sunset – On the road with Jim

The Escalator Effect: Rock Formations in the Granite Dells Picture of the Week - Prescott, Ariozna

A golden stairway of rock formations ascending to a blue sky in the Granite Dells during sunset. — The Escalator Effect: Rock Formations in the Granite Dells – A natural escalator of golden rock formations, leading the eye toward the serene blue sky. A captivating example of the Dells’ rugged beauty captured at day’s end.

Thanks for tuning in to the third installment of my tromp through Prescott’s Granite Dells. We’ve moved to the park’s west side this week, north of Wilson Lake, where the trails are more challenging (physically and mentally) for an old coot like me. Despite the park departments placing white dots along the route as breadcrumbs, this Hansel managed to get lost three times. When I wasn’t lost, I scrambled over rocks and through thickets. To add to my misery, I started my hike in the afternoon, when the temperature was hot—even for Prescott.

Ah, the granite of Arizona, often found lounging in the sun, unbothered and with a certain rough charm. Unlike its posh cousin in Yosemite, it’s not entirely dressed to impress. While the Yosemite granite is a refined mix of quartz, feldspar, and biotite, giving it a smooth, elite look, Arizona’s granite is laid-back.

Arizona’s granite likes to hang out with some low-life friends, like mica and other composite minerals. It’s a mixed bag of characters not found in the high-end stuff. It’s a bit like the rebellious teenager of the geological world, not entirely fitting into the pristine and orderly world of Yosemite’s elite granite or New Hampshire’s distinguished, old-world charm.

Where other granites may be used for grand monuments or chic interior design, Arizona’s granite prefers the simpler life—gracing landscapes, lounging in gardens, or even being crushed into gravel for driveways. The added presence of mica gives it a bit of sparkle, but it’s more of a casual glint rather than a dazzling shimmer. It may not have the star power of its Yosemite counterpart, but it’s got character, grit, and a unique Southwestern flair that makes it stand out in its own right. And who doesn’t love a good underdog story? Especially one with a bit of sparkle!

When hunting down picture subjects, I look for unusual things that interest me. It may be a pattern, shape, texture, or something ordinary, but with exceptional lighting, photography loosely translates to ‘painting with light.’ But when I try to explain to others what I see in an image, my audience frequently gives strange looks, and they often raise their hands in defense before taking a step back for safety. For example, I was drawn to the inclining row of vertical rocks behind some horizontal slabs in this week’s image, titled The Escalator Effect: Rock Formations in the Granite Dells. My brain shouted, “Oooh! Oooh! Rock go up and down—rock go side to side.” That was enough encouragement for me to snap the shutter.

The composition still pleased me enough to process it this week, but as I worked on it, I began seeing things that could get me locked up. As I looked at the incline of vertical rocks, I wanted to push the right one over and watch the pile topple in a chain reaction—like a row of dominoes in a time-wasting but addictive video. Then, the rocks morphed into a flight of stairs or an escalator I wanted to climb. Then, to my horror, I saw the shape of a man covered in a leafy shadow blanket lying face-down at the foot of the stairs. Has he fallen? Is he injured? The city should put up handrails for us to hold onto. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

A singular rock, bathed in golden light, resembling a deflated beach ball or Yosemite's Half Dome, in the Granite Dells. — One Among Many: A Golden Hour in the Granite Dells – A unique rock formation stands out against a backdrop of green pines and blue sky, its golden hues reminiscent of a beach ball or Yosemite’s Half Dome, frozen in time.

This week’s second image—One Among Many: A Golden Hour in the Granite Dells—isn’t nearly as complex. It’s only a round rock that climbed on top of a larger one to catch the last rays of the evening sun. That’s all there is. There’s nothing more or nothing less—except perhaps it’s a flattened bowling ball, deflated beach ball, or it could be an off-scale model of Yosemite’s Half Dome. I’m not sure—maybe the hot sun is getting to me.

Thanks for stopping by this week. I hope this week’s image and exploration of the photographic eye have piqued your interest. The world is full of wonders waiting to be captured by your lens, even in the most unexpected places like Arizona’s rebellious granite. If you’re brave enough to examine the dead body in “The Escalator Effect” (if you can find it), you’ll find larger versions on my website (Jim’s Website) and my page on Fine Art America (FAA Page). Join me next week for my final Granite Dells photo story. I’ll be back if I don’t get caught up in a butterfly net before then!

