Death Valley Diversion

There’s been a lot of words on my site recently.  I mean a lot.

I’ve been nattering about everything from sending T-Shirts to Africa to the impact of New Media on Aid Work, on why it’s better to give cash than stuff, and even the odd anime review.  And while posts on the building crisis in Niger or why our water usage is killing the planet both had photos, they also had a ton of verbage wrapped around them.

Hence deciding to post some more pretty pictures.

I went to Death Valley in 2007.  I had a layover in LA on the way back from a work trip to Haiti and Central America, and decided to stretch it out. I rented a car, and I drove for 4 days solid, taking in the Mojave Desert, Death Valley, Yosemite National Park, Mono Lake and a bunch of other little detours along the way. It was fun, refreshing and an awesome photoshoot.

I came in from the south, rather than (is more common) from the east and Nevada.  This took me through the sweeping southern part of the valley, with the salt-flats that mark the lowest point of the United States, and the rock formations along the eastern rim of the valley.  It was late afternoon in May.  The air was hot and dry.  I had a plastic one-gallon jug of water in the passenger footwell, and I drove with the windows down and the air-con off, and drank the water profusely.  By 7pm, when I reached Furnace Creek- one of the centres of habitation in that desolate landscape- I was overheated and dehydrated.  One of the worst I’ve ever been, actually.  I was quite shocked.

I hadn’t booked ahead, and the motel was full, so I checked myself into the campground down the road.  I had no tent and the car was too cramped to sleep in, so, worried about snakes and scorpions, I lay myself out on a picnic bench near my allocated site and waited for my body temperature to drop.

I was hot, dry, and trembling.  I had a cracking headache and felt light and dizzy.  It was a ghastly feeling.  I wet a sock and lay it over my forehead, periodically splashing water on myself through the night.

I woke, uncomfortable and with a headache, but feeling normal once again, some considerable time before dawn.  The previous evening I had scouted further north and west, and found an overlook near the town of Stovepipe Wells which gave views of the Mesquite sand dunes.  The light had been hazy and poor and I hadn’t been able to get any decent photographs.  But I was awake, so I set off.  It was about 4.30am.

I reached the dunes and began hiking.  The sky was just growing light, so I wandered out among them until I found some vantages I was happy with.  Then I waited for the inevitable dawn.

I was largely alone.  A couple of miles away on a large dune I could see half a dozen people sitting doing the same as I, but they weren’t intrusive.  I never saw them close up, never heard them.  They didn’t get in the way of my shots.

As the sun began to come up, I was briefly disappointed.  The air was hazy, not crisp as it had been in the Sahara, and this softened the light.  I had been hoping to catch sharp contrast in the ripples of the dunes, in the first few minutes of the day.

But my disappointment was short-lived.  When the sun came up, I got those low-angle shadows and contrasts within the folds and contours of the windforms.  The cloud-streaked sky added far more interest than a blue palette would have done, contrasting nicely with the shapes in the sand and aligning themselves perfectly.  And better still, the softer light cast an almost painterly mask over the landscape.  All up, that morning shoot was one of my favourite and most productive sessions, and I got more than a dozen photos I was really proud of.

Not that I can really take the blame.  I wasn’t the one that created that landscape.  Just borrowed a bit of light from it.

All up, Death Valley was a spectacular locale.  What it lacks in grandeur (compared to, say, Yosemite) it makes up for in harshness, wilderness, and sheer otherworldlyness.  The diverse, rugged landscape is photogenic, exciting and hostile, and I’d love to go back and spend a week exploring its nooks and crannies.  It remains a highlight of my trip and is high on my go-back-to list (together with Yosemite, the Annapurnas, Canada… it’s a list surpassed only by my ‘need-to-go-to-next’ list).

Ah… colour… that’s a nice change from all that black-and-white text!

The Tasmania Tour, Gate 5: Wineglass Bay

I’ve already introduced you to the spectacular Wineglass Bay here.

The bay itself is one of several renowned beaches on Tasmania’s Freycinet Peninsula, a narrow elbow of coastline jutting out into the southern ocean on the island’s east coast. Accessible from the settlement of Coles Bay, Freycinet is a National Park, with fees applying for entry. There is a well-trod path that leads up from the parking lot to a viewpoint, and from there the option to return to the vehicles, or continue down to the beach itself. Walking tracks and even campgrounds give access to Wineglass and other beaches in the area.

