Cowboy Heaven

If I could give only one piece of advice to nature photographers while in the field, it would have to be, “Expect the unexpected.”

I wrote a few weeks ago about maintaining a heightened sense of awareness while in the field, always being on the lookout for the not-so-obvious; the spaces in-between. Well, what’s true for space is also true for time. Or should I say, timing. One of the biggest challenges in nature photography is not just finding something interesting to shoot, it’s being there at just the right time.

Photography is, at its essence, painting with light. Light is the only thing that film (and digital sensors, these days) will respond to. No light, no image. For professional looking images, you have to be able to read the light. In a studio situation, and in a few outdoor situations, you can create or adjust the light, but most of the time out in the field you cannot. You have to be able to read and react to it. Often quickly, before it changes completely.

I often watch the sky, and always try to be aware of where I am in relation to both my subject and the available light, both direct and reflected. But even with a heightened awareness and lots of time in the field, sometimes you just get lucky! This image, titled “Cowboy Heaven,” was one of those times when I was in the right place at the right time.

Riding through a valley between two mountain ranges in the Rocky Mountains, I had actually stopped to get my bearings–and read the sky–to determine where I wanted to head next, hoping to set up for a sunset shot. There was a summer rain shower off to the west, and I was trying to decide if it was going to rain itself out before the sun reached the horizon, or get bigger and ruin my chances for any kind of shot. To get a good sunset shot, you need to figure out the logistics ahead of time. Know where the sun will set and where you want to be set up.

As I was pondering this situation for myself, the storm clouds broke up just enough to let the sun shine through for about thirty seconds. Light streaked across the sky in great beams and the ranch land before me, which had until now seemed plain and uninteresting, suddenly appeared to me as something from a dream. Perhaps, I thought, this is where cowboys dream of going after they die.

A mountain ranch basks in the late-afternoon sun.

“Cowboy Heaven” is available as a Limited Edition print, in two canvas sizes and two paper sizes. The 24″ x 36″ Canvas Gallery Wrap was first shown this past weekend at an exhibition in Boerne, Texas. See www.EarthshinePhoto.com for more details.

Appreciation

The morning is crisp and cool, and the sun is on the rise. A perfect summer day at Rocky Mountain National Park. The hike to Bear Lake is really more of a short stroll. By the time I reach the far side of the lake, the mountains in the distance are illuminated, beneath a deep blue sky with scattered puffy clouds. The sun is still low enough to cast interesting shadows. Water, trees, mountains, sky. Good light. Obvious composition. What’s not to like?

I set up the tripod and take my obligatory postcard shot.

"Bear Lake in Summer" - The view across Bear Lake on a beautiful summer morning in Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado.

Don’t get me wrong, it was a beautiful sight, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. But this is the expected shot; the obvious one. And to some landscape photographers, this is the ideal target. But if you spend all your time searching for the elusive postcard shot, you’ll miss the beauty of the spaces in-between.

"Waiting for the Fire" - Bathed in a ray of sunshine, a pine cone rests on the forest floor.

One of the keys to capturing those in-between shots, and to being a good nature photographer in general, is having a keen sense of appreciation for everything around you. An artistic interpretation of nature must include an examination of those out-of-the-way places; a search for the little things; an appreciation for subtle beauty that results in taking more of the not-so-obvious shots.

The old adage about beauty being in the eye of the beholder is true. Appreciation for any kind of beauty comes from inside of us. It is our interpretation of what we are seeing–that smile inside, that subtle (or not-so-subtle) joy we feel in the presence of beauty–that is our sense of appreciation. Beauty is not an inherent characteristic of things or places. Things exist, just as they are. It is our perception and interpretation of something as beautiful that makes it so.

But we miss so much beauty because we are too preoccupied to be aware of it–right in front of us. All around us. In the people and places that make up our everyday lives. In the simple things. In the spaces in-between.

