Eye Of The Storm

The sky is fascinating. Just above our heads is a dynamic river of ever-changing complexity, and somehow nature can take this chaos and create beautiful clouds and weather phenomena—some peaceful and calm, others terrifyingly destructive.

A supercell thunderstorm twists its way through the atmosphere, bringing damaging winds and baseball-sized hail to Leoti, Kansas.

For the last 22 years, I’ve traveled hundreds of thousands of miles throughout the central United States in search of some of the most violent storms on Earth. This region, known as Tornado Alley, comes to life each spring as warm moist air from the Gulf of Mexico interacts with cold dry air from Canada to produce “supercell” thunderstorms and tornadoes. Documenting these storms, I find it incredible to witness firsthand just how powerful nature can be. As you can imagine, storm photography is full of endless challenges, from both a photographic standpoint and, more importantly, from one of safety.

People often ask why I document storms, considering that one wrong decision can easily lead to peril. That’s why I began this article with simply, “The sky is fascinating.” I can easily remember being that kid in elementary school who chose to lay on the picnic table staring up at the clouds rather than go on the playground during recess. I was mesmerized by the different types of clouds, how they moved across the sky, their colors and textures, and how some resembled dinosaurs, turtles and rabbits.

I got my first camera at the age of 15, a Yashica MG-1, but I didn’t have a car, so I removed all the window screens from the second floor of my family’s home in Texas and photographed storms as they came through our town. When I eventually got a car, I headed out to the open fields nearby to start composing with better foregrounds than rooftops and water towers. It was then I started to intensely study as much as I possibly could about the weather, which included connecting with veteran storm chasers to learn the ropes of documenting extreme weather.

The canyon floor of the Grand Canyon is illuminated at night by a powerful lightning strike as monsoon thunderstorms move through the region.

Fast-forward 22 years and multiple atmospheric science classes later, thousands upon thousands of miles on the road, and lots of failures—but just as many successes—and here I am, still heading out each year documenting Tornado Alley. It’s addicting and intriguing, both mentally and physically exhausting, but it’s my favorite subject to photograph.

Each storm is so different than the last, and that’s one of the biggest excitements of storm photography because you never know what you’re going to see. Some storms are monstrous supercells, towering up to 60,000 feet, dropping softball-sized hail and mile-wide tornadoes. Others are small popcorn showers that give you a few sparks of lightning, and that’s your show. Each storm is unique and presents a variety of visuals to focus on, some more extreme than others, but all deserving to be in front of the lens. The thrill is real to get to document a subject that is only there for a few hours before literally vanishing into thin air.

Storm Photography: Challenges Of The Chase

What’s a day of storm chasing like? Wake up in the middle of nowhere after getting a mediocre night’s sleep at a random hotel. Check the morning weather data while drinking lukewarm who-knows-how-old coffee and chowing down on breakfast. Choosing a target area based off the best analysis of data that you can make, keeping your fingers crossed you’re not driving in the wrong direction. And then filling up the gas tank and driving hundreds of miles to another middle-of-nowhere location in hopes that your forecasting skills are on point and nature decides to show up to the party.

Even then, you’re still not done. You begin to bake to a crisp in the hot sun while pondering over which little cumulus cloud is going to go boom and grow into a 60,000-foot-tall supercell thunderstorm. Some days, you slam dunk the forecast and get a wonderful storm to initiate in your target area; other days, one element can be missing from the atmosphere, and you spend your whole day driving hundreds of miles for some horrible gas station food. It happens—more times than not, to be honest. But that’s part of the game, part of the allure of storm photography, I would say, to risk it all to see nature put on one of the best shows of power you could ever imagine.

A powerful shelf cloud pushes across the Kansas countryside ahead of an intense line of severe thunderstorms.

Say you do luck out and get a storm to go up. Your heart is pumping, the adrenaline is flowing, and things just got 10 times harder. Now that a storm has formed, every decision you make is a careful negotiation between you and the storm. Depending on what I want to photograph with that storm, I have to figure out the best angle for light, where the most visually appealing structure is, how the road network will allow me to approach to capture that image—and most importantly, I must keep myself safe.

Another question I get a lot: “Mike, aren’t you afraid of tornadoes?” I’ve been documenting storms for more than two decades, and I still get scared a bit with each one. The reason is not because I feel like I don’t know what I am doing, but because I have a solid respect for what I am documenting. I have seen firsthand the power of this dynamic atmospheric river of energy that flows above us. I understand that no matter how much I have studied, prepared and anticipated for a chase, nature can do exactly the opposite of what science says is supposed to happen, and I need to be prepared for that, too. Every move I make out in the field is a reactionary and calculated move to create an image while remaining safe.

Take tornadoes, for example. These usually occur in a specific region of the storm, so if I’m wanting to avoid tornadoes that day, I have a good idea how. What really worries me is the other hazards like lightning, flash flooding, giant hail and, increasingly in recent years, other storm chasers out on the road driving recklessly. Storm photography receiving more attention via social media and becoming more sensationalized has brought hundreds of new enthusiasts to each storm, resulting in clogged roads, traffic jams and a few people driving as if they are above the law. In fact, a few years back, a young and passionate chaser from Arizona was killed in an auto accident while out documenting a storm. Another vehicle with two chasers blew through multiple stop signs at speeds approaching 90 mph and t-boned the other individual. All three died on impact. So these days, I am not only keeping a keen eye on the storm and elements within it but also keeping an even closer eye on those driving near me around the storm.

Thunderstorms, Squall Lines & Supercells

One of the most fascinating aspects about documenting storms is that no two are alike. Thunderstorms come in a variety of shapes, sizes and intensities, so to somewhat quote the great Forrest Gump, “Chasing is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” That mystery of having absolutely no clue about what nature may throw your way on a chase day is one of the most addicting elements of documenting the skies above us.

Monsoon thunderstorms bring lightning and torrential rains to the Grand Canyon in Arizona.

Let’s dive into the science a bit before we highlight the visuals that may be created. There are three kinds of storms that I’m documenting while out in Tornado Alley: the basic thunderstorm, squall lines and supercells. Each of these provides fantastic opportunities to create compelling and storytelling imagery that displays the beauty and power of the atmosphere.

Thunderstorms

When I talk about a basic thunderstorm, I’m referring to storms that are most likely not “severe”—defined as having 1-inch or larger hail and/or 58 mph winds or stronger. Although they can briefly reach these thresholds, most of the time they are what I like to call “kind thunderstorms.” They provide opportunities to photograph rain shafts, mediocre cloud structures, rainbows and lightning. They tend to last less than an hour and are the safest storms to document in comparison to squall lines and supercells. Typically, these storms are not the ones for which I drive hundreds of miles, but if I happen to be around one, I’ll pull out the camera and tripod because nature can surprise you.

Squall Lines

Imagine looking horizon-to-horizon and seeing a wall of incredible energy moving toward you at nearly 50 mph. This is what it’s like standing in front of what’s known as a “squall line,” a quick-moving line of thunderstorms that are usually severe in intensity, bringing with them large hail, possibly embedded tornadoes and intense straight-line winds that can easily reach 100 mph. These lines of storms often provide fantastic visuals on both the leading edge and on the backside as well. Typically, what I’ll document with these storms are shelf clouds, cloud-to-ground lightning on the leading edge and “anvil crawler” lightning on the backside, as well as a phenomenon known as a “whale’s mouth,” which occurs as the shelf cloud passes overhead.

Supercells

Supercells are the mother of all thunderstorms. These are extremely dangerous types of thunderstorms and truly require you always being on your toes and ready to move at a moment’s notice. Although supercells pose the most risk to document, the reward can be worth the risk as they tend to present the most visually dazzling displays of nature, from striated thunderstorm updrafts that resemble barber poles and UFOs to electric barrages of cloud-to-ground lightning and, of course, violent tornadoes dancing across the landscape. Although I truly appreciate every storm I get to document, supercells are a special opportunity to create imagery that conveys just how small and helpless we are versus the power of nature.