Till next time
jw

Techniques: Developing Your Photographic Eye

Back in the stone age, when attending night classes at Pasadena’s ArtCenter College of Design, I befriended a fellow student who was an exceptional photographer. We’d brainstorm ideas about our weekly assignments, spend time in the darkroom together, and learn techniques from one another. Vince’s work made everyone’s jaw drop when we sat for our professor’s weekly critiques. The instructor would allot ample time to hold up the photos Vince turned in as a shining beacon to which the rest of the class should aspire. Then he’d critique my work with, “That’s nice too,” before moving on to the students who need more help. Vince had the eye.

Since then, I’ve been part of many discussions centered on talent—either you got it, or you don’t was the consensus. Talent is innate and can’t be learned—to which I say rubbish. Talent isn’t a binary thing like a light switch—on or off. Like most traits in life, it’s a continuum, a line that everyone fits on. It’s easy for a select few, but we must work harder to grow.

There are helpful rules in photography that you have to learn, like beginners practicing scales on a piano. We’ve previously touched on some of those rules in this forum: framing and composition, the rule of thirds, manipulating the light, and so on. Understanding and following these rules doesn’t make our work great. Early in our careers, we work hard to master the rules so they become intrinsic, and we stop thinking about them while we’re shooting—like the musician who doesn’t need to look at the piano keys to play a tune. It’s then that your mind begins to see beyond the obvious. Instead of asking, “What should this tune sound like?” you can ask, “What should this tune feel like?” When you don’t think about the rules and trust your imagination, your work speaks with your voice. So, when I hear someone say they don’t have talent, I don’t believe them. Everyone has some talent; they have to decide if they’re willing to do the extra work—is the trade-off worth it?

It all begins with observing the world and finding what speaks to you. Whether it’s the rebellious charm of Arizona’s granite, the unexpected formations that emerge in the sunlight, or the whimsical ideas that come to mind when a rock resembles a flattened bowling ball, your unique vision will set your work apart. So take your camera, wander the trails, get lost if you must, and let your imagination guide you. Embrace the unexpected, and you might discover the extraordinary in the ordinary. Keep pushing, keep experimenting, and never doubt your ability to see the world in a way that’s uniquely yours.

Date Creek Clearing Picture of the Week

Sometimes you get lucky. As a photographer, I keep scenes in my head, so I can go back when the light is right when I want to capture them. That’s what happened for last week’s image, Resting Santa. We had a series of dry fronts move through Congress during the month, but the weather forecasts called for an afternoon where the sky would be clear so the evening sun would pleasantly light up the Harcuvars. I left the house at 3:30 and purposely drove out to get that shot. It was practically a product shot.

More often, I pass by beautiful once in a lifetime scenes that will never be replicated, and I chastise myself for not having a camera with me—or worse—not taking the time to stop. That’s almost what happened with this week’s featured image.

Date Creek Clearing - A clearing winter storm hangs over the Date Creek Range in the evening sun. — Date Creek Clearing – A clearing winter storm hangs over the Date Creek Range in the evening sun.

After I was finished shooting Resting Santa, I drove home on State Route 71. I was looking forward to getting back to a warm home, a nice glass of wine, and one of Queen Anne’s famous home-cooked Stouffer’s dinners. The sun was low on the horizon, and outside my window, a golden cloud hung over the Date Creek range. The conversation in my head went something like this.

“Oh my, that’s gorgeous. I should really come back with the camera sometime when the light is like this.”

“You idiot! Your camera is on the passenger seat, and the light is like this right now. Stop the truck, walk across the road, and take the picture.”

I was very convincing, so I did stop and take a shot—several of them to be exact. The version that I like most is called Date Creek Clearing. There are two prominent peaks in the Date Creek Range; both of them are unnamed. On the left is the rocky pinnacle that ate my first drone, so I call it Drone Eater Mountain. On the right side is the Range’s high point. They are only bit-players in this photo. The real stars here are the clouds caught in a moment that can never be duplicated. Those storm leftovers can never be the same.

I know that my work is considered trivial and will never warrant a Pulitzer Prize or other great awards. I shoot mostly meaningless pretty pictures, valued at a dime-a-dozen. But on a week such as the one we’ve experienced, I needed a bit of calmness and serenity. If you feel the same, then this is my gift to you.