Part of the purpose of art is to give us pause to appreciate the beauty of something outside of ourselves. A deep sense of appreciation for life is one of the keys to happiness. So find some time to slow down today. Take a deep breath, open up your mind to what’s around you, and lose yourself in something beautiful.

"Villutus" - A blanket of trees covers the hills like velvet.

Problem Child

Photography is not without its challenges. When photographers get together, we tend to talk about the challenges behind the camera and the challenges on the computer, but not so much about the challenges in our own minds.

I have an image I’ve been struggling with for about a year now. I can’t seem to get it just right. I work on it, print it out, study it, then put it away for a while. I pull it up again a few days (or weeks) later. It’s still not right, so I start the process over again. When I mutter things under my breath about my problem child, my wife knows exactly which image I am talking about.

It all started last summer, in an out-of-the-way valley in Southern Colorado. On an 18-day motorcycle trip with another photographer, we arrived late in the afternoon hoping to catch a sunset over the rugged Sangre de Cristo mountains. We checked the map and decided on a vantage point, but as we headed out across the valley, I could see clouds building in my rear-view mirror. Additionally, the size of the mountains and the wide open spaces made the distances across the valley floor seem smaller than they really were.

The road turned to gravel and finally began to climb into the foothills. A Harley on a gravel road isn’t the best of combinations, so the pace slowed considerably, but we pressed on. Off to my right, I spotted two horses. One larger male, almost black, and one female, slightly smaller with a beautiful chestnut coat. They were both lean and very alert. About a hundred yards from the road, they would run with us, then stop and stare in our direction, then take off again.

I slowed down and pulled off the road, letting my friend ride on ahead. I cut the engine and grabbed the camera. The smaller horse was intensely curious. She stopped and stared for almost a minute. I stared back at her, not wanting to make any sudden moves, and in that moment, my awareness seemed to expand. I could feel the spaciousness of this wild place, the mass of the towering mountains. I could sense the gathering storm behind me; I could smell the sweetness of the coming rain. Across the distance, I was connected to the intense energy of this beautiful, wild creature, staring at me with her big, dark eyes–nostrils flaring to take in every scent, ears alert for every sound.

And in the midst of this, I bathed in the the smallness of my own presence, alone, on the side of a dirt road, in the middle of nowhere.

Then the other horse trotted up along side and nudged her, and they both took off again, running hard, manes and tails flying in the wind. It was beautiful, but… I forgot to take the picture!

I walked slowly over to an old fence post, and steadied my camera on top of it, hoping against all odds that she hadn’t lost interest in me yet. I took several shots of both horses on the run. Then, just as I was about to give up, they wheeled in my direction for a short ways, still running hard. As if on cue, the smaller horse pulled up short, while the other turned away and ran on. She stood frozen, just like before. Ears up, nostrils open, staring right at me. This time I didn’t forget to take the picture! I slowly lowered my eye to the viewfinder and got off six or eight frames before she bolted again.

That was all I needed. I went back over and sat on my bike. I watched them for a while longer, soaking up the beauty of this place and the intimacy of my brief encounter. Little did I know, she would become my problem child.

After that trip, sorting through over 3,000 images, I came across the horses. The running shots were nothing to write home about, but one frame jumped out at me: the last image I captured of my encounter. It took me back to that place and that day, and I was so excited to start working on the image. But since then, it’s been a battle in my mind. Fine tuning the colors, the contrast; playing with the light, the details, the background… But I just can’t seem to get the image that’s in my mind.

What am I looking for? Some way, perhaps, to communicate more than just the image of a horse–more of the feel of the actual encounter I had. Is that possible? Will I ever be able to balance my ability to view the image critically, as a photographer, and personally, in the context of my specific experience?

I don’t know the answers yet–and that’s okay. Actually, it’s part of the fun: the perpetual task of creating imagery that conveys a sense of place and time, beauty and wonder, and hopefully, experience.

“Mustang”

Wild and free, a beautiful mustang stops for a moment to stare across an open field.