The main viewpoint is a moderately easy 30-40 minute uphill walk following a clearly marked trail- also clearly marked by the long string of tourists making their way to see the vista. One of Tasmania’s best-known beaches, Wineglass presents a visually appealing sight, a wide gently-curving strip of white sand against an azure sea. The viewpoint itself is spread out over a series of adjutting boulders and bare rocks, although while I was up there the wind made taking even simple photographs quite an obnoxious experience. The day, which had started overcast and spotty with rain, developed into one spotted with white fluffy clouds, and eventually, a cloudless afternoon, perfect both for enjoying the scenery, and the photography.

A large number of travellers appear to be content with the walk to the viewpoint. However another 45 minutes down the other side gives access to the beach itself. We visited it mid-week after schools had gone back, and there were still people on the sand- but not many. Clustered where the path empties onto one end of the beach there averaged a dozen or so mostly-backpackers having a snack and a paddle before returning over the hill. We wandered along the sand for ten minutes and found ourselves almost completely secluded- there were maybe ten other people spread out over the mile+ of sand around us. A little slice of paradise.

At the end of the day, Wineglass Bay is just a beach. But it’s one heck of a beach. The sand is white and naturally clean, almost completely free of debris and in no way articifical. The water has to be seen to be believed. An exquisite turquoise colour, it is achingly, almost glacially clear (yes I know that glacier water is not clear at all but filled with minerals and sediment). I would dare to say possibly the cleanest, clearest seawater I have ever swum in.

And swim we did. Let’s get one thing clear. Tasmania, for all the beautiful sunshine we had, is not renowned for its weather. Well, actually, it is. It is renowned for being cold and wet. We lucked out with a string of beautifully sunny days, but even with the sun out, it’s hardly very hot compared to Australian norms. The water, by contrast, is frigid. With no landmass between the Tassie coast and Antarctica, the water feels as though it didn’t long ago melt. The icy bite only added to the sense of cleanliness, however. The swim was bracing, and we loved it for the experience, not just to be able to say we’d done it.

I spent a while snapping shots along the beach. A long while, in fact. It remains one of the prettiest and most photogenic beaches I’ve ever been on, and it was hard to stop. The colour the water appeared through my polarizing filter was simply eye-popping, and not done justice here on the pages of this blog. Something of a connaisseur of beaches (I’ve explored attractive beaches on at least five continents), I’d have to rate Wineglass Bay both as one of the most memorable, and one of the most simply beautiful. Additionally, the fact that, despite not being tropical, it was nearly empty, leant it a nearly mythic status which places it right up at the top of the must-see places to visit in Tasmania. Natural beauty at its best.

I trust the images speak for themselves in encouraging you to pay it a respectful and environmentally courteous visit.

The Veil

Swollen by spring snowmelt, Bridal Veil Falls tumbles into California’s exquisite Yosemite National Park- easily one of the most jaw-dropping locations I have ever visited (despite the steady stream of camera-touting, RV-driving, hotdog-munching tourists).  The name, taken from the likeness of the wind-drifted water to its matrimonial namesake, is far from unique.  In fact Wikipedia lists no less than 38 ‘Bridal Veil Falls’ named in 8 different English-speaking countries around the world.  How original.

That said, this particular example is a spectacular one.  Plummeting 188 metres from the lip of a hanging valley left behind by a retreating tributary glacier, the light playing in the mist hanging at the falls’ base refracts into a beautiful prismatic rainbow.  Although at certain times of the year the water from the falls won’t even reach the rocks at its feet, I was lucky enough to be there in May when the water was flowing full and plump.  Taken in the late afternoon sunlight beneath a crisp blue sky, the crowd was not impenetrable, and although I ended up with a couple of blobs of water on my lens when the wind shifted direction, it was a pleasure to run off some shots of this natural icon.

