We live in a world where I can, if I like, do just about anything to an image. I can make the noon-day light appear dramatic, I can replace a drab sky with a spectacular one, I can liven up the scene by adding a unicorn (or two!). And, what’s more, I can do all of that (and much, much more) and make it all look genuinely realistic. (For the moment we’ll leave aside the metaphysical question of how to make a scene including a unicorn (or two!) look “realistic.”)

Yes, I can do all that. But just because I can, doesn’t necessarily mean that I should. On the other hand, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I shouldn’t, either.

I have read and heard many opinions, over the past 20-odd years–corresponding with a period of time where vast, readily available means for substantial manipulation of digital imagery has become commonplace–about what the limits of digital manipulation ought to be, based on a seemingly equally vast set of criteria. For the purposes of this discussion, I’m going to limit consideration to images intended for something other than documentary, journalistic or evidentiary purposes. In this entry, I’m talking about “artsy” images only. And I’m also going to set aside any discussion about the parameters and obligations of being truthful about what one has in fact done in the way of manipulation. For instance, I’m not going to attempt to parse the distinctions between whether a person ought to be voluntarily forthcoming about what actions have been taken, or whether a person only need to cop to the truth if he/she is directly asked, or whether it’s okay to remain mum regardless. That discussion isn’t irrelevant, but it’s not what I want to focus on here. For the purposes of this post, let’s assume that the image in question is never going to reach the broader public, which makes the above considerations moot.

It might be helpful to have an actual example to work with, so here’s one:

Bisti Arch Moonrise, Bisti Badlands, New Mexico

The image in question was made in 2007. It is a focus-stacked image (seven frames) to overcome depth of field limitations, but other than a basic curves adjustment to enhance contrast a bit, a modest saturation mask application and (probably) cloning out some dust spots in the sky, nothing was done to the focus-stack composite. Most significantly, no actual objects were cloned in or out or moved. Nor was the sky changed or anything of that nature.

Now, one could argue that nothing of that nature need be done, thank you very much, that the image is just fine as it is. But here’s the thing: more than 16 years ago, when I posted this image on a (bleech) photo critique website, it received plenty of positive responses, including one by someone who said (I’m going to have to paraphrase; it has been 16 years) something along the lines of “I only wish the moon was further to the left in the arch frame, to better balance the butte in the lower right.”

Guess what? So do I! But the moon wasn’t further to the left. It was (relative to my position, the only one that allowed me to center the arch window and include the moon and butte in the frame) exactly where it appears in the image above.

But! I could move the moon couldn’t I? I mean…it’s even easier than inserting a unicorn (or two!) in the image.

Yes. Yes, I have no doubt that I could.

The honest truth is, I have never tried to relocate the moon in this image (or any other), even though I’m 100% certain that I could not only do so, but that I could do so utterly without visible artifacts in a matter of less than one minute of my time.

If this is such an easy process, why haven’t I performed this action? The reason, I believe, drives right to the heart of where the editing limits lie–in my opinion, of course–and why I’ve never replaced a sky with a “better one” in an image, or why I haven’t, for instance, inserted a unicorn (or two!), or anything else, in an image.

I don’t think that there’s anything inherently wrong with doing these things; the decision making locus, as I see it, revolves around the question of intent. And my overarching intent when editing an image is to have the end product bring me back to the moment when the image was captured. If I were to move the moon to the “ideal” spot in the frame in the Bisti Badlands image above, viewing the final product would ultimately remind me…that I’d moved the moon. That fact would overshadow any memory of the time and place that the image was created. It would, in the end, be counter to my intent.

Now, if my intent was for instance, to create the most pleasing piece of visual art that I could, moving the moon would not only be acceptable, it would be a mistake not to move it. But, as noted, that’s not what I’m trying to do.

In the end, I think we all know what the editing limits are for ourselves. Grand discussions of the subject are, I believe, largely superfluous. We know our own intent, and we know equally well what is consistent with that intent and what is not.