A cloud-to-ground lightning bolt strikes down from the anvil of a mothership supercell near the small town of Sublette, Kansas.

The Visual Approach To Storm Photography

By now, I hope you have a general understanding of how difficult it can be to make just one stellar image while out documenting storms. So many elements need to come together in the atmosphere to provide a moment worth capturing, and then just as many elements need to come together logistically to allow for a safe positioning with good light, a decent amount of time to set up and shoot, and hopefully with a bit of foreground or landscape to tie into the frame.

When I’m “on” a storm, I tend to focus on structure and lightning as my subject matter. If tornadoes are part of the storm I’m on, I’ll incorporate them into my shooting, but they aren’t necessarily my prime focus. (Of course, I’m always paying attention to where they may be.) Over the years, I have come to appreciate that each storm has a unique story to tell. Their vast scale, the colors, the textures, the shape, the way they interact with this world we live in—those are the visuals that I love to capture in a frame.

Because things can from zero to 60 in a blink of an eye out in the field, I come prepared with three cameras (most recently a Nikon Z 9, Nikon Z 7II and Nikon Z 6II) with 14-24mm, 24-70mm and 70-200mm lenses, one attached to each body. These focal lengths allow me to capture a variety of frames from extremely wide angles that show just how large a storm is and its structure, to extremely tight frames where a tornado may be tossing debris into the air. Often there isn’t enough time to swap lenses, so I find it more efficient to have three bodies with three different zoom ranges ready to go at all times.

An anti-crepuscular ray stretches across the sky, creating a very mysterious scene as the sky and rainbow seem to be cut in half by this optical phenomenon.

Storm photography is like real-life chess; you’re always trying to plan your next move ahead of your current one. There is no “pause” button with these storms, so unless I’m going for a very specific shot on the backside of a storm, I’m always trying to stay ahead of it while predicting where it’s going to move next. I tend to position myself a bit farther away from the storm and let it come to me, especially if I’m shooting a time-lapse. Having this distance allows me to capture more of the structure, observe if any tornadoes are forming, and not be as pressured by the chaos that can ensue by being right under the storm. Now, if I do see a particular region of the storm becoming extremely interesting, I might move closer to photograph it if the storm speed and motion allow me to do so safely.

Another reason I like being a bit farther away is to give myself the opportunity to find possible foregrounds to complement the scene. I’ll admit it, I’m a foreground snob, and that has, indeed, cost me missing some great visuals on storms, but when I do find a good foreground, I feel it makes the photograph just that much more special. What exactly am I looking for? Well, if you’ve ever been through the Plains, you know firsthand there’s not much out there. So I’m looking for anything that can provide a sense of scale, color contrast, emotion or additional interest. I love abandoned farms for scale and storytelling, or perhaps golden wheat fields to contrast against the dark and eerie skies.

I’m also looking for opportunities to create panoramic images. I feel panoramas truly give you an opportunity to feel what it was like to be in that moment. A single wide-angle shot is great, but there is just so much more going on in the sky that panoramas can convey.

Tornadoes

An elephant trunk tornado quickly moves across a freshly plowed dirt field in west Texas while illuminated by the sun, turning the tornado white and debris cloud a fiery orange.

Tornadoes provide some truly impressive visuals. These violently rotating columns of air can take on multiple shapes, colors and intensities in their often-short lifetime as they dance across the landscape. For me, they are an essential part of telling the story of a storm’s life, but as I mentioned earlier, they are not my focus. So, if a storm doesn’t produce a tornado, I’m not devastated. Yes, they are incredibly amazing to see and photograph, but they can come with a whirlwind of emotion as well. Seeing a tornado skirt across the vast and empty prairies of the Plains is awe-inspiring, but the moment that tornado begins causing damage and threatening lives, that emotional high quickly evaporates, and you are then filled with sadness, fear and a bit of anger at what you are seeing.

When a tornado is out in the open, it’s time to create a beautiful frame. When that tornado enters a town or hits a home, it’s then a journalistic endeavor. Instead of working on creating a “fine art” image, I’m working on visuals that will show the devastation of the tornado. I hope that these images raise awareness for those who aren’t there and can help provide resources for those who were in the path.

The Small Details Of Storm Photography

Not every storm is a grab bag full of epic visuals. Many can be quite disorganized, have bad visibility or occur in an area of terrain that isn’t accessible by roads. It’s moments like these where you can either tuck your tail and call it a day or challenge yourself by focusing on the small details hidden within the sky. Some of my favorite smaller details include mammatus clouds, crepuscular rays and rainbows. (Pro tip: For rainbows, make sure to utilize a circular polarizing filter to help increase the saturation of the colors.) I’ve had more days than I can count where focusing in on some of the smaller details has allowed me to walk away with a stellar frame from a storm that didn’t have much else to offer.

A cloud shadow creates a split scene of dark and light tones among mammatus clouds at sunset.

Through all the challenges, the exhaustion, the endless miles on the road and, of course, horrible gas station food, when a towering thunderstorm is erupting through the sky, putting on one of the best shows in nature, all of the effort is worth it. Why? Well, I said it at the beginning, and I’ll say it at the end—simply put, the sky is fascinating. 

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See more of Mike Mezeul II’s work at mikemezphotography.com.

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Where The Green Meets The Blue

Inuit sacred site, Siberian Russian Far East. In ancient times, the Inuit would gather on special occasions, often after killing a whale, and use the long whale bones to erect a tent with fur hides of killed animals. Inside, they would build fires against the bitter cold of the Arctic and have sacred drum dances.

We are a species of movement and curiosity. Since the dawn of humanity, we have cast our imaginations beyond the horizon and set our internal compass to seek the unknown, to discover new lands, and to create ways to share our finds with our fellow humans. Science has now proven that all people on the planet are related, that we are all brothers and sisters originally from the plains of East Africa and that we migrated to every corner of the planet some 100,000 years ago.

From then, right from the beginning, we have been storytellers. The earliest examples of this can be found in the caves of Africa, Indonesia and France dating back as far back as 64,000 years: scenes of the great hunt and etched depictions of exotic animals and landscapes. From the Vikings to the travels of Marco Polo, and even in the seabound journeys of Captain Cook, the history of exploration through the centuries has been marked by remarkable painted illustrations of far-away places—landscapes, cultures and wildlife that defied the West’s imagination of the time.

Japan has many ancient traditions, and one of the oldest is the samurai. Today, wealthy Japanese businessmen commission the creation of beautiful replicas of ancient samurai costumes. This one depicts the rising sun.

The “golden” era of exploration (stretching from Captain Cook’s ocean journeys and the finding of the source of the Nile to the placing of flags by British explorers at the South and North Poles) was in large part driven by the desire to expand the reach of the British Empire and funded by the wealthy aristocracy of Victorian London in the 17th and 18th centuries. The germ of what is now global tourism began with lectures given in cigar smoke-filled gentlemen’s clubs.

Photography was invented in the early 1800s and, within several decades, travel photography began with haunting images taken by photographic pioneers like Francis Frith, famous for taking the first known images of the pyramids and Sphinx in Egypt. By 1889, the National Geographic Society began to use this powerful new medium of photography to take us around the world and show us all that is remarkable about our planet. Today, several billion photographic images are loaded onto the internet every single day, and a significant percentage of them are travel related. What incredible change the camera, together with the jet, has brought; we can travel anywhere in the world in a matter of hours, and through the glowing screens of our phones and computers, we can be transported there in seconds.

India is rich with ancient traditions and colorful mask rituals. In southern India in the Kerala region, I was lucky to witness one of the Theyyam mask dances.

My own journey into travel photography began when I was 8 years old. My family was living in Australia when my father gave me my first camera. In that instant, I knew that I wanted to be a photographer, a visual storyteller, and to use the camera as my passport to explore the world and discover cultures and places beyond my imagination.

