roof, or even a hilltop, moving may not be within your control.

Since I am waiting patiently for my new full-frame camera and my 17-55mm lens will not work with a full frame camera, I figured it was time to fill the gap.  After 5 years of no 56-69 coverage, I have now expanded the focal range to 16-560mm–with no gaps.

As exciting as this may be to me, comparing what I get at a previously unavailable focal length to other, available focal lengths seems like the best thing to do.  I set up on the balcony and shoot the view I have shot so many times before.  This time, I aim for 60mm–right in the middle of my new range.   Unfortunately, there are no markings between 50 and 70mm on my lens, so I have to guess where 60mm is.  When I load my photos into Aperture, I learn that I was shooting at 57 and 58mm.  Oh well.  Still within the previously missing range.

Tisen, who is suffering from a combination of allergies and a nasty rash and has been put on steroids and antibiotics, is so groggy, he barely drags himself out onto the balcony to help me shoot.  As soon as I sit down at the computer, he returns to the sofa.  Apparently he has grown tired of the view faster than I have.

The new photos are compared to old shoots from similar views at different focal lengths.  It’s funny what a difference a few mm can make!

Scenic View

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One of the more sedate things I enjoy is riding in trains.  Whether it’s as transportation or a scenic route (or, better yet, both), I really enjoy knowing that no one (who isn’t getting paid to be there) gets stuck doing the driving.

When we saw a PBS documentary on scenic train rides with steam engines, I made note of the Mt. Rainier Scenic Railroad.  I had yet to make it to Mt. Rainier and taking a train ride there sounded like the perfect way to enjoy seeing Mt. Rainier with my father and his wife on our next visit to Portland.

Many weeks later when Pat and I were out on our annual visit, the four of us headed out of Portland towards Elbe, Washington early in the morning.

A little too early, in fact.

When we arrived in the “town” of Elbe, no one seemed to be up yet.  Fortunately, one of the 3 businesses at the only intersection was a quiet restaurant where we got a good, down-home breakfast.

After filling our bellies, we headed out and discovered the volunteers who run the train had arrived.  I guess if you are excited by steam engines, this would be a great event.  However, once we were on the train, we discovered two things:  first, you really can’t see the engine when you’re in the train; second, you really can’t see much of anything when you’re in the train.

There were 2 moments totally 18 seconds during the ride where we could see beyond the immediate vegetation surrounding the tracks.  During 11 of those seconds, we saw Mt. Rainier off in the distance (2nd photo).  The rest of the time, we saw scenery like the dense trees and ferns in the 3rd photo or an occasional flower-covered slope like the 4th photo.

While I enjoy hiking in the woods, they’re tough to appreciate from a train.  Besides, this was supposed to be the “Mt. Rainier Scenic Railway.”  Call me crazy, but I expected to see Mt. Rainier for more than 11 seconds.

I suppose it’s all about expectations.  Had it been called “Get-a-Glimpse-of-Mt.-Rainier-During-an-Hour-and-a-Half-Train-Ride-Through-Dense-Woods Railway,” I probably would have been thrilled.

Fortunately, we were returned to the station with plenty of time to drive to Mt. Rainier National Park.  We got spectacular views just driving up to the visitor’s center and made plenty of stops so our driver (aka, Dad) could also enjoy the view.  Photos 5-13 were all taken from within the park.  It wasn’t the best time of day for good light, but the area was so beautiful, I didn’t really care.

The final image is of Tisen, taken with my iPhone using the Hipstomatic app.  I love the irony of having an app on a smart phone so you can take pictures that look like you took them with a cheap camera from the 1960’s.  It’s awesome.

In Search of a New View

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On Friday night, Pat decided it was time for us to try Nikki’s, a Southern Fried Chicken and Seafood drive in that we’ve been going past regularly ever since we started taking Tisen to doggy daycare.  Pat’s idea was to get take out and go have a picnic.  I decided this was the perfect opportunity to find a new location to shoot sunsets from.

After getting two fried shrimp dinners with coleslaw, fries, and hush puppies, we follow google maps up the hill to a nearby conservation area.  There isn’t a picnic area, so we wolf down 3 weeks worth of saturated fat sitting in our mini-van.