In mid-April, I spent parts of six days at Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. It was an interesting experience, impacted significantly, as always, by the extant conditions. I was a bit worried, shortly before arrival in the park on April 14, that I would be too early for the sort of spring growth that I hoped to experience, and I was, to some degree correct. Allow me to briefly explain the wishy-washy statement.

For those unfamiliar with Shenandoah, it’s a long (north-to south) property–more than 100 miles from one end to the other–but is not very wide (east-to-west). There is one road, and one road only, that traverses the park: Skyline Drive more or less rides a mountain ridge from Mount Royal at the north end to Waynesboro at the south end. The elevation of the road varies from roughly 2000 feet above sea level near the northern and southern ends to approximately 3500 feet above sea level at its highest point, near mile marker 41. (The mile markers start at zero at the northern end of the road.) But the elevations are quite variable between these two extremes and the altitude of the road ebbs and flows regularly throughout its route.

There was already a decent amount of budding on trees near the lowest elevations when I arrived, but there was almost nothing yet growing at the higher elevations. (And note that, while the road tops out at approximately 3500 feet above sea level, the summits of the tallest accessible mountains in the park reach at least 1000 feet higher.) But the weather was warm, with plenty of sunshine, so budding and leafing steadily developed, and slowly climbed up the hillsides and mountainsides while I was at the park. While there was no more than early budding at the higher elevations even when I left on April 19, by that point, elevations up to 2500 feet were fully leafed out and mid-level elevations (up to, say, 3000 feet) were beginning to show significant development.

I traversed almost the entire length of Skyline Drive twice while I was in the park. I first made the drive to the southern part of Shenandoah (I got a bit past mile marker 90, but didn’t go all the way to the southern entrance) on my first full day in the park (April 15). When I returned, just two days later, the extent of the additional development in foliage was palpable.

As I was making the drive back north on April 17, somewhere around mile marker 85, I spotted an intriguing redbud tree just off the side of the road. There are innumerable overlooks on both sides of the twisting Skyline Drive, throughout its length, but there was no pull-off near the tree. The closest overlook was about a quarter of a mile further north, and I pulled in. I parked my car and then, atop the stone wall that serves as a kind of guard rail on the fall-off side of the drive, I walked, without my photographic equipment, back down the road to see if the tree I had glimpsed was a worthy subject. Walking on the wall allowed me to safely traverse the quarter mile without having to worry about dodging traffic (though, as it turned out, there was no traffic that needed to be dodged). When I arrived at the scene I determined fairly quickly that, yes, this would make a very nice subject. So, I turned around walked back uphill (on the wall) to the car, collected my camera and tripod, and headed back to the tree. This time, I walked on the road, prepared to jump up on the wall if a vehicle appeared, but that turned out not to be necessary.

I did jump back on the wall when I got back to the redbud, as I didn’t want to have to worry about moving in case of traffic (and, indeed, while I was composing the image below, two vehicles did drive by). I placed the redbud, which was leaning to the left, on the right-hand side of the frame and left the fully leafed, but fresh green of the mountainside trees in the background. The just budding set of oaks filled the rest of the frame on the left. The color contrasts of spring serve as the image’s center of interest.

Satisfied, I completed the mile of walking between the scene and the nearest overlook and continued the journey northward, my eyes ever peeled for additional quintessential Blue Ridge Mountains images.

Redbud Mountainside, Skyline Drive, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

Iconic landscapes are iconic for a reason, so when I visit a locale that includes one (or more), I typically take the time to at least pay my respects, even though the iconic location is never truly the focal point of the decision to visit the area in question in the first place. And, when I do head to the icon, assuming I pull the camera out, I’m always looking for a non-iconic perspective.

A case in point: my visit to Yosemite Valley a few years ago, when I made a stop at Tunnel View, arguably one of the most iconic landscapes in the entire world. As I noted above, there’s a reason why iconic places are iconic in the first place, and I was sufficiently moved while I was there to produce a fairly traditional composition. But having done so, I very quickly moved on to look for other things. And, given the conditions I was treated to on this particular morning, it wasn’t difficult to find something I found compelling.