In the 1980s, fresh out of photography school, I was honored to be asked by the noted landscape photographer Ansel Adams to be his photographic assistant. For five years, I worked closely with him in the darkroom and in the field, assisting him in his photographic efforts to help preserve the wilderness and national parks of America. After leaving Ansel’s studio, I began my own journey to all corners of the planet to document landscapes and endangered cultures—a journey that continues today some 40 years later. In 2001, by then a National Geographic Fellow co-directing a program focused on documenting traditional cultures and languages, I worked with the most culturally endangered communities, often spending months with my camera, video system and audio recorder documenting their daily lives and traditions.

During the same period, I also helped to start and direct All Roads, a global program to support underrepresented Indigenous storytellers. Many Indigenous peoples have at the heart of their culture a refined art of storytelling. With 80 percent of the world’s traditional languages being oral, knowledge is passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, generation to generation. The leap from oral story to photographic story is a natural and quick one. Indigenous storytellers take to photography as an expression of their culture and respect for nature and for their fellow human beings—for all life.

Down a deserted desert highway in northern New Mexico, for several miles along a hot dusty trail, lies the Bisti Badlands, a bizarre, alien landscape. This is a place worth spending the night photographing both sunset and sunrise.

In my own journey as a photographer, I have also wanted to tell stories, mainly around two themes. The first is sacred places, both man-made and natural, the basis of my book SACRED. The second is traditional culture. Photographing cultures can take many forms but, always with an eye to the most visual impacts, I have focused on the rich and diverse beauty of traditional regalia, tattooing and, most recently, masks. My book MASK records my travels to photograph spiritual traditions through masks and masked rituals around the world.

When I began the MASK project, I knew that I wanted to explore and document the rituals of traditional mask dancing and the use of masks in spiritual practice in as many places as I could. For every photograph taken, often there are weeks or even months of research and preparation required to ensure that each expedition will succeed—and with the chance of failure being reduced to as close to zero as possible. As Louis Pasteur once said, “Chance favors the prepared mind.”

I often tell students, do not expect success without working hard and doing your homework about your subject; whether it is a landscape or a person that you wish to photograph, do your research. Ansel encouraged me to, “Put off short-term gains for long-term goals.” I always think of this advice, and I have always tried to heed it. Indeed, my book projects can take decades to complete. In both MASK and SACRED, you see images that I have taken over 40 years.

An ancient Pagan ritual, the Krampus mask festival, unfolds high in the mountain villages of Germany, Bavaria and Austria every Christmas. Terrifying monsters with grotesque masks chase children through the village, instilling a sense of dread that ensures they will be on their best behavior until next year.

I also learned early on about the importance of respect. As a cultural photographer, my relationship with my photographic subject must be borne of respect, of a common bond of friendship and humanity. I never, ever parachute into a location, grab my images and go. I passionately believe that the quality of an image is in direct proportion to the quality of the relationship with the subject. You can see it: The greater the mutual engagement, trust and respect, the greater the power and success of the portrait. Treat people the way you wish to be treated.

I often spend days, even weeks, in a village or with a community, working with the men and women in the fields, playing with their children and sharing meals around the fire late into the night before I even take my camera out of its bag. I want the exchange to be real, to be respectful, to speak of humanity—a friendship forged as meaningful as the image I want to create.

The tradition of mask rituals is vibrant and strong on the island of Sri Lanka in the Indian Ocean. These fiery masks are from Naga Raksha mythology dances. Considered one of the most dangerous masks, this one is the devil mask and can take 24 different forms.

So, too, if you photograph landscapes, your relationship to the land must come through. Your respect for earth must be seen. I learned from Ansel that the power and depth of his images were based upon years or even decades of connection to the land. He had a deep understanding of the weather, of the seasons, of the subtle shades of light as it fell on to the valley of Yosemite, the deep ravines of the Grand Canyon and the sand dunes of Death Valley. The most successful of my landscape photographs also show, I hope, a sense of inner presence, a primordial pulse of the heartbeat of the earth and a gentle but persistent reminder that we must work hard to respect and protect our fragile planet.

In much of my work, landscape and culture are inextricably linked. Having originally been a landscape photographer but now primarily focused on people and cultures, I create what I call environmental portraits. I want the background, the surroundings in which my human subject exists, to be as important as the person. It creates context and provides a visual home. I try to show a powerful landscape that speaks to who my subject is. I choose the time of day, the light, the mood, sometimes seeking to create drama with oncoming storm clouds or mystery with a shaft of light illuminating my subject. I believe strongly that the weather, the time of day and the season in which I choose to photograph my subjects are all crucial to the mood and message I wish to convey to the viewer.

Along the coast of British Columbia and the far northern end of Vancouver Island, where the spruce forest meets the ocean, are native tribes who have their Potlatch dances to honor the animals of their forest, like the bear.

Deep in the high deserts of New Mexico live proud Native American tribes like the Ohkay Owingeh. One of the most revered and respected animals to the First Nation communities of the American West is the black buffalo. This is a buffalo dancer of the region.

I want to say that all is not well for traditional societies. I want to show fragility alongside pride and strength. I want to suggest the approaching threat. With the onslaught of modernity sweeping across the world like a tsunami of devastating change, Indigenous communities are losing their traditions and languages at catastrophic rates. Climate change and wilderness degradation are forcing urbanization and a retreat from our connection to nature. In choosing moody, often dark weather in my images and in using desaturated tones, I want the viewer to sense something unseen, perhaps to be a little unnerved, and to know deep down, perhaps on a subconscious level, that our planet and many of the cultures that live upon it are in danger and need help.

In my new book, SACRED, I want to show both the beauty and fragility of our planet home, too. I have been documenting sacred places and power places ever since I left Ansel’s studio 40 years ago. As I traveled the world, whether on assignment for National Geographic, Time or others, I would often take a few extra days or weeks to stop off, go to the end of the pavement and journey deep into nature looking for sacred places. I have found them in the jungles of Cambodia while there to photograph the ruins of Angkor Wat; deep in the sand dunes of Saudi Arabia amid the ancient burial caves of the Nabateans at Al-‘Ula; in the icy wonders of Antarctica and the waterfalls of Iceland; among the red rocks of Australia and the Southwest desert of the U.S.; and in the untouched high plateaus of Tibet and Mongolia. SACRED asks what sacredness is and what does it mean to be on a spiritual photographic journey.

Forgotten for many centuries, the ancient burial caves of Al-‘Ula were lost in the Saudi Arabian desert. Only recently has Saudi Arabia opened for tourism, and an intrepid traveler can visit these remarkable Nabatean ruins.

That journey is not over. I am on a mission to continue to document the remarkable, the endangered—those places that remain untouched by the hand of modern man and those peoples whose thousand-years-old traditions are still revered. We live in extraordinary times, where scenes from our primordial past still exist in the present—but for how long? I feel that I am in a race against time to document the beauty of our planet, the wonder of diversity of the human spirit and what it means to be human.

My advice to young photographers who are starting out on their journey is to save up, grab your camera and a small bag of clothes and buy yourself a ticket to the place that you have always dreamed of going. Take a few weeks, a few months, even a year and go. Discover who you are and what makes you passionate. That office job, that city career can wait. Or, start a new one as a travel photographer. Go spend those 10,000 hours running thousands and thousands of images through your camera. Learn through your failures (and there will be failures) and celebrate your successes. Find your photographic voice. Discover your point of view and decide what you think is important. Identify your unique vision and style, and use your photographs to say something, to do something, whether it is to shine light on an injustice, to tell an untold story or to help save our fragile planet. Be part of the solution.

In the highlands of Papua New Guinea, the Mud Men of Waghi Valley don their mud masks and perform the ancient ritual of the sing-sing.

Many years ago, I was trekking through the highlands of New Guinea. After traversing a mountain range and arriving at a high pass, I came across an elder sitting there waiting for me. I realized that the old man had been watching me for some time as I hiked up the steep slope. I sat down beside him to rest.