For those who haven’t had a chance to visit Yosemite National Park, believe the hype.  Yeah, it’s overtrodden by the visiting hordes, which is a true tragedy for the lover of the natural world, but the valley itself is jaw-droppingly beautiful (quite literally; as I rounded the corner at the far end of the park and got a view through my windshield of the ice-carved gallery bathed in sunlight, my mouth fell open like the hinges had failed).  I’d like to take my next visit in winter, when the throngs are thinned and the snows rest on the mountain caps.  Till then, I indulge myself with a few more photos of what is a spectacular location.

(Yosemite Valley)

(The View from Inspiration Point/Tunnel View)

(Yosemite Falls)

Note: For those visiting who want a slightly quieter experience of the beauty here, visit Hetch-Hetchy, in the northern portion of the park.  A valley reputed once to rival Yosemite for its beauty, it is now dammed and flooded, but with breathtaking wilderness and wonderful plunging peaks, as well as some apparently spectacular hiking (I wouldn’t know, I was only there a few hours).  Best of all, it is relatively undervisited, and well worth the hour’s detour through the forest.

The Desert in Black and White

Photos taken during a single shoot at the sand dunes of Mesquite Flats, in Death Valley National Park shortly after dawn.

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Moments in Space and Time #6: Furnace Creek

I visited Death Valley on a whim, as it were. On the way back from a trip to Haiti and Central America, I had a layover in LA which I turned into a 5-day break. I hired a car and just started driving. Mojave Desert, Death Valley, Mono Lake, Yosemite National Park, and eventually Fresno and Santa Barbara all made it onto the loop before returning to LA to hang out with friends for a day before my flight back to Australia.

I have always loved deserts. Most of my favourite photographs involve deserts. Visually, dunes are hugely appealing in late and early light. Spiritually, however, deserts are far more formidable. Vast expanses of empty, barren terrain that speak of terrible secrets and great desolation, but somehow have a draw that calls to the adventurer and gives room for the soul to wander.

I drove through Death Valley coming from the south, in the middle of May, with the windows down and the aircon off. Spending several hours stopping along the way and taking photographs (surprise surprise), I eventually found myself at Furnace Creek just before sunset. I had drunk nearly a gallon of water but could still feel my head throbbing between pulsating veins in my temples, and could not stop sweating. I felt faint. I tried to get a room, but at that late notice everything was booked up. I was marginally heatstruck and unable to cool down, no matter what I drank. I ended up sleeping on a park bench in the nearby campground, frightened that snakes might slip into my sleeping bag, and my body didn’t really cool down until some time in the early hours of the morning.

This image from Furnace Creek I snapped in the late afternoon. It typifies the vibrantly coloured rock formations that feature along the eastern rim of the valley, but also captures something of the heat, desolation and death that the landscape harks to. Having been there, with all the water I needed and a vehicle to speed me through, and still taking a physical side-swipe from the natural ferocity of the place, was humbling. This image will always remind me of the giddy, nauseous sensation that I felt throughout that evening, courtesy of not taking the desert seriously enough as I passed through.

Whistle-Stop Western Australia

Well, not all of it, naturally.  WA is kind of big.  When I say ‘kind of’ I mean ‘really’.  Just getting to Perth from Melbourne takes four hours flying.  Yup, you fly for four hours and you’re still in the same country.  It’s 2.6 million square kilometres in area.  You could basically fit 4 Frances into it.  More than 10 Great Britains.  Or about 63 Switzerlands.  It’s half as big again as Alaska, and four times the size of Texas.  In fact, it’s the second largest sub-national administrative division on the planet (the largest being the Sakha Republic, half a million square kilometres larger and making up a significant proportion of Siberia, in Russia).  Which is all just a roundabout way of pointing out just how stupendously big Western Australia is, and that when I say we did a whistle-stop tour of WA, I really just mean a teensy tiny corner thereof.

[See what I’m like with facts?  I just love that stuff.  I’m sure it’s not healthy.]

The teensy corner we chose was the south-west corner of Australia, marked at its northern apex by Perth, it’s south-eastern apex by Albany, and its south-western apex by, well, a lot of ocean really.  A little over 300km to one side.  I travelled with friend Pam, erstwhile photographic subject and companion on previous travel adventures in Thailand as well, and we had five days in the state.  A mutual friend Viv had given the suggestion that the Stirling Ranges was a nice spot to visit at this time of the year (read: the cold and blustery depths of winter) for it being a dramatic landscape frequented by attractive light.