The conservation area is a shady woods that, unfortunately, has been invaded by many foreign plants that block the view through the forest.  The trail is an abandoned road that looks wide with easy walking, but we decide to forego a hike since I’m hoping to shoot the sunset.  There is no hope of getting any views of the sunset from where we are.  Not only are there no views through the thick growth, but we’re on the East-facing side of the ridge.

We decide to drive to the other side of the ridge to a different trailhead to see if we can get a view from there.  After crossing under the ridge through a tunnel and driving around to the other side, we wind our way around to the next trailhead only to find that we are still on the wrong side of the ridge.  It’s like some kind of joke.  There is no explanation as to how we still ended up facing East.

As we head back out, the trill of a wood thrush catches my ear.  I suddenly realize I haven’t heard one since we moved to Tennessee.  As I listen to its sweet flute-like voice, I suddenly ache for the ravine we left behind.  But I am soon distracted by the search for a view of the sunset.

We end up on the backside of the ridge facing the freeway.  There is a big, bald hillside on the other side of the freeway where a new complex is under construction.  It looks like the developer hired strip miners to do the excavation.  It breaks my heart.  I cannot bring myself to shoot with this eyesore in the frame and I cannot shoot around it.  Perhaps I will have to think about how to capture the ugliness of this site, but tonight I’m seeking beauty.

After trying every road we can get access to along the ridge, we give up on having a really good view and return to our roof at home.  We are in time for twilight.  The almost full super-moon has already risen high, shining so brightly I cannot resist shooting it.  Equipped only with my wide-angle lens, I play with long exposures.

All-in-all, it’s been a fun little adventure even though we never strayed far from home.

Blowing the Top

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Mount St. Helen is one of those places everyone should see.  Or at least anyone who is interested in what happens when a mountain explodes.  It’s one of those fascinating places that I have no problem returning to.  I’ve been there three times, which is a lot considering I live about 2500 miles away and there are a lot of places I haven’t been that are higher on my bucket list.

Our last trip out to Portland, my brother, sister-in-law, and nephew wanted to see Mount St. Helen and we decided to do a 6 mile hike while we were there.  My dad and his wife would hang at the visitor’s center while we did our through-hike.  They would pick us up at the end of the trail.  Timing was a bit tricky.  With no working cell phones, we had to predict how long it would take us to go 6 miles.

I have read a lot of books about backpacking where people say things like “20 minutes a mile with a full pack is a good pace.”  I have yet to go on a day hike where we were able to maintain a 20 minute mile pace, let alone a hike with a full pack.  So, when my sister-in-law (who likes to do things like run marathons at an 8 minute/mile pace) guestimated we could hike 6 miles in 1 1/2 hours, I was less optimistic.  A 15 minute pace sounds painfully slow to a runner, I suppose, but maybe that’s why I don’t enjoy running?

Before we departed, I told my father we would take at least 2 hours and that he shouldn’t worry if we took 3.  I set the panic time for 7:00PM, figuring that would give us three hours–I felt confident we could manage a 30 minute pace even in the worst of conditions.

The views in the Mount St Helen area are haunting.  The landscape looks almost foreign.  Yet, each time I’ve returned here, there were more signs of life–more green, more elk, more birds.  Given that it’s been nearly 10 years since my first trip, the progress is slow, but it is progress.

As it turned out, we got confused about which trail we were on.  Our only trail map was a flyer from the visitor’s center that gave us so little information we couldn’t find the trail we wanted to be on and eventually decided to turn back.  We walked back quickly to an overlook we’d passed.

After hitting up a few tourists until someone agreed to give me a ride down to the meeting place, I made it to the rendezvous spot about 1 minute before the panic time.  My dad and his wife were quietly napping, so I don’t think we were in danger of them panicking.

On the way home, we stopped one last time to enjoy the view of Mount St. Helen–majestic even without her peak.

Among the Clouds

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In 2004, I talked my now-husband into going backpacking in Yosemite.  I carefully planned a 67-mile trek around the top of Yosemite Valley that I figured we’d be able to complete in 7 days.  Pat said no.  I re-planned, reducing our plan to 42 miles in 7 days  Pat was dubious, so I added “escape routes” so that if we decided to retreat to the valley and stay in a hotel, we could.