You can see a larger version of Date Creek Clearing on its Web Page by clicking here. Next week, I’ll bring you another image from our small corner of the world. Stay safe.

Until next time — jw

Dean Peak Picture of the Week

There’s a Prime Video series Queen Anne, and I watched this month called Good Omens. We enjoyed it so much that we watched it a second time, and caught a lot of the subtler jokes that we missed the first time. The main characters—an angel and his demon buddy—aren’t very good at their jobs, and consequently, they screw up Armageddon. This riddle was in an episode, “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” It’s a trick question because as God—the voice of Frances McDormand—explains; Angels don’t dance, that’s something the devil conjured, and there’s not a substantial enough number to count them all, because demons can line-dance in the spaces between the pin’s atoms—funny stuff. When I visited this month’s photo location, I thought about the show’s riddle.

For my August pictures, I only had to walk across the street—as such. My new subject is the mountain range on the west side of the Big Sandy River and U.S. Highway 93—the Hualapai Range. They’re part of the parallel mountain ranges making the Basin and Range Domain which runs from Utah to the California Sierras. From space, these formations look like a pack of caterpillars stampeding across a sidewalk.

The Hualapai’s are a twin to last month’s Aquarius Mountains, except they are high enough—7,000 to 8,400—for pinion and ponderosa pine to grow. That means they are often snow-covered in winter. They fill the area between Wikiup and Kingman.

When my folks lived in Kingman, I heard of a park up on the mountain, but never visited, so last week I loaded Archie and drove up Sawmill Canyon Road (alas, if there was a sawmill, it’s gone now). The DW Ranch Road exit on Interstate 40 is a handy shortcut to use if you’re coming from the valley. It’s less than 10 miles from the Interstate to the County Park which is situated in a tiny valley at the top, and where Kingman residents have packed summer cabins into every available space. As I drove along the deeply rutted streets, I wondered, “How many Ford executives can camp on the top of Hualapai Peak?” In the village’s center, there is a concrete catch basin that’s called Pine Lake, but I couldn’t find public access to it, and—from its color—I’m not sure you would want access anyway. I got frustrated at having to back out of each street I tried and decided to check out the Hualapai Mountain Park and campgrounds.

After paying a day fee, I parked in the trailhead parking lot and checked out the maps. It was already after five when I started on the path to Stair Step Overlook, about a half-mile hike. I was never athletic, and I don’t claim to be in great shape today. I grew up uncoordinated, and when I was a kid, I was always the last pick for team sports. But, I regularly walk now, and my average speed is over two miles an hour. I figured a 15-minute walk at the most, so I grabbed my camera and left my water in the truck. I was wrong. It took 10 minutes—coming back down the mountain. The trail climbed four-hundred feet in that half-mile. As I hiked, I followed a group of two men and a woman who were in their early thirties and equipped with day-packs. I followed them inch-worm style; they walked out of my sight and then they’d be resting when I caught up.

When I finally got to the overlook, my new hiking friends were lounging on large granite slabs and taking in the view. As I climbed up the stairs, I looked up to see six of them before my eyes could focus again. The woman looked concerned and asked, “Do you need water?”

“No,” I replied. “I only wanted to get here and take some pictures. I’m going back down right after that.”

Then the guy with the beard drove a stake through my heart, “Man! I hope that I can be hiking up and down some mountainside when I get as old as you are.”

I did get a shot from the overlook, but I took this week’s featured image on the drive home. I call it Dean Peak because that’s what this point’s name is. When I took this shot, the sun was almost down, and the lower part of the mountain was already in the shade. I hope you enjoy viewing it.

You can see a larger version of Dean Peak on its Web Page by clicking here. Be sure to come back next week when we’ll be showing more from the Hualapai Mountains.

Until next time — jw

Red Rocks and Twin Peaks

Last week’s photo—Pair of Threes—was the final good image from the trip where I was Fred’s guest. Although I captured over 60 frames, most of them were variations, or they didn’t live up to my expectations. That happens a lot. But I wanted to share more of the natural beauty in the Wickenburg Mountains with you, so I packed the truck and returned for an afternoon last week. I didn’t make it back to the mine, but I found other lovely scenes to shoot in the area—besides, the sky was being very cooperative.