After a day seeing friends in Perth we drove south and east across a whole lot of largely-nothing before finding ourselves meandering through the Stirling Ranges themselves.  The landscape really was dramatic, with a broad horizon broken by low but striking mountainforms.  The sky was overcast but broken by strong sunlight, so that the mood changed with the minutes, brightly lit one moment, plunged into cold shadow the next, all beneath a deeply textured sky.

We spent two nights at the hamlet of Porongorup, little more than a picturesque service centre at the base of the Porongorup National Park.  The Porongorups (which I’d never heard of before this trip) are a line of ancient granite hills sticking out of a vast flat plain, renowned (among those in the know) for being a little island of biodiversity, with unique and unusual plant life in considerable quantity.  It’s also immensely pretty, and in the winter light, full of character and gentle appeal.  We hiked, took photographs, drank wine, and generally explored the countryside.

From Porongorup we headed to the coast at Denmark, pausing to take in the Valley of the Giants treetop walk outside Walpole and taking an exploratory detour to the picturesque and remote Mandalay Beach set among the jagged shoreline pounded by a relentless ocean.  The rain chased us on, and after swinging through Margaret River, we spent the last night in the town of Dunsborough before returning to Perth to catch flights to our various homes.

The weather was by parts the most delightful and disappointing aspect of the trip.  I don’t complain for an instant.  We were forecast five days of pouring rain, and instead got perhaps a day and a half.  The lighting gave both land- and sky-scapes wonderful depth.  We were practicing photography, and the varied and rapidly-changing conditions kept us on our toes, and perfectly illustrated all sorts of photographic truths (some to be shared at a later date perhaps).

Best of all, with every rainstorm came a rainbow.  And for once I’m not speaking figuratively here.  I’m not sure how many rainbows accompanied us on our trip, but some of them showed up at times when the weather looked to have closed us out of photography for another few hours, and they were spectacular.

This is just a quick sprinkling of some of the photos I came back with.  I’ll share some more as time goes on.

Photos:

1. Road Trip: Chester Pass Road cuts through the Stirling Ranges National Park

2. A Place in the Hills: The little A-frame cottage we called home for two days

3. Troubled Skies: The Stirling Ranges beneath a cloudy skyscape

4. Ranges: The Stirlings from another viewpoint

5. Porongorup Granite: Rocks near the summit of one of the walks we did in the hills

6. Treetops: Karri trees in Porongorup National Park

7. Moody: Fields cringe beneath a glowering sky

8. Silver Lining: A rainbow breaks between showers on Mandalay Beach

9. Fruit of the Vine: Winery outside Porongorup

10. Morning Meadow: Porongorup scenery after dawn

Nomad’s Crossing

I’ve always loved wilderness.  The outdoors, sure, but wilderness above and beyond that.  There’s something about being in these barren, hostile environments, with the raw beauty of nature and a vast open sky, that’s refreshing, and liberating, and invigorating, all at the same time.

Wilderness is a pretty subjective concept.  I like the above-photo because it captures a rugged and wild landscape- although anybody who knows Death Valley knows that the Mesquite Dunes aren’t ‘wilderness’ in the true sense of the word.  A 30-minute walk from a highway got me this shot, and it’s only ten minutes’ drive from there to Stovepipe Wells, twenty to Furnace Creek.  Neither one a bustling metropolis mind, these are settlements in one of the hottest and most unwelcoming biomes on the planet, and [as I found out after flirting with hyperthermia the day prior to this morning shoot] the landscape definitely has the potential to harm those who don’t respect it.  But it doesn’t have the notion of wilderness that some of the places I have travelled to have, such as hiking or skiing deep into the interior of the Alberta Rockies, or several days’ four-wheel-drive into the Sahara desert in northern Niger, or Mauritania.  These are some of the truly wild places.  And knowing some of you who view these pages, I know some of you share my passion for these places and can list off your own little corners of the rugged isolation and beauty that planet Earth offers those who go looking for it.

Getting to places like that tend to rare treats, for those of us stuck in a western paradigm of living.  But they’re certainly highlights for me when I look back over the last decade or so of travel I’ve been privileged enough to do.