Pat had never backpacked before, but having been to Hawaii with me for 2 weeks a couple years earlier, he had learned what happened if he allowed me to set an itinerary without supervision.  At the end of our trip, I asked him if there was anything he wanted to do that we didn’t get to.  His answer was, “Well, it might have been nice to have one day to just hang out at the beach.”

There are so many stories to tell from this trip to Yosemite, but I will stick to the ones associated with these few photos (taken with my old Powershot G3).  The red flowers are called snow plants.  Because they only grow in California and Nevada at very specific altitudes in conifer forests between May and July, I suppose it’s not a surprise I’d never seen one before.  But it was such a surprise, bursting out of the forest floor in the shadows as we made our way up to the top of El Capitan.

The rest of the photos were taken from Clouds Rest.  We had hiked all day to get to the top of Clouds Rest, the highest point visible from the valley.  Along the way, we saw many yellow-bellied marmots, a wide variety of squirrels and chipmunks, and one very curious mule deer buck who had walked up to us as if he wasn’t sure what we were.

We were also treated to increasingly amazing views of the Sierra Nevada mountains stretching endlessly beyond the horizon.  But, when at long last we made it to the top, we sat mute in a state of awe for a half an hour before we decided to hurry up and get camp setup and get ourselves ready for bed in time to sit and watch the sunset.

We found a spot to pitch the tent below the ridge, made our dinner following strict guidelines to avoid bear invasions, got our accommodations all arranged, and put on some extra warm clothes.  Then, we sat on the ridge and watched the light changing across the valley as the sun sank below the mountains and the mist rose in the valley.  We sat there for over an hour feeling like there was nothing more we needed to be satisfied in life than sitting on that ridge together watching the wonder of mountains.

While we had many inspiring moments on that trip, I think if that would have been the only place we hiked to, we still would have gone home satisfied.

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Itching to Hike

Posted by dkrashb on

Back when I was a Camp Fire Girl, I accepted a dare to roll in a patch of poison ivy. 24 hours later, I showed no reaction. Even three days later, there was nothing.
Fast forward about 15 years.

I was working in the garden at our first house, removing the crazy plants that had taken over in front of the house. I noticed about half way through that some of the vines I was attacking were poison ivy. I shrugged and thought, “Good thing I’ m not allergic.”

By the next day, I had a horrible itchy mess. A friend told me running hot water on it would help shorten the length of the reaction by stimulating the histamine response to happen faster (or something like that). I decided to try it. By the following morning, I had an enormous welt at least 5 inches in diameter and 2 inches high. It was oozing so much fluid, a stream was running down my arm.

Ever since, if I so much as see poison ivy (and perhaps more often, when I don’t) I end up breaking out. Thankfully, having learned a few things since then, not like that first time:
1) I watch out for it and avoid it as best as possible.
2) If I do come into contact, I wipe off with alcohol and wash thoroughly at the earliest possible moment.
3) I treat my clothes as hazardous and throw them into the wash in hot water immediately.
4) If I start to itch, I take an anti-histamine.
Above all, I do NOT run extremely hot water over the area!

As we picked our way along the Cumberland Trail last Sunday, all of these memories flooded into my head. The poison ivy grew so prolifically all along the trail, it was impossible to avoid contact. Even of I could have successfully cleared every leaf, vine, and stem, Tisen simply plowed right through it.

After all, Tisen doesn’t have to worry about being allergic to it. But dogs are great transferrers of poison ivy oils from plant to human. So, Tisen got treated like my toxic clothes and went straight into the tub when we got home. He was not very happy about his bath afterwards, as you can see from the last photos.

In spite of the poison ivy, the trail was beautiful. Because it was up high on a ridge, the wind blew through the trees almost constantly. The sound of wind blowing through trees always creates an inner stillness for me–even when I’m watching Tisen run through hundreds of poison ivy plants.
When a grove of older trees started creaking with an almost mechanical noise, I had to laugh–they sounded a lot like my knees.

After winding our way along the ridge listening to the woods being played by the wind like a strange instrument, we decided to head on back. After all, we had eight creaky knees reminding us not to overdo it.

