Ian Plant Dreamscapes

I spent three years photographing my book Chesapeake: Bay of Light. It was an intensely demanding project, requiring almost full-time effort, but I loved every minute of it. Well, maybe not every minute. There was that day on James Island when the greenheads, horseflies, and deer flies bit me so much my legs were bleeding. Or that ten-mile open water kayak crossing from Smith Island to the mainland during an autumn squall—now that was scary. And let’s not forget the countless days spent in the hot summer sun or out in the bitter cold, days that yielded no interesting or publishable pictures. I wasn’t kidding when I said the project was intensely demanding.

Of course, it was the great moments that made all the effort worth my while. Like the morning spent photographing in the Richardson Marsh, when a snowy egret fluffed its feathers and then looked right at me. Or when I kayaked with a pod of dolphins in the inchoate boundary waters between the Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Or the flock of American oystercatchers I spent two hours photographing after kayaking five miles to find their favorite feeding grounds. And then there was that stunning sunset at—well, take your pick, there were so many of them that I lost count.

I don’t get out to photograph the Chesapeake much these days, as other projects and locations beckon. Once a year, I return to the Bay to hold my Smith Island workshop, bringing eight students with me to a remote island community separated from the mainland. It gives me a chance to rediscovery the simple pleasures of the Chesapeake. For the rest of the year, I travel to wild and epic destinations, filled with bold and stand-up scenery. On the Chesapeake, much of the landscape is merely inches above the high tide—flat, featureless, and barren. While some photographers might find such a place unworthy of their efforts, I revel in the chance to test my skills and pluck images from the Bay’s indistinct merger of land, sea, and sky.

On the second day of the workshop, we arose before dawn and traveled by boat to a small patch of salt marsh overlooking the eastern horizon. High clouds had drifted in overnight, offering the promise of a spectacular sunrise. My workshop students spread out, looking for compositions and waiting for the clouds to catch the rosy first light of dawn. Having photographed this area before, I knew where to find several tide pools in the marsh that would serve as reflecting pools, but unfortunately most were dry this year as we’ve had very little rain in the area this summer. One pool, however, was filled with brackish water. I set up my tripod and encouraged my students to join me. Although several eventually did, for awhile they lingered near the shore, leaving me alone.

Then, it happened—the high clouds above started to glow purple at their edges, and eventually the color spread and turned to fiery red. It was one of the most beautiful Chesapeake sunrises I had ever witnessed. For a brief moment, I had the scene all to myself, just me and a few bugs biting my legs. One by one my students wandered over to take their turns photographing sunrise reflected in the pool. When the light in front of us began to fade, we all turned around to find the clouds behind us still glowing with color. The light show lasted for twenty minutes, transforming a featureless patch of marsh into something extraordinary. Then, as quickly as it came, it was done.

Ah, the simple pleasures of the Chesapeake.

To see more of my Smith Island images, visit my Timeless Smith Island gallery.  

"New Dawn" - Smith Island, Chesapeake Bay

I recently spent two weeks photographing in Wyoming, including Yellowstone, the Wind River mountains, and the Grand Tetons (yep, it’s true—the Tetons were named by French trappers who thought the peaks looked like massive, pointy breasts—don’t blame me, I didn’t name them). Summer shooting is always the most difficult, and typically the least productive. One has to successfully negotiate long days with little sleep, hordes of tourists, and even larger hordes of biting insects. This trip proved to be no exception, with each area I visited heaping on its unique brand of difficulty. I started in Grand Teton, where the days were long, but surprisingly, the tourists were relatively few. Then on to Yellowstone, where I spent most of my time driving (to be more precise, not driving) through traffic jams caused by road construction and wild animal sightings. And finally, four days of backpacking in the Wind River mountains, where I was free from the tourists but at the mercy of a voracious cloud of mosquitoes. I haven’t decided which was worse.

To sum things up, I got little sleep on this trip, and barely enough good images to call it successful. Just barely. But trips can be like that. Some, like my Patagonia adventure, are incredibly productive, with great light almost every day. Others . . . not so great. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining; a bad day as a professional nature photographer still beats a good day in the office. But nonetheless, considering the investment in time, money, and, during my trek into the Wind River range—actual blood—a non-productive trip can be a real bummer. So I guess I am complaining, if only just a little bit.

Despite the hardships and general zombie-like feeling resulting from lack of sleep, I still managed to make a few images that I am happy with, three of which I will share here. The first is from the Grand Tetons, and the whole reason I drove two-thirds of the way across country: to capture the balsam root bloom at Antelope Flats. This image was made on the first morning after I arrived, and proved to be the only morning clouds I saw during my whole time in the Tetons and Yellowstone. I knew when I made this image that I was unlikely to get a better one of the flowers during the rest of the trip, but nonetheless I tried several other mornings, but to no avail. To me, it is the drooping flowers that make this shot, as they create a shape that relates to the curving shapes in the clouds above.