There was a considerable amount of valley fog this day, swirling amidst the trees below me; it’s clearly visible as an accent in the wider image that I linked above. I pulled out the camera with the telephoto lens attached and honed in on a tiny portion of the broader scene, just below Bridal Veil Falls, where the relative denseness of the mist, in conjunction with the trees, made for some interesting patterns.

Had I not mentioned that the below image was made at Tunnel View, I doubt anyone would have guessed the site. And that’s the point: there are almost always interesting images just waiting to be found, beyond, and ostensibly independent of, the icons.

Yosemite Valley in Fog from Tunnel View, Yosemite National Park, California

To view a larger rendition of this image, with much more detail, click on the photograph above. When you reach the ensuing web page, be sure to click again to view the image at full size.

The company that hosts my website has had, shall we say, some significant “issues” of late. The specifics aren’t worth discussing here, but as a result of these problems I’ve spent some time recently browsing through some of the many photo galleries on my site, including several that I haven’t looked at in quite some time. This experience inadvertently reminded me of a large part of the reason why I engage in photography in the first place.

Spotlight Black & White, Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park, California

By a remarkable, coincidence, my friend, and Photographer’s Guide to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan co-author, Andy Richards, posted a piece on his blog discussing this very same subject just a couple of days ago. Great minds, and all that. In fact, reading Andy’s post settled things for me; I felt compelled to produce this entry.

“The Cavity,” Heart of the Dunes, White Sands National Monument, New Mexico

Photographs–of any theme or genre–can serve as incomparable memory stimulants. Presumably every person reading these words is already aware of this truism. In my case, each and every photograph serves as a personal, discrete memory of one of my various adventures in the field. At a glance, I’m returned to the moment when the image was made, with all of the attendant feelings and sensations that implies.

“Shadowland” black & white; Morton Arboretum, Illinois

Because the memories, by definition, are personal, the images that stimulate those memories are every bit as self-defining. The photographs are the shadows of the moments they represent.

Sotol Vista, Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive, Big Bend National Park, Texas

Next week, I’m headed to Shenandoah National Park in Virginia for about five days. I was last there 25 years ago, just as I was really getting serious about landscape photography and learning lessons about image-making, through the process of screwing up. We’ll see how the conditions treat me. I’m going to show up with a fairly modest amount of location research at my disposal. The only thing I’m certain of is that new remembrances will be created, visually represented by the photographs that are made along the way: the shadows of memory.

The Mittens and Merrick Butte at Sunset, Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park, Arizona

Late in the week-long (ish) trip to the the North Shore of Lake Superior in the autumn of 2022, Ellen and I spent the better part of a day at Tettegouche State Park. The lighting conditions were variable throughout our time in the park, as the clouds blew in and blew out multiple times.

During one of the “bad light” parts of the day, we meandered down a fairly short, unnamed path, not far from the park’s visitor center, that led to a small cove, with a relatively small Lake Superior beach at trail’s end. A fair number of people were willing around, making it a bad time to photograph; the light was, as I mentioned, poor in any case. But we poked around the spot for a bit and felt we saw enough to warrant returning when conditions would better.

Late in the day, when the clouds rolled in for the umpteenth time and it was clear that there would be no sunset photographic opportunities to mine, we decided to return to the cove and make what we could of it. On this occasion, the beach–rock-strewn, like all of the beaches we explored on Minnesota’s North Shore–was deserted, and the light was soft. Though we both messed around with some wider scenes, my main focus was on some of the intimate opportunities we had noticed during the scouting session.

One of the spots that had caught my attention earlier in the day, was a piece of driftwood, lying right alongside the water line. Nestled amidst thickly strewn, colorful beach stones, the log was wet, a function of being doused when larger waves from Superior reached the beach.

I set up, preparing to photograph this small scene, but after examining it through the viewfinder, decided that something was missing. The right-hand portion of the frame seemed a bit blah to me, with nothing to balance the attention-drawing pull of the left-hand side, dominated by the stones. I got up from my kneeling position (which wasn’t comfortable to begin with, given the rocky surface), and looked around.