Skinned Knees, Wuthering Heights, and South Korea

Posted by dkrashb on

While shooting wildflowers up close may invoke yoga muscle memory, shooting a landscape of not-so-wild flowers from the ground invokes many childhood memories. First, there is the memory of scraped knees as I kneel onto the sidewalk with my older-than-their-years knees and feel a stab of pain. This is a different stab of pain than the feeling of having your flesh grated by concrete (an all too familiar feeling for me). But being outside fascinated enough by the way the sun hits different flowers as it pokes through holes in the clouds to set up a tripod flat to the ground and then kneel down to look through the viewfinder to see what I can see, that feeling invokes the feelings of exploring and trying something new–a feeling my childhood was full of.
My photo album from my childhood is full of pictures of me in dresses with both knees scraped, bruised, or stained white from climbing a big white fence in our back yard.
I could never get away with anything on today’s world–I left way too much DNA evidence behind everywhere I went. This is still true today. It’s hard for me to make it around the park without a single stumble. At least I outgrew the desire to wear dresses all the time.
I try sitting all the way down to the ground on one hip. My knees are grateful, but my neck kinks as I twist to look in the viewfinder. Is getting older really better than the alternative? I would prefer a just staying young choice.
As I look up the slope with its long grasses and mixed flowers, another memory comes to me. It’s a memory of reading Wuthering Heights. I don’t know what a landscaped slope in Chattanooga, Tennessee has to do with an English moor, but I am suddenly reminded of the Monty Python skit where Catherine and Heathcliff are running towards each other across the moors and inevitably pass each other (since it was a Monty Python skit).
But the memory of Wuthering Heights takes me to another place. It takes me back to South Korea where I spent 4 months when I was 18. I bought a bunch of books there. They were pirated classics, poorly copied and poorly bound, but they were the only affordable books in English I could find.
In a place where everything felt different and strange, I found a little slice of “home” by reading stories that took place in England, where I’d never been. I wonder why that felt familiar?
Today, I wrap up my shoot and slowly stand, testing my sore knee gingerly before putting weight on it. I try to imagine Heathcliff and Catherine with my knees running across the moors. If it would have been me, I would have tripped at the last second and cracked heads with Heathcliff. I should have been on Monty Python.

Loitering and Licorice

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A friend of mine recently said to me (roughly):  there is something about a walk by a river that makes all right with the world.  I understand this.  There is something inexplicably soothing about walking by water.

I am reminded of walking by the Scioto River with my grandfather when I was very young.  I remember walking down to the river with him and stopping to get licorice along the way as if it was something we did often together.  In reality, it probably happened only once–we lived three states apart.

We walked slowly together, talking very little.  There was something about Grandpa I liked.  I have so little memory of him that it’s hard for me to remember exactly what it was.  Something went quiet inside when I was around him.  Like I needed to listen very carefully for something important.

When we stopped at the grocery store, the plastic packages of licorice hung from metal rods pointing at me, demanding my attention.  I will forever associate black licorice with my grandfather–he was one of the few people I’ve known in my life who would go out of his way for it.

With our brown paper bag full of licorice, we made our way across the busy road I was never allowed to cross on my own.  We walked across the bridge, back when it had a steel arch capping it.  The pedestrian walkway separated us from the traffic, but I remember it being all metal–our footsteps generating a soft metallic clang as we made our way across.

About halfway, there was a sign that said “No Loitering.”  I asked my grandfather what loitering meant.  He made a garbled explanation, and then said “like this” and he sort of shuffled around in one place.  For months, I thought it was some kind of dance step.  I couldn’t quite figure out why you weren’t allowed to dance on the bridge.

We made our way over the river, stopping to look down at the water periodically.  We were probably loitering.

When we eventually made it to the other side, the water lapped slowly at the bank.  The ducks paddled towards us in the water, hoping for a handout from our mysterious brown bag.

We walked slowly, listening to the water, watching the light bounce off of it and the rest of the world disappeared.

Now, when I walk along the Tennessee River, the world gets bigger, brighter, and quieter all at the same time.  I look at the clouds that decorate the river valley.  I watch for the heron soaring along the banks.  I watch the people crossing the Walnut Street Bridge, silhouetted against the setting sun.  I listen to the water, the birds, the insects, and even the occasional shout from an exuberant teenager.  As a I look for images I want to frame with my camera and keep, I am in that moment enjoying the river and all is right with the world.