On the day I took the photo above, we were out on an expansive salt flat in Death Valley National Park in the late afternoon. The playa is ringed by the Panamint Mountains to the west, the Funeral Mountains to the east, and the Grapevine Mountains to the north, making it a visually dynamic landscape with many different composition options. Despite many previous visits to this spot, I had never noticed the small, light-colored hill among the darker Funeral Mountains until a bit of dappled light perfectly illuminated it that day. Now, every time we drive along the highway between Furnace Creek and Stovepipe Wells, I gaze in its direction with more familiarity and appreciation, always wanting to know more about the geologic history that brought it into existence.
When we headed out onto the salt flats that afternoon, I had no plan in mind for what I would photograph, and I certainly did not expect my favorite photo from the outing to be of a little hill I had never noticed before. This is how I approach nearly all of my photography sessions: As I move through the landscape, I observe what is around me, from the grand scenes to the smaller details. When something resonates, it is a sign that what I am seeing might make a good photo subject. This feeling of resonance takes many different forms: curiosity, noticing beauty, seeing visually appealing patterns or structure, wanting to explore a detail with more attention, coming across something weird or mysterious, or connecting with compelling colors. I can visit the same place on different days and what resonates will sometimes be the same as what has resonated in the past, but will often be different. The sparks of inspiration and connection shift because both of us, me and the place, have changed.
Eventually, a workshop group arrived on the salt flats. Although we were physically quite far away from them, the landscape and direction of the wind allowed us to hear the conversation between the leader and his group as the sunset conditions evolved. The leader prepared the group for the task at hand, providing precise instruction on setting up their compositions. They all lined up along the same foreground feature, a small channel filled with water, waiting for the sun to kiss the top of the Panamint Mountains as it set, creating a double sunstar effect (one at the mountain peak and one reflecting in the channel). The leader has had a version of this photo in his portfolio for years and the workshop attendees were there to re-create it.
A bit later, clouds moved in over the Panamint Mountains, and the sunstar plan quickly faded. At this point in the evening, the clouds were visually appealing in all directions yet the workshop group, curiously, had stopped photographing and were just milling around. They had one plan for the evening and once that plan was off the table, they were finished.
As an observer, this all seemed ridiculous. With the intermittent, fast-moving clouds, dappled light danced across the Funeral Mountains to the east, creating many opportunities for isolated telephoto landscape scenes. With a varied salt flat at our feet, any experienced photographer could find a foreground option that could pair nicely with the evolving clouds in every direction with a little exploring and effort. With the soft light from the clouds reflecting onto the landscape, the abstract patterns and other smaller subjects on the salt flats looked beautiful in terms of color, texture, and contrast. There were, literally, photographic opportunities in every direction and it was sad to see students on a workshop being taught the opposite (and all, apparently, accepting this direction despite the obviously beautiful conditions surrounding them).
With regard to light, we can approach the world with a binary mindset: there is good light and there is bad light, and we only photograph when the light is good (and, traditionally, the definition of what qualifies as “good light” is incredibly narrow). I prefer an alternative approach based on observation, learning to anticipate opportunities, adaptability, and more open-mindedness about what can be “good light” for nature and landscape photography. With this approach, whenever I am outside for photography, I try to stay constantly attentive for interesting interactions between the light and the landscape, and I let these moments guide my photographic focus. Sometimes the interactions are more visually striking, like a strong beam of light illuminating the landscape below. Other times, the interactions are much quieter, like a veil of cool shade that softens both the contrast and mood for a scene. Simply, I find photography much more compelling when I approach it with an orientation toward looking for opportunities (all different kinds of light can be compelling) instead of accepting limitations (I limit my photography to when the light is “good”).
While some planning is necessary for some types of landscape photography, I think it is essential to learn to be adaptable. Instead of milling around, overcome with disappointment, when your plan does not work out, like our workshop group above, I think a better approach it to accept reality, move on, and find some new opportunities. On the particular evening described above, the clouds burst the double sunstar bubble but those same clouds brought a range of other opportunities. If you find yourself in a similar situation and tend toward giving up, I’d encourage you to pivot and look for new things. With practice, I think you will find that this approach creates many more opportunities for photography, will diversify and help expand your photographic body of work, and will help you find far greater satisfaction in the experience of photography.
If you would like to build your skills in working with natural light, you might be interested in the new Light Collection video tutorial course from the Learn Nature Photography team (me, Alex Noriega, Eric Bennett, Sean Bagshaw, Michael Shainblum, Joshua Cripps, and Nick Page). You can learn more here.
The lesson from this photo is to always try to be attentive to what is happening around you, even if you are photographing in a different direction. I had been photographing the late light on the sand dunes in the other direction but felt a slight bit of wind pick up. In the other direction, the flat light meant that the blowing sand blended into the scene. By turning around, I hoped to find a bit of backlighting that would help bring the blowing sand to life. I scrambled to find this composition right before the sun dipped below the horizon.
I took this photo on a clear day along the shore of Lake Superior. A lot of photographers would be disappointed with the clear sky but it was perfect for this kind of scene. As the sun neared the horizon, the low, warm direct light hit the highest points on the waves, leaving a mix of dynamic light and shadow. This is an example of looking for interactions between the light and the landscape. While the plain clear sky might not have worked very well for grand landscapes, it worked well for this smaller scene.
When we stopped at this spot in the Chugach Mountains in Alaska, I hoped to photograph the grander scene but once I started working on a composition, I realized that the elements were not coming together in a pleasing way. With softly backlit mist filling this valley of trees, I decided that an isolated composition would work better. This is an example of being okay with changing plans. I was disappointed that the grander scene did not work out as I had hoped but pivoting to other opportunities seemed better than giving up. I also photographed some lovely yarrow plants and a silhouetted ridge line from this same general area, so I found multiple opportunities for other compositions once I accepted that my initial plan for the scene wasn’t working.
Sarah Marino is a full-time photographer, nature enthusiast, and writer based in southwestern Colorado. In addition to photographing grand landscapes, Sarah is best known for her photographs of smaller subjects including intimate landscapes, abstract renditions of natural subjects, and creative portraits of plants and trees. Sarah is the author or co-author of a diverse range of educational resources for nature photographers on subjects including composition and visual design, photographing nature’s small scenes, black and white photography, Death Valley National Park, and Yellowstone National Park. Sarah, a co-founder of the Nature First Alliance for Responsible Nature Photography, also seeks to promote the responsible stewardship of natural and wild places through her photography and teaching.