"Dawn Storm" - Grand Teton National Park

This second image was taken at Grand Prismatic Spring in Yellowstone. I’ve recently posted on my website a gallery of images I’ve taken over the years of the geothermal features of Yellowstone, but this one was not included because it was too similar to another image in the gallery. It is, nonetheless, one of my favorites from the trip. Grand Prismatic gets its otherworldly colors from bacteria living in the warm spring waters. Orange bacteria mats dominate the water draining from the pool, whereas brilliant blues are found in the pool itself. The steam that rises from the pool often takes on this blue color.

"Grand Prismatic Spring" - Yellowstone National Park

Finally, while in the Wind River mountains, I spent several days in vain camped above remote Lonesome Lake below the mighty Cirque of the Towers. I never got any great sunrise or sunset light while I was there, and most of the nearby passes where still snowed in, preventing me from really exploring the area. One morning, I made this photograph of a small waterfall below Warbonnet Peak, converting it to black and white as I was well past the golden hour of dawn. Although the image is not entirely to my liking, I think that it captures something of the wild beauty of this rugged area.

"War Bonnet" - Wind River Mountains

I’ll be back out West soon, this time heading to Mt. Rainier to spend two weeks backpacking the Wonderland Trail around the mountain. By heading deep into the wilderness, I should be able to avoid the tourists and traffic jams, if not the mosquitoes (hopefully they won’t be as bad as in the Wind River range). I don’t expect that I will get much sleep, and with many gruelling days of hard backpacking, I suspect I will come back looking like the living dead. But hopefully, I’ll take enough great images to make it worth the effort!    

Some places haunt your dreams and stalk your living memories. I’ve spent a lot of time photographing the desert Southwest in the past few years, so much so that some people erroneously conclude that I live in Arizona (nope—Virginia). I’ve made hundreds of images, but truth be told I’m just beginning to scratch the surface. Every time I go I say to myself, “I’m sick of photographing the desert, this will be my last trip for awhile.” Yet for some reason I keep going back time and time again, lured by the siren call of sand and stone.   

When stuck in the home office, I often find myself “dumpster diving,” going back through my archived raw files to find images that I had overlooked before, diamonds in the rough just waiting for some polishing. On a first pass, often only the most dramatic images jump out at you, so I think it pays to go back to the source every now and then to see if any unprocessed raw files grow on you over time. Often, the most subtle images do just that—their power is increasingly revealed the more you look at them (whereas some compositions that initially seem powerful fail to hold interest over the long haul). While dreaming of the desert, I made a recent trip into the dumpster, uncovering three such nuggets that I’d like to share today.   

The first is actually a variation of an image that I currently have in one of the galleries on my website, titled Desert Driftwood. While exploring the South Coyote Buttes of the Vermillion Cliffs National Monument in Arizona, I came upon some sandstone glowing with light reflected off of one of the area’s “beehive” hoodoos. I saw a snag of bleached wood resting on one of the rocks, so I snatched it up and placed it in a number of images I made at this remarkable place. The first version was my favorite from that shoot for a long time, but the version I present here has been growing on me. Whereas I like the stronger opposing diagonal lines of the first version, this version reveals a more subtle range of colors and repeating shapes. During the next “spring cleaning” of my website, when I weed out some older, weaker images to make way for newer, more powerful ones, I’m not sure which version will survive.  

"Desert Driftwood II" - Vermillion Cliffs National Monument, Arizona

The second image, taken in Joshua Tree National Park, has been calling to me for over a year. It was made the same evening as two other images on my website, Night Glow and Desert Wave. I made a lot of images that evening, and you can probably tell why: the seemingly endless cirrus cloud that hung over the desert for hours. While the other two images are definitely keepers, this version has grown on me considerably. I like the way the rocks and the cloud force the eye to zigzag back and forth. Once again, it is not clear to me which of the three will survive spring cleaning. Perhaps all of them will. 

"Desert Dreams" - Joshua Tree National Park, California

The final image was taken during my recent trip to Antelope Canyon in Arizona. Antelope is one of the most photographed places on Earth, so I didn’t expect to go in and find anything that hadn’t already been shot a million times before. Nonetheless, I tried to at least find something personal, something that spoke to me, even if not truly unique. Although two other images from Antelope are currently displayed on my website—Phantasmagoria and Canopy of Light—I don’t feel that much of a personal connection with either of them, or at least whatever connection I felt at first has faded over time. The image below, on the other hand, feels increasingly personal the more I look at it. The composition is very simple, defined by a curve of glowing sandstone, although there is a layering of elements that seems more complex to me over time. I am increasingly attracted to the transition of tones from cool to warm, and from dark to light. Maybe I like it because it is different from much of my other work. Other viewers may not react to it the same way I do, but that’s what makes it personal, I guess—the image speaks to me, even if it is silent to others. 