He looked at me for a few minutes and then, through my translator, he asked, “What valley are you from?” I smiled and said that I was from a valley far, far away. His question was completely reasonable, for the people of this part of New Guinea rarely journey from their valley, remaining mostly isolated in their hidden pockets of paradise and never encountering tribes from the next valley. It was quite conceivable that I was from a nearby valley.

He asked again, insistent on finding out the answer. He then pondered on his own question and, looking toward the horizon, said, “I know, you are from where the green meets the blue.” He had heard of a place where the green land became the blue ocean, a place that he could only imagine. I have never forgotten that old man and that conversation, his confidence that I was from where the green meets the blue. Now, so many years later, I realize that he was right, of course. We are all from where the green meets the blue: on this tiny planet, spinning through the universe, fragile and finite, in desperate need of help. 

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See more of Chris Rainier’s work at chrisrainier.org.

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Seeing For Science

A scientist walks along the edge of a melt pond in the Arctic Ocean to take a water sample. My eye was immediately drawn to the strong landscape composition made by the ice “island” in the melt pond. I anticipated the scientist’s route and started shooting as she walked into the frame. Photo credit: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, Chris Linder. Nikon D2Xs, AF-S DX Zoom-Nikkor 12-24mm f/4G IF-ED. Exposure: 1/250 sec., ƒ/11, ISO 100.

From the polar regions to tropical rainforests, I have visited the literal ends of the planet during my 20-year career as a science and conservation photographer. Regardless of the subject matter or location, my mission on each assignment is the same: Use photography to educate the public about how environmental scientists study the natural world. For me, there is no greater reward than putting my photographs to work teaching and inspiring people, whether it’s through a museum exhibit or a slideshow presented to kids at my local elementary school. I want them to vicariously experience the adventure of working in nature and the thrill of making new discoveries.

An Unexpected Journey

My career path has taken many unexpected turns, but every experience has contributed to inform my approach to photography today. Growing up, I liked nothing better than being outside, usually up to my knees in mud in a nearby stream or pond. I was enthralled by The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau television program and set my sights on studying the oceans.

I followed my dream to the U.S. Naval Academy, where I majored in oceanography, and afterward earned a master’s degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology & Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. I then served in the Navy as a meteorologist in Spain, and this is where I picked up a camera for the first time. I was instantly hooked on photography and used every opportunity to explore the natural parks of southern Spain with my camera.

When I left the Navy and returned to Woods Hole Oceanographic as a researcher, I brought my love of photography with me. While working as a member of the scientific crew on oceanography expeditions, I began to photograph the experience of being at sea and my colleagues at work. My two obsessions—science and photography—were united at last, and I set out to create a new niche for myself as a science photographer.

Looking down on the main deck of the icebreaker from above, I wanted to communicate the size of the broken slabs of multi-year sea ice sliding by the side of the ship. Once I had refined my composition and settings, I waited for the perfect arrangement of ice slabs to flow by. This photograph was used for one of the daily slideshows I produced for the Polar Discovery project, an educational “live from” virtual experience funded by the National Science Foundation and produced in conjunction with professional science writers and web designers from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. Later, it also became the cover photograph for my hardcover book, Science on Ice: Four Polar Expeditions. Photo credit: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, Chris Linder. Nikon D2Xs, AF-S DX Zoom-Nikkor 17-55mm f/2.8G IF-ED. Exposure: 1/400 sec., ƒ/7.1, ISO 400.

I was an early convert to digital photography and quickly realized how this new technology could transform science storytelling. With my new digital camera (at the time, a Nikon D100) and a portable satellite-based modem, I could illustrate the day-to-day operations of scientific expeditions from anywhere in the world.

During the 2007-2008 International Polar Year, I applied for and was awarded a grant from the National Science Foundation to document a series of polar expeditions from the Greenland ice sheet to Ross Island, Antarctica. I assembled a team of freelance science writers, plus web and graphic designers from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, to create our expedition blog website (polardiscovery.whoi.edu). To increase our reach, I also enlisted a network of science museums across the country to host live talks connecting museum audiences with scientists at work on the ice. After that project concluded, I created a hardcover book of polar expedition photography, Science on Ice: Four Polar Expeditions (University of Chicago Press), with essays contributed by the science writers.

To date, I have photographed 53 scientific projects and spent over two years of my life on assignment in the polar regions. Here, I will share the philosophy, tools and techniques I’ve used over the years to create photographs of science that both educate and inspire. 

One challenge of the “happy camper” survival class at the National Science Foundation McMurdo Station research base in Antarctica is a team exercise to simulate finding a colleague lost in a blizzard. To replicate whiteout conditions, the students wear buckets on their heads. I positioned myself so that the line of trainees formed a curving line leading into the frame. The face drawn on the nearest bucket helmet facing me was a lucky gift. Photo credit: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, Chris Linder. Nikon D2Xs, AF-S DX Zoom-Nikkor 12-24mm f/4G IF-ED. Exposure: 1/640 sec., ƒ/8, ISO 100.

Eyes In The Field

The need for environmental advocates has never been more urgent. Climate change, pollution, loss of habitat and biodiversity—the list of challenges facing the natural world grows every year. As storytellers, we can make a difference. Very few scientists have the skills, time or funding to produce high-quality photographs and video to visually document their work. That’s where photographers come in. With our expertise, we can help scientists reach a broader public audience, inspire more people to care about conserving wild places and protecting threatened species, and raise awareness about the impacts of climate change and pollution.

Our challenge as storytellers is to seek out the story arc and then determine what photographs will illustrate it. In addition to the obvious who, what, where and why, I also photograph behind-the-scenes moments on an expedition—overcoming logistical hurdles, deploying instruments, and in some cases simply surviving the elements. These supporting scenes flesh out the larger story of the expedition as a whole and put human faces on the data and discoveries. It’s all part of revealing a hidden world that few are privileged to see, the complex inner workings of science expeditions.

I have never felt so energized as when I’m working on an expedition. There is tremendous pressure—you never seem to have enough time—but making art under pressure can often lead to breakthroughs. At the end of the day, the satisfaction of knowing that you’re working to make a difference for the planet is what matters.

A wide-angle lens allowed me to include the dense jungle vegetation in this photo of a river chemist from the Woodwell Climate Research Center taking a water sample in the Congo rainforest. I used the still photographs, video clips and interviews to craft a six-minute multimedia video about the expedition. Canon EOS 5D Mark II, Canon EF 16-35mm f/2.8L II USM. Exposure: 1/80 sec., ƒ/6.3, ISO 400.

Finding A Project

Embarking on a new project can be a bit intimidating. My advice is to start locally. Find a nonprofit conservation organization, college or research institution in your area and browse their staff or faculty’s ongoing projects. Look for research topics that resonate with you.

Before firing off an email, do some background work. If you’re interested in working with a specific scientist, for example, read their most recent published papers. Even if you don’t understand everything in the papers, you should get a better feel for that person’s work, and you will have some talking points to break the ice.

In that first conversation, I recommend having a list of reasons why the scientist should work with you. Firstly, what excites you about their work? How are you going to use photography to bring their science to a broader audience? Do you have partner organizations you are working with (museums, magazines, a local school) to help enhance the exposure of the photographs? Are you working alone or collaborating with a writer or other artist?

Assuming this first conversation goes well, and you’ve been invited to join some fieldwork, it’s time to get down to planning for the shoot.

The salty icicles hanging from a slab of upturned sea ice made a perfect frame for this portrait of a scientist at work on a NASA project studying arctic sea ice. The photographs from this expedition were used by NASA and collaborating scientists for an educational website and presentations. Nikon D3S, AF-S NIKKOR 24-70mm F2.8G ED. Exposure 1/160 sec., ƒ/22, ISO 800.