Sunday didn’t start out all that great, but as the day went on, the gray sky started to break up, so late in the afternoon, I headed back to the San Domingo Wash area. If you’re a regular reader, you know that’s the time of day that I prefer to work. After spending an hour in the field, the light was getting very low, so I started to make my way home because I wasn’t all that keen about getting stuck in some quicksand after dark.

Red Rocks and Twin Peaks—With the sun on the horizon, a rock outcrop glow red before a pair of dormant cinder cones.

It was then that I shot this week’s featured image—Red Rocks and Twin Peaks—just as the sun was on the horizon below the cloud line. As I drove, I noticed the rock outcrop glowing red in the setting sun, so I looked for a place where the composition would work. I’m pleased with how there’s enough light to add texture to the desert without adding clutter, but I’m jazzed about the range of color in the sky. After I took this shot, the sun went below the horizon, and I thought, “It couldn’t get any better.” I headed home.

Pink Virga—On the drive home a line of low clouds turned pink with streaks of virga emanating from them. Of course, all I could do is snap a photo through the windshield.

Imagine all of the internal screaming I did when a line of small clouds started showing pink virga as I was driving west on US 60. I’ve only witnessed this phenomenon a couple of times, and it never happens when I’m ready to capture it with a suitable foreground. In frustration, I jammed the camera to the windshield and fired a couple of blind shots while I was driving. Mother Nature can be very helpful to a photographer, but she doesn’t always play fair.

You can see a larger version of Red Rocks and Twin Peaks on its Web Page by clicking here. I hope you enjoy viewing this week’s post and come back next week when we’ll show another featured image from the Wickenburg Mountains.

Until next time — jw

P.S.: Queen Anne and I would like to send our best wishes to you. We hope your holidays are safe, warm and happy.

Making Lemonade 2018 Utah Photo Shoot

As teenagers growing up in Los Angeles, we were ambivalent about the Santa Ana Winds. They would clear the air in the LA Basin, pushing it offshore where it was somebody else’s problem, and for a week or two, you could see where you lived and enjoy the beautiful mountains surrounding us. But the winds also dried out the scrub. Dry enough, a careless motorist could fire by flipping a cigarette out the window. Fires are a way of life in Southern California. They’re annual, but you don’t get used to it.

As a kid, I saw how smoke can choke the air, but I also saw a phenomenon helpful to photographers, although that didn’t sink in until I was older. When heavy smoke fills the air, it filters the sun—like sunglasses. During sunsets, the sun is an orange globe that you can look directly at. The smoky atmosphere causes beautiful orange sunsets. I don’t know if you’d call that a benefit, but they’re unusual.

After Monday’s shooting, I was processing some photos for yesterday’s blog when I glanced at the setting sun through Ritz’s window and saw an orange sun. Yesterday, as I wrote, I thought about trying to capture a sunset from my teenage memories. I decided to give it a go, and at 7:45, I drove north on US 89, looking for a suitable foreground for my sunset experiment. I settled on a spot where the sun would go down behind a lovely mountain—Sandy Peak. As a bonus, there was a vast field sprinkler spraying streams of water that would glow with the backlighting. I exited the truck and sat by the roadside, camera in hand, and waited.

The smoke in the air must have dissipated because as the sun got lower, it didn’t get duller, although it still had a tint of orange. I knew I would need to wait for the sun to kiss the mountain for the shot to work. That meant shooting when the sun was most colored anyway. Then, at 8:00, four children burst out of the house to my left. One got on a quad and started driving around while three girls—judging from the long dresses they wore—began running toward the sprinkler. When they got there, they turned off my sprinklers. I’m talking about one of those massive machines you see in fields moving on wheels in a circle. I’d be afraid to touch it, and these children turned it off like the hose in the front yard.

I thought about leaving, but the sun was inches away by then, and the girls hung around the fixture, so I adjusted the camera to bring up the foreground and started shooting until the sun slipped halfway behind the mountain.

Sandy Mountain Sunset- This is my failed attempt to capture an orange sunset, but the story is nice anyway.

Here is my last and best shot. The smoke wasn’t thick enough, the water wasn’t spraying, and I have live humans in my photograph, but I thought I’d share my evening with you—at no extra charge. Can you find the girls? They’re there, I can assure you. Now, I can go back to shooting inanimate objects.

Until next time — jw