Note: This is the introductory essay for my portfolio of photos from a recent trip to Rocky Mountain National Park. You can view the full portfolio as a free PDF ebook or as a web gallery.
I wrote the first draft of this essay on a hot, cloudless, and windy day in the Mojave Desert. With the intense winds kicking a thick brown cloud into the air, we baked inside our trailer since we did not want to open the windows for better ventilation and, maybe, a cooling breeze. Just a few days before, I had been in wintry Estes Park, Colorado, to attend a photography conference and then explore Rocky Mountain National Park (RMNP) with six photography friends. On our best day of photography in RMNP, the temperature hovered around 4°F, with winds as intense as I was now experiencing in the desert. Instead of stirring up copious amounts of dust and keeping me inside, the winds in RMNP instead whipped powdery snow into the air, creating a hazy veil of sparkles and the appearance of drifting fog during the best moments.
Putting aside the intermittent sound of the wind whisking through the trees, the feeling of being enveloped in such a quiet landscape is the thread I followed as I created the photos in this portfolio. With the bright whites and blues of the snow blanketing the mountains, meadows, and trees, and soft clouds easing the light toward gentleness, the landscape often looked like a sea of pleasant pastels spread out in front of me, even if the weather—the wind, the blowing snow, and the very cold temperatures—made the experience itself intense and quite unpleasant at times.
As I shifted to processing the photos and reflecting on the experience of the trip, the second thread of milestones continued coming to mind through both my personal connections with RMNP and because of the larger context for this specific visit. Growing up, I went with my grandfather and aunt on a few lovely RV camping trips to RMNP, including a final family trip one August before my only sibling, David, died a few weeks later after a bicycle accident. My aunt took some of the last photos we have of David at the park's Sprague Lake.
Years later, I went on my first backpacking trip—and my first hike of more than a mile or two—along the park’s North Inlet Trail. This hike was a mostly miserable experience because I did not have any of the right camping or hiking gear. Without a sleeping pad and only a borrowed car camping sleeping bag, that cold October night still comes to mind as one of my most unpleasant outdoor experiences. By the time I returned to the car the next day, my white cotton socks were stained pink with blood and sweat because I did not know that over many miles, overly tight shoes go from uncomfortable to intensely painful, with blisters blossoming with each accumulating step. Lessons, many of them, learned. Still, the type of camaraderie spent around a small fire in the backcountry after a day of shared experiences was something I had not experienced before. My two friends and I also saw a moose and her baby off in the distance (another first), and the experience of enjoying a gloriously autumnal meadow and rocky cascades in solitude, far away from the bustle of this popular park, all felt like things I needed to experience again.
While I was living in Denver, Colorado, RMNP became the obvious place for me to start practicing more seriously once I took up photography, so I continued to return to the park’s backcountry trails. From all those trips, I have three or four photos I’d ever consider sharing now and almost all of them were the result of excellent conditions rather than any photographic skill or insight on my part. Even with all these subsequent positive experiences, the memory of that family trip always lingers with heaviness and, as a result, I have never experienced genuine excitement about RMNP as a destination. I went there because it was close, not because I had much affection for the landscape.
This year, work brought me back to RMNP, with an invitation to speak at the Outdoor Photo Alliance’s inaugural Women’s Conference—another milestone. During my early years in photography, the professional norm for me had been the nonprofit sector in which about 70 percent of my colleagues were women. With my career in that field, I had a big network of professional female friends and found it easy to establish strong ties with colleagues. In contrast, I often felt isolated in nature photography because I did not have any personal relationships with other women photographers for many years and was almost always the only woman at any gathering of photographers—especially those campfire meetups where some of the most important shared experiences and connections in this field are forged. While nearly all of the men I have met through nature photography have been supportive and kind, especially as individual colleagues and friends, I have perpetually felt like I am just outside the circle because of my gender—on the fringes in a way that is hard to describe but palpably obvious as an experience.
Over those years of feeling a bit lonely and a bit isolated, I never pictured a future in which a whole conference for women nature photographers would be possible so participating in this event felt like an especially exciting and notable moment. During one of the panel discussions at the conference, I shared the advice that one of the best ways to establish yourself in this field is to stop waiting for others to present opportunities for you and to instead work on creating your own. This is exactly what the creators of the OPA conference—Jeanie, Martha, and Shanda—did. They saw a need and they created something special to fill it.
After a weekend of inspiring talks and extended time to connect with like-minded women, seven of us stayed for more photo and friend time in RMNP. In returning to this landscape after many years away, I experienced another milestone: Seeing how much I have changed as a photographer during those intervening years—a theme I have also explored in a few of our other recent ebooks. Returning to a place after so much time away has become a clarifying and affirming practice because the markers of progress are more starkly obvious. With this visit compared to my previous trips to the park, I experienced what it feels like to bring a more concise vision for connecting with and interpreting the landscape in front of me, stronger composition skills and less struggling when presented with chaos, a much broader view on the types of light that can work for nature photography, and far greater confidence in choosing to focus my time on the things that resonate the most instead of the things I think I should be photographing.
The thread of quiet solitude that I remember most from that first backpacking trip, an experience that put me on the path toward nature photography, is the same message I hope to bring forth through this portfolio. While the veil of sadness that I will always associate with RMNP lingered during this most recent trip, I was better able to tap into it as context for my relationship with the landscape rather than allowing it to be a barrier to connection. With this shift in mindset and a more open heart, I left the park with a real affection for the landscape, especially the ponderosa pines, and a deep appreciation for the understated beauty of the park’s meadows in the winter.
Martha Montiel, Jeanie Sumrall-Ajero, Nancy Kurokawa, Shanda Akin, Michele Sons, Me, and Brie Stockwell, all wearing beautiful winter hats that Brie lovingly made for each of us.
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.