Pre-Shoot Planning

The first thing I do when planning for an expedition is to interview the scientists and staff about exactly what they will be doing in the field. Some of the questions I typically ask include: How will we get around in the field? What instruments will they use? And, most importantly, what are they hoping to learn? Essentially, I aim to understand as much as I possibly can about the project before we begin.

Next, I make a list of every conceivable image that I think I will need to tell the story—knowing full well that once I get into the field, that list will inevitably change. I divide the list into several categories: scene setting (landscapes, the big picture), scientists at work, and detail shots. Extensive planning and previsualizing help me decide what gear I will bring and how I will carry it. The planning process can take hours to weeks, depending on the complexity of the project and the remoteness of the location. 

Choosing Equipment

I use a diverse array of photographic tools depending on the specific needs of the project. This is why it is so critical to understand the logistics and exactly how the scientists will collect their data. Are they collecting water samples from a small boat? Will I be able to get into the water, or will I have to shoot over the side? I often practice specific setups at home so that I can work more efficiently in the field. As an example, I recently published a hardcover book about Arctic permafrost thaw and, after talking to the science team, decided that a photograph of methane bubbles coming out of the lakes was a critical concept. To get that image, I needed an underwater housing for my DSLR and a wetsuit, plus hours of practice.

The iconic manned research submersible Alvin, operated by the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, returns to the surface after a dive in the Gulf of Mexico. I used an AquaTech water housing with a large dome port to capture the action above and below the ocean’s surface. The photographs from this expedition were used by the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution to educate the public about recent upgrades to the submersible’s capabilities. Photo credit: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, Chris Linder. Nikon D800, AF-S NIKKOR 18-35mm f/3.5-4.5G ED, AquaTech water housing. Exposure: 1/250 sec., ƒ/11, ISO 720.

When I am photographing scientists as they do their work, I typically use two cameras, one with a standard focal length zoom (24-70mm) for establishing shots and scientists at work in the environment, and another with a telephoto zoom (100-400mm) for details. This two-camera setup covers 95 percent of my needs. Occasionally—for example, working on very small boats where I can’t back up—I will use a wider 14-24mm zoom. Depending on the project, I may also bring a 105mm macro lens for photographs of scientific samples. If scientists are working with wildlife, I will bring my favorite telephoto lens, the AF-S NIKKOR 500mm f/5.6E PF ED VR.

I also pack a variety of portable lights, including a continuous LED light and two small hotshoe flashes with collapsible softboxes. I bring a heavy-duty Gitzo tripod and Really Right Stuff ball head for landscape photographs but shoot handheld when photographing scientists at work. My general approach to equipment is “less is more.” I prefer to travel fast and light, since getting the shot often means I have to jog ahead of scientists moving through the landscape to get into position.

Creative Development

Photographing science stories requires a generalist approach to photography. Landscapes, aerials, people, wildlife and macro photographs may all be needed to tell the full story. What I may personally like to photograph doesn’t enter into the equation; every photograph must advance the story. Otherwise, it’s precious time wasted in the field.

Indeed, one of the most challenging—and fulfilling—aspects of expedition photography is being forced to work outside of your comfort zone. You might really love landscape photography and be a bit shy or uncomfortable photographing people, for example. Forcing yourself to learn how to make competent photographs in other genres helps you to grow as a photographer. Every time you push that shutter button, you should be learning and honing your craft. You may even surprise yourself and fall in love with a new genre, technique or style of shooting.

A scientist from University of Washington peers through a hole cored through sea ice in the Beaufort Sea. I had to slide my camera under the ice slab to get this unique angle looking up through the ice. The sunlight filtering through the ice gave it a beautiful blue color. Nikon D3S, AF-S NIKKOR 24-70mm F2.8G ED. Exposure 1/125 sec., ƒ/16, ISO 400.

Typically, the most important image on my shot list is one that shows scientists working in the context of the landscape. Examples include penguin scientists dwarfed by a colony of thousands of birds or a river chemist taking samples from the bank of a glacial stream. This kind of “story backbone” image informs the viewers where the events are taking place, who is doing the work, and what the scientists are studying.

I begin hunting for these types of images early in the project by first searching for a compelling landscape image. After finding this ideal backdrop, I make a mental note of the best time of day for the light and where I need to stand to capture the action. I coordinate with the scientists ahead of time, so I can always be one step ahead, asking where they plan to work for the day and scouting the location before they arrive. I then set up early to capture the moment when the scientists move into this preset frame.

I very rarely pose or direct my subjects as I prefer not to slow down or interfere with the scientists’ work. I also always have a camera with me because magic moments often happen organically, and a specific combination of light, weather and action may never come together a second time.

Partnering To Increase Impact

Now that you’ve photographed your story and have a brilliant selection of photographs, the next question is what do you do with them? How do you get your story seen, and what will the depth of the impact be? This is where the real hard work starts.

To frame an abstract, bird’s-eye perspective of icebreaking aboard the U.S. Coast Guard vessel Healy in the Bering Sea, I held my camera on a monopod out over the ship’s bow and triggered the shutter remotely. Photo credit: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, Chris Linder. Nikon D700, AF-S NIKKOR 14-24mm F2.8G ED. Exposure: 1/1250 sec., ƒ/8, ISO 400.

For any given project, I probably spend a third of the time researching and preparing, a third actually shooting, and a third trying to get those photographs seen. With the exponential explosion of digital photographs (an estimated 1.43 trillion taken in 2020 alone), it has never been a tougher time to stand out from the crowd. Even if you’ve taken the best photographs the world has ever seen, if you just put them on your personal website or social media, how many people will actually see them, and what kind of impact will they have?

While social media provides some easy metrics in the number of likes or shares, how meaningful is someone clicking a like button? This is why partnerships with education and media professionals are critical. Lean on their expertise in knowing how to reach and engage with their audience. This is another opportunity to exercise creativity since there is such a wide variety of possibilities. Some of the partners I have made over the years include magazines, museums, nature sanctuaries, blogs, nonprofit organizations, book publishers and K-12 schools.

You should begin the process of choosing an outreach partner as soon as you’ve identified the science project and make sure that the science team is comfortable with your outreach method. This part of the project can honestly be the most fun, especially if you have some face-to-face element of your outreach. There is no substitute for seeing people’s reactions to your work and knowing that you have made a lasting impression.

Making A Difference

My final advice is to start small and local. Begin a conversation with a scientist working in your area or inquire about conservation efforts in your community. Visit museums or nature sanctuaries and ask how they use photography and if they host lectures. Personal connections nurtured over time will lead to more connections and more ambitious projects. Nature needs our help, so consider using your skills and expertise to make a difference. 

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See more of Chris Linder’s work at chrislinder.com. Learn about Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution at whoi.edu.

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Photography Close To Home

Needles Overlook above Indian Creek Canyon, Utah. Another example of why you want to wait for a turbulent weather pattern before you head into the field. The summer monsoon season on the Colorado Plateau always presents great opportunities for dynamic compositions, but I certainly couldn’t have imagined my luck when I watched this rainbow appear just before sunset. Canon EOS 5D Mark II, Canon EF 70-200mm f/4L USM, Gitzo Mountaineer tripod, Acratech Ultimate ball head.

If someone had told you before COVID that you soon wouldn’t be able to travel to any of your favorite overseas photo locations and all the workshops you were signed up for would soon be canceled, you probably would have scratched your head trying to figure out what kind of calamity could possibly shut down all international airline travel. Perhaps worldwide volcanic eruptions filling the skies with ash or the laws of physics and aerodynamics suddenly being revoked? If you spent enough time mulling it over, however, the word “pandemic” might have crept into your mind. We’ve all seen those horror films about a deadly virus sweeping the globe and laying waste to its human inhabitants, but wasn’t that something that only happened in the movies?