"Inner Glow" - Antelope Canyon, Arizona

Spring cleaning is coming—soon—and not all of my images will survive. Some old favorites will fall, and new ones will take their place. In the process, I hope that I will strengthen my portfolio, retaining those images that not only stir an immediate reaction, but that stand the test of time as well. Of course, only time will tell.   

“What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wilderness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.”
—Gerard Manley Hopkins

With rain in the forecast, I made a four hour drive yesterday to Ricketts Glen in Pennsylvania. Ricketts is a wonderful place, with 21 named waterfalls (and countless other smaller cascades and drops) along a four-mile trail. Although each waterfall is quite beautiful, I went past most of them without even taking my camera out of the bag. If you spend enough time in the field, you reach a point when you stop taking pictures of things, and start thinking about how those things might make a good picture. To me, a waterfall is not a photographic subject itself, but rather an abstract compositional element—a line, curve, or shape that must successfully relate to other elements of a scene before a successful photograph can be made. So, while exploring Ricketts, I assessed each cascade, waterfall, and rapid for its compositional potential. Finding nothing to my liking, I moved on. Finding something that I think could work, I’d stop, set up my equipment, and give it a go.

The shoot was extremely difficult, as the rain never stoppped all day, coming down in a steady drizzle. I used a small umbrella to protect my equipment while working, but even then my camera and lenses were getting soaked. Soon, all of my dry cloths for wiping moisture from my lens were wet as well. But I kept shooting, despite the challenges, trying to find images that would reveal the character of this magical glen.  

The waterfalls of Pennsylvania are much more subtle than the thundering giants of places such as Yosemite and the moss-covered Columbia River Gorge. Yet they have their own quiet beauty, revealed to those who are patient and persistent. I struggled all day in the cold damp, but I managed to find one scene that seemed to fulfill the promise offered by Ricketts Glen. It may not be as dramatic as some of the waterfalls out west, but to me, this small cascade will forever tell a story of wildness and wet.

I’ve just posted the latest installment of Behind the Lens, which takes a behind-the-scenes look at the making of one of my favorite (albeit subtle) images: Night Glow, taken in Joshua Tree National Park.

Ever wanted to create nature images that make people gasp? Here’s a little secret: it takes more than just a beautiful subject to make a memorable image. In fact, it takes a solid understanding of light, mood, and composition to bring an exceptional scene to its fullest potential. My six week online course, Making Wow! Images: Six Steps to Taking Great Nature Photographs starts this week! This course is designed for the photographer who already knows the basics, but who wants to take their shooting to the next level. We will take a step-by-step approach to learning advanced techniques for creating magical images that will make you the envy of your fellow photographers!

 We’re still accepting “late registrations” througout this week, so sign up now for you chance to participate! We’ll cover the following topics in the course.

Week 1 – Scene Selection and Composition Basics

In the first week, we will discuss the fundamental elements of making successful images, and delve into the basic composition styles that are the cornerstone of powerful image making. Most important, you’ll learn how to think abstractly about the elements of a scene.

Week 2 – Working With Light and Color

Learning how to work with light and color is critical for making powerful nature images. In this lesson, we’ll discuss the best times of day to shoot, and how angle and intensity of light can make or break a photograph.

Week 3 – Nature’s Magical Moments

“Once-in-a-lifetime” moments are called that for a reason—they don’t happen often—so how can you make sure they happen to you, and frequently? In this lesson, we’ll discuss how you can optimize your chances of capturing unique natural events like rainbows, fog, and mass wildlife migrations.

Week 4 – Advanced Composition: Space, Lines, Shapes and Patterns

Nature is a chaotic jumble of random elements. Learning how to create order out of chaos is of utmost importance when composing nature images. We’ll discuss advanced composition techniques, using patterns, shapes, lines, and spatial arrangements to create effective images.

Week 5 – Capturing Time and Motion

Still cameras capture single moments in time. But how do you convey the essence of a babbling brook or an energetic flock of birds with a static photograph? This lesson will teach you how to successfully incorporate time and motion into your photography for dramatic artistic effect.

Week 6 – Nature’s Power Elements

This final lesson talks about the importance of incorporating powerful elements in nature—such as the sun and moon, or waves crashing on shore—into your images for dramatic effect.