As events began to unfold, we all discovered that we were now cast members in our very own horror show about the most challenging worldwide pandemic since the Spanish Flu of 1918. We stared in disbelief as toilet paper flew off the racks and bottles of hand sanitizer—if you could find one—sold for $50 each as long lines of people in surgical masks queued up outside grocery stores ready to do battle to claim the last bottle. We learned new terms such as “essential workers,” and I, as a photography workshop leader, discovered that I wasn’t among their ranks.

When traveling through a visually stunning region such as Canyonlands National Park, with all that tremendous, monumental scenery around you, it’s always a good idea to simply look down at what’s right under your feet. The constantly shifting muddy patterns along the water’s edge provide an endless variety of compositions. Canon EOS 5D Mark III, Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM, Gitzo Mountaineer tripod, Acratech Ultimate ball head.

My wife, Susie, and I were lucky enough to watch the pandemic unfold in slow motion from halfway around the world in the safe harbor of New Zealand. We flew to Christchurch to conduct our summer workshop on January 18, 2020, within hours of the first verified case being reported here in the US. On February 3, New Zealand banned all flights from China, and the number of visitors plummeted. For the next two months, with virtually zero local cases, everyone was going about their business, as usual, as we watched the rest of the world melt down around us. As New Zealand began to see cases pop up as the pandemic intensified, we caught one of the last flights out of the country on March 26, the day it went into full nationwide lockdown. At the Auckland airport, our voices echoed along empty corridors, and we were the only two people in sight at the United security check in LAX.

We arrived home to empty streets and stripped store shelves and began canceling our workshops for the remainder of the year. Once the dust settled and we began to adjust to our new normal, which included lots of free time on our hands, I started thinking about how we could get back out into the world safely. In our rural location, it made no sense to hide at home, pacing the floor, waiting for herd immunity to kick in. The world was still out there, and all we needed to do was devise a way to experience it without exposing ourselves to the virus or transmitting it to others. The goal was simple: avoid airplanes, hotels, restaurants and crowds in general and travel by road in a totally self-contained manner.

Spring Canyon, Waterpocket Fold, Capitol Reef National Park. With a virtually unlimited number of deep canyons to choose from along the 100-mile length of the Waterpocket Fold and few crowds to jostle with, Capitol Reef is an easy place to find solitude and discover new compositions far from the cliché shots in most of Utah’s other national parks. Canon EOS 5D Mark II, Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM, Gitzo Mountaineer tripod, Acratech Ultimate ball head.

We soon discovered that the location where we built our home was an ideal place to ride out a pandemic. We were surrounded by mountains and could start hiking from our front door without another person in sight. In addition to the beautiful mountains around us, we originally chose to live in northern Utah precisely for the easy access it provided to most of the American West’s choice photography locations. If I began driving in the morning, I could set up my tripod at sunset in Glacier National Park, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, the Colorado Rockies, the Grand Canyon or any of Utah’s five national parks. This makes my life as a photographer rather convenient, but even if you don’t live in a location that presents so many varied choices, everyone lives within a short walk or a day’s drive of photo-worthy destinations.

Photography Near Home

With our dance cards now completely open, I began to sketch out an itinerary for both day trips and extended photo excursions, all within a four- to six-hour drive to places I knew wouldn’t be overrun with people. Once supplied with food and other provisions, I’d be more at risk of catching the virus simply by staying home and going to the grocery store.

The soft, eroded shales of the Blue Hills provide a wonderful foreground for the sandstone formations of Capitol Reef National Park in the distance. A long lens compressed the scene, and converting it to black and white provided the most dramatic result. The vast landscapes of the Capitol Reef region, with its tremendous diversity of geologic formations, provide unlimited vantage points for unique compositions. Canon EOS 5D Mark II, Canon EF 70-200mm f/4L USM, Gitzo Mountaineer tripod, Acratech Ultimate ball head.

I’ve been fully occupied for the last eight years with our workshop travel schedule, so I haven’t had many opportunities to explore and photograph new locations in the West. The pandemic was providing me a chance to both explore these new areas and revisit familiar places, many of which I hadn’t photographed in over a decade.

With virus cases ramping up in summer, we initially stuck close to home in Utah’s Wasatch and Uinta Mountains, where we could spend the day in the backcountry with few people in sight. We climbed a number of peaks, including Twin Peaks and Mount Timpanogos, with their stellar wildflower displays. The last time I photographed these flower-filled meadows was more than 20 years ago.

As summer slid into autumn, we traveled north to the Wind River and Teton Range in Wyoming as the pandemic crowds of July and August began to thin out. The last time I photographed fall colors in the Tetons was in the 1990s, so we both relished the chance to revisit one of our favorite locations on Earth at the ideal time of year. We arrived late in the day, trolled the campgrounds and actually found an available site, where we established a base camp for the next two weeks. Completely self-contained with all the food and provisions we’d need, we were able to avoid crowds in hotels, restaurants and stores. A couple days after we arrived, the horrific wildfire smoke that had smothered the West for the previous six weeks finally blew out and was replaced by a fresh dusting of snow on the peaks, with autumn colors below.

Coyote Gulch, Escalante Canyons. Without the small, perennial stream that flows through this canyon, there would be far fewer new opportunities for photography. Even though I’ve walked this stretch of canyon many times, the constantly changing patterns along the sandy streambed always create new compositions. Canon EOS 5D Mark III, Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM, Gitzo Mountaineer tripod, Acratech Ultimate ball head.

Once the trees shed their leaves in the mountains, we turned our attention to the sweeping vistas and narrow canyons of southern Utah, with October’s warm days and cool, crisp nights. Even during normal times, as long as you steer clear of Moab, Arches and Zion—which had been teeming with visitors since April—you can always avoid the mobs in Capitol Reef National Park, the Maze district of Canyonlands, the Escalante Canyons and Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

A Fresh Look At The Familiar

Over the past 30 years, I’ve spent more time photographing southern Utah and am more familiar with its sliced and diced geography than any other region on the planet. When returning to a familiar haunt, my goal is always to try to see it with fresh eyes and to avoid simply gravitating to those exact spots that I’ve photographed before. Sure, if spectacular sky conditions present themselves, and I know the perfect viewpoint for a great composition, I’ll take advantage of it. But with thousands of miles of canyons and overlooks to choose from, you can always find new terrain to explore.

When trying to re-imagine a familiar place, one strategy is to visit during a different season than you have in the past or during a stormy period, which transforms any familiar landscape into something new and exciting. Dramatic sky conditions always play a crucial role in creating compelling landscape images. Avoid weather patterns dominated by high-pressure systems with blank blue skies, which always look the same. Instead, wait for a storm cycle with waves of clouds interspersed with sun, rain and shafts of sunlight beaming through those clouds. Bad weather may keep you pinned down much of the time, but short breaks between storms can provide sky conditions for powerful compositions. This is precisely how I’ve captured many of my most memorable images over the years.

This is an excellent example of why you want to avoid high-pressure, blank-sky weather patterns when you venture into the field. I’ve traveled past this scene on the Green River in Canyonlands National Park on many occasions, but until this trip, I never bothered digging out my camera gear. It’s these fleeting moments that can result in the most dramatic compositions. Thirty minutes later, the clouds were gone. Canon EOS 5D, Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM, Gitzo Mountaineer tripod, Acratech Ultimate ball head.

If you usually process your images in color, another way to see familiar locations with fresh eyes is to begin searching for black-and-white compositions. Once you understand what to look for, black-and-white photography will provide you with an entirely new motivation to revisit all your old photo spots to see them from a completely different point of view. Lighting conditions and compositions that may be mundane in color have the potential to provide dramatic results when converted to monochrome. It takes some experience surveying a scene to know that it has the potential to produce a compelling black-and-white conversion. The best way to figure this out is to get on your computer at home to convert some of your favorite past color images. You’ll quickly learn which ones work well and which don’t. Good monochrome compositions need a wide range of tonalities, from deep black to bright white, and should have simple, clean lines without a lot of clutter. Once you begin to get a feel for it, you’ll be ready to know what to look for in the field.

Another approach is to try changing up your camera format. If you’ve never stitched multiple images together to create a panorama, pick up a nodal rail and leveling head and return to those old familiar locations to see how they look now. Discover that when you start looking around for those long, narrow compositions instead of the familiar 1:1.5 ratio, you begin seeing familiar places in a whole new way and find compositions you never saw before. You’ll also learn how some locations, such as the Teton Range, suit themselves best to a panorama format.

This small waterfall along Coyote Gulch in the Escalante Canyons provides an almost unlimited number of angles and compositions to choose from, with its variety of different levels, pools and pour-offs. As many times as I’ve returned here, I always come away with new angles and compositions. Canon EOS 5D Mark III, Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM, Gitzo Mountaineer tripod, Acratech Ultimate ball head.

You could also try shooting video. If that sounds too complicated on your big camera, it’s really simple on your iPhone. The latest models include slow motion, time lapse and built-in editing software along with tremendous resolution capabilities. Looking for motion instead of stills will also cause you to see a familiar place in a new way. Video can be addicting, to the point where you may temporarily lose interest in still photography. You may even discover that you’re really good at it thanks to all of your experience composing still images over the years. When you start looking, you’ll begin seeing a lot of motion out there, most of it associated with the various forms and phases of water, such as waterfalls, rapids, ocean waves, clouds floating by or windblown grasses.

By the time this article is published, the vaccines should be beginning to make a real dent in the pandemic, but it will likely be many months until our lives return to “normal,” with borders slowly opening and everyone jumping on airplanes again. In the meantime, take this opportunity to get to know your old, familiar photo locations from a new point of view. This exercise will make you an even better photographer the next time you travel overseas to an exciting new destination.

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Reaching For The Stars

It’s cold, and I’m shivering under the dark night sky. Out of breath from hiking up the mountain above 9,000 feet elevation, I set up my camera for a shot. I enjoy creating compositions of the night sky; composition is my favorite aspect of photography. I choose a horizontal view to include the arch of the Milky Way through the frame, with Jupiter near the center and a volcanic eruption on the Big Island of Hawaii in the distance. I wait until the dense part of the Milky Way gases are visible, which, at this time of year in May, is now almost 1 a.m. I love photographing the full moon with mountains or a crescent moon on the horizon, but what I delight in the most is photographing the glowing Milky Way band as it stretches across the sky. It is glorious. I feel the expanse of the universe under the many stars. Pressing the shutter, I know this shot will be a favorite.

Fire in the Hole, Big Island of Hawaii. The Milky Way, seen as a band across the sky with an erupting volcano in the distance, creates the pink and reddish glow in the sky. At the base of the frame are the silhouetted mountains of Maunakea. The pleasing warm glow on the lower left of the frame comes from the light pollution of the city of Hilo. I choose a 16mm focal length to allow for more of the Milky Way arch to be included. Canon EF 16-35mm f/2.8L II USM at 16mm. Exposure: 30 secs., ƒ/2.8, ISO 3200.

Hiking back to the car and wanting to share the experience with my sister, I wake her less than gently. “Bec, you must wake up and see the stars. There are so many here, and it is magnificent.” She’s in a tank top, shorts and flip flops and wrapped in a blanket for warmth as she looks out into the night, exclaiming, “Wow!” as I point out the volcanic glow from the eruption that started the previous day after years of dormancy on the Big Island of Hawaii. She follows up by saying, “You are crazy, out here in these places by yourself.” I exclaim, “It’s thrilling!”

My approach to photography is to enjoy it and have fun. Just the enjoyment of seeing the stars is awe-inspiring, and photographing them allows me to be creative. While the experience is pleasurable, there are times it is more difficult. What makes me want to withstand the cold night and be sleep-deprived? Why would I want to deal with not being able to see as I would in daylight hours and create compositions in the dark? How do I handle the frustration of when I am not creating photographic images I like? The difficulties make it even more rewarding.

Night Photography Challenges

If I got amazing shots every time, it would not be special when I got the one I had been striving for. My inspiration for night photography came to me when seeing night shots of Yosemite Falls and stars lit by the full moon. Then, in 2007, I went on a trip to the Bristlecone Pine Forest. The high heat of the summer days turned bitter cold at night. Photographing during the new moon instead of full moon, I didn’t know what to expect. I took the shot and was enthralled. Photographing the Milky Way with its hidden colorful gasses revealed. The stars that were too dim for me to see now filled the frame. Magic.

The next morning, I reviewed the images only to find a black screen. The images were underexposed; what I thought was a good exposure was not. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and gave me a false impression of a proper exposure. Next time, I would use the histogram to check exposure.

When difficulties arise—stars or the foreground captured out of focus, or perhaps too much dark silhouetted area in the frame making for a poor composition—I do my best to think of them not as problems but as obstacles to overcome. I became dedicated to resolving each challenge to my satisfaction until I finally began to create the images you see here.

Horizon Light, Death Valley National Park. I took this in the winter after a recent rain when there wasn’t any wind, and that allowed for reflection of the stars in the calm waters. This image was created the day after the new moon, when no moon is present in the sky, causing a dark night that increases the visibility of stars, even at a low elevation. Framing the foreground in the lower fourth of the frame, I placed the horizon line off-center to focus attention on the night sky. Purposefully having the mountains as silhouettes against the horizon light created more drama in the image, and the mountains have a pleasing balance as they rise up and open toward the edges of the frame with a mirrored effect from the left to right sides. I chose to photograph in the direction of the light pollution of the distant city lights, creating a beautiful sunset-like glow on the horizon, with my white balance set to 3400 Kelvin to create the blue-toned sky. Canon EF 24mm f/1.4L II USM. Exposure: 20 secs., ƒ/1.6, ISO 2000.

While leading a photography night workshop in Death Valley over 10 years ago, I said to a participant, “I was hoping for clear skies for our visit to the Racetrack and night shoot.” He replied with something about being happy with what we have in any situation. I agreed, as I prefer that perspective yet had forgotten that in the moment. I noticed I become disappointed when the weather is not as photogenic as I would like, or I am not making compelling compositions. Now, I strive to be happy regardless of the weather and situations. “Enjoy the life,” as my best friend’s father says to me.

Soon after that, we had left the Racetrack and were at another location on our way back when the cloudy skies started clearing. We photographed the stars, and because we didn’t have the right conditions earlier in the evening, everyone seemed very excited. It was even more rewarding to get the unexpected opportunity. Unexpected images can bring me even more joy than the ones I carefully plan out.

Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park. Photographing volcanic activity is a thrilling, awe-inspiring experience. Here, the Kilauea Caldera provides a compelling foreground to the Milky Way. On this night, the volcano emitted a strong glow. Due to the high contrast in light from the caldera versus the night sky, I combined 3-stop and 2-stop hard-edge graduated neutral density filters to create the equivalent of a 5-stop filter over the bottom of the image to hold detail in the crater’s edge. Even that was not enough to fully correct for the bright volcanic activity, so I darkened the bright area in processing for a more pleasing light balance. Canon EF 24mm f/1.4L II USM. Exposure: 20 secs., ƒ/2.0, ISO 3200.

On another photography trip to the Big Island of Hawaii in winter, there were storms with heavy rains and strong winds for a week. I wasn’t getting the photographs I hoped for and was disappointed until I remembered to “enjoy the time” regardless of the situation. I challenged myself to go out and find something interesting to photograph in the rain, like botanicals. After the week was over, my friend arrived on the first day of clearing skies. Excited, we went up to the mountains to photograph, and it was even more rewarding after a difficult week.

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JENNIFER WU VIDEO TUTORIAL

Night Sky Photography Techniques

This free video presented by B&H Photo explains everything you need to know to get started in night photography. Watch now.

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Astrophotography Dream Shots

I usually have a “dream shot” in mind as it motivates me, and I come up with new ones when inspired. I enjoy the anticipation and excitement of getting these shots. What is your night sky dream shot?

Canyon Arch, Bryce Canyon National Park. Since photographs of the stars and Milky Way often appear similar, I look for an interesting foreground perspective to make a unique image. During the day, I scouted around the canyons and looked up to see these canyon walls supporting the sky above. I choose the fisheye lens to enhance the curvature of the canyon walls that reach up toward the sky and took some test images. Returning later that night, I used a large flashlight with a warming gel to light paint the scene for the entire exposure of 25 seconds, ƒ/2.8, ISO 6400. As I painted, I spent more time on the distant walls to even out the light since the walls farther away would be dimmer due to the falloff of the light source.

I recall another particularly challenging situation when photographing a meteor shower. I took a few meteor photographs, and yet I desired something more, something special. A big meteor with the Milky Way. During the night, there were many meteors, but only a couple of big meteors streaked across the sky, and then I was either changing lenses or pointing the camera in the opposite direction. My dream shot slipped away.

Feeling out of sync, I created new plans for photographing the next four nights around the peak of the meteor shower. I headed out to Lake Tahoe and photographed all night long with two cameras to make sure to get a shot. There were only a few meteors that night. After sunrise, with sleepy eyes from lack of rest, I set off to find a campground and get some rest during the daylight.

Returning the following night, I played with two cameras. I made varying compositions with one and set up the other to create a time-lapse of the Milky Way moving from right to left in the frame, allowing for a composition that worked well throughout the night as I photographed. In the middle of the night, a bright meteor lit the sky, and I was thrilled to get a beautiful meteor shot.

The Milky Way and a meteor above Bonsai Rock, Lake Tahoe. Canon EF 24mm f/1.4L II USM. Exposure: 20 secs., ƒ/1.4, ISO 1250.

Satisfied with my results, I left my cameras there photographing time-lapse as I fell asleep. I had not seen anyone the entire time at this location, so it seemed safe to leave them for a couple hours. I headed back to the campground and slept longer than anticipated, sleeping through my alarm. I returned after sunrise, and, luckily, my cameras were still there.

Next, I drove to Yosemite, but on the way, I was very tired. Halfway there, I pulled over to a campground and rested before continuing on. Once in Yosemite National Park, I went to Olmsted Point, high in the mountains, with a breathtaking view down the canyon with Half Dome in the distance. In the daylight hours, I walked around and took some test shots to find the compositions I wanted to use. Returning that night, I set up at my predetermined location with one camera pointing northeast, from which direction the Perseids meteor shower radiates. I pointed my other camera toward the Milky Way and Half Dome for a more compelling composition.

Many people were watching the meteor show at this location on the peak night. I wanted to give it my best and stay up all night, as I knew I had to remain with my cameras this time. I used an intervalometer and set it to have a two-second delay between shots for continuous shooting all night except when changing batteries.

View from Olmstead Point, Yosemite, as a meteor streaks across the sky above Half Dome. Canon EF 24mm f/1.4L II USM. Exposure: 20 secs., ƒ/1.4, ISO 1600.

My friend called to me while I observed the meteor show. We watched it together and saw a really large one. At the same time, we exclaimed “Wow!” The meteor lit the landscape, and I was happy that my cameras were photographing. Later, when I went to look at the image on the back of the camera, I screamed out loud, “I got it!” I am sure the others watching the stars thought I was a bit weird, but it was a magical moment photographed. I had captured a dream shot.

I smiled and relaxed under the stars and meteors while I looked over my cameras until the sky started to brighten. Barely able to stay awake, I left to get some shut-eye.

Journeys Under The Stars

The next day, the moon was much brighter, a large crescent moon. I hiked to Upper Cathedral Lake, bringing winter gloves and a down coat in the mid-August summer heat, prepared for the cold night ahead. Arriving at the lake, I scouted around for a good vantage point, found a spot and set up the shoot as planned to capture the moonlight on the mountain. After the moonset, I packed up and hiked out. I got off the trail and was lost for a bit but found the trail again and returned to camp with enough time to get a little sleep before sunrise. I got up to photograph Tuolumne Meadows at dawn and then drove back home.

Reflections of Stars, Yosemite National Park. Persistence was the key to getting this shot. There were many nights I didn’t get the shot I wanted, such as when the lake water rippled from the wind, making the night sky reflections disappear. On this night, the wind was calm, and I got what I envisioned. I like the moonlight in this image. The sidelight is hazy and dimmer on the mountains than it would be with frontal light and creates more depth to the mountain. The moon is to the right of the mountain, just outside the frame. Canon EF 24mm f/1.4L II USM. Exposure: 20 secs., ƒ/1.4, ISO 500.

This is how I go about a photography trip. I decide where I want to go and check the new moon cycle or celestial sky events to plan around them. When on location, I spend all my time traveling, photographing, scouting, or downloading and processing images when not eating and sleeping. I often go by myself, though I like company, too. However, most of my friends don’t like photographing all the time as I do. It brings me great pleasure. When I get that joyful feeling as I press the shutter, I know I have the composition I desire.

When I review an image, I ask myself, “Is it a print?” By that I mean, is it worth processing, printing, framing and hanging on a gallery wall? If so, I know I got the shot. I aspire to remind others of the beauty of the natural world and the stars. There is something so special, so refreshing about seeing the moon and stars. Perhaps it reminds me of how small we are in this vast universe. I hope to inspire in others a sense of awe as they view the magnificence of the night sky, a reminder that we are all connected.

Moonlit Mountains and Moving Water, Zion National Park. The mountains and foreground were lit by a half moon positioned high up in the sky and behind me to my left. There was not much going on in the sky with the bright moon, so I did not include too much of it, instead making the composition about the river and mountains. Wearing waterproof boots, I carefully stepped to a sandy bar going farther into the rushing river. My friend called out, “If you slip, hold up the tripod and camera, and I will save the gear.” Never mind that I would be swept down the river! Proceeding cautiously, I wanted the close foreground element to create depth in the image in contrast with the main subject, the moonlit mountains. I used a 16mm focal length to get close to the foreground for greater depth of field. The effects of the water softened by the long exposure are an added bonus. Canon EF 16-35mm f/2.8L II USM at 16mm. Exposure: 30 secs., ƒ/2.8, ISO 1600.

I have always had a fascination with the night sky and stars. When I was young, I loved looking up at the stars in desolate areas of the mountains. I dreamed about the expanse of the universe. On a backpacking trip with my dad and sister, we had a long hike out of the mountains, then began our drive back home in the dark when my dad suddenly pulled over. We hopped out of the car and laid on the ground, looking up at a spectacular summer meteor shower. We must have seen a hundred meteorites with the advantage of the dark sky away from city lights and being at a high elevation. My dad told us, “Make a wish on a shooting star,” and, smiling, I did, feeling it would come true.

Star trails at Badwater, Death Valley National Park. Star trails are exciting to photograph, with the anticipation of the image that will be revealed after a very long time spent capturing the image. Star trails can be photographed as multiple short exposures and then stacked or as a single long exposure, the technique I used for this image. I combined it with a second exposure of the foreground. For circular star trails versus diagonal lines in the frame, use a wide-angle lens such as 14mm or 16mm to get as much of the circles as possible. Then point the camera to the north, ideally toward Polaris, also known as the North Star. It will remain a point, acting as the center axis. The stars rotate around it in concentric circles while it remains in a fixed position in the sky. I used a Canon EF 16-35mm f/2.8L II USM at 16mm for both exposures. For the first exposure, I focused the lens on the foreground with an exposure of 30 seconds, ƒ/3.5, ISO 3200. Then, with the camera left in place, I made the second exposure focusing on the stars at ƒ/5.6, ISO 100, for 2 hours and 8 minutes.

Now I can say I have lived a wish, with a connection to the stars like my connection to the people I love. I follow my heart in what I truly love to do in life and am looking forward to discovering what I will photograph next. May you reach for the stars and create beautiful night sky photographs. 

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See more of Jennifer Wu’s work at jenniferwu.com.

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