Earlier, I had noticed some fallen leaves, scattered here and there, and found a rather pristine red one. Walking over to the water’s edge, I dipped the leaf in the lake, which had the dual benefit of nicely saturating the bright red and allowing it to adhere to the driftwood when I returned to my intimate scene. I took another glance in the viewfinder. Much better, I thought. I then went about implementing the focus stacking process (four frames did the trick), that led to the image you see below.

Lake Superior Beach Intimate, Tettegouche State Park, Minnesota

To view a larger rendition of this image, with much more detail, click on the photograph above. When you reach the ensuing web page, be sure to click again to view the image at full size.

In case you missed it, Photo Dialogue, Part I explains what this exchange between Steve Carter and myself is all about and begins the dialogue. Part II and Part III extend the discussion. This post represents the fourth installment in this series of undetermined length.

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Do you spend a lot of time looking at images related to the places you plan to visit on photo trips?  Why/not?

Steve: I generally do not look at images related to places I plan to visit on photo trips. There are two reasons: 1) many of the locations are not widely popular and I’m not sure it would be very easy to find good images online; and, 2) I prefer to approach a location without preconception, to see it through my eyes rather than through someone else’s. However, there are exceptions. I use sources such as QT Luong’s superb books on national parks and national monuments to assess the type of scenes that can be found and my level of interest. This helps me prioritize destinations in my location spreadsheet. 

Piano Rock, Valley of Fire State Park, Nevada – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

And for locations where I don’t have trusted sources such as the Photographing the Southwest series by Laurent Martrès and others, I’ll spend some time with websites that describe that location, looking at any images to assess whether I might find it worthwhile.

Kerry: Consistent with what I’ve noted elsewhere, I spend as little time as possible looking at images of places I plan to photograph.  Outside of looking at images for the purpose of getting a sense of the type of elements I can expect to find somewhere I plan to visit–assuming I don’t already know the answer to that question–I spend no time looking at such images at all.  The point of a cursory glance is ordinarily part of a process of deciding whether a specific location has “enough” to warrant a visit in the first place.  If I feel I already know the answer to that question–perhaps based on an earlier trip or word-of-mouth recommendation from someone I trust, I won’t look at images of the location at all.

Waterline Falls Black & White, Letchworth State Park, New York

My goal is to approach a location with as close to an unbiased perspective as possible; that makes it comparatively easier for me to approach the subject matter with fresh eyes and a clear mind.  I prefer to have a location reveal itself to me as organically as possible, and the more I’ve seen of a place that’s via someone else’s perspective, the more difficult that is to pull off.

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Do you like to return to locations that you’ve already photographed or is it pretty much one-and-done?

Steve: I generally enjoy returning to locations I’ve already visited, but I rarely do. Why not? I have a long list of places I want to visit and photograph, and I know that I don’t have an infinite supply of time in which I will be able to travel to the remote places I love. Therefore I prioritize new places. For the same reason, I’m also prioritizing locations which require more physical strength or stamina since I know that advancing age will narrow my travel options all too soon.

The venerable Grizzly 399 with her 2016 cub-of-the-year in Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

There are a couple exceptions: 1) locations with good wildlife photography – I’ve repeated Grand Teton and Glacier, for example, for additional wildlife opportunities; and, 2) locations with both good spring wildflowers and great fall foliage (e.g., Glacier).

Kerry: I very much like to return to previously photographed locations.  There are very, very few–if any–locations that I’ve photographed that I have no interest in visiting again.  The downside is, of course, opportunity cost:  if I’m revisiting a location, that means that I’m not spending that time at a new spot that I desperately want to see.

Fall Color, Denali Highway, Alaska – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

It’s an endless conundrum and I’ve more or less tried to split the baby over the years.  But one reason why I’m probably more or less as likely to revisit a location as to go somewhere new on any given trip opportunity?  I think I almost literally always come back from a revisit more satisfied than from the initial trip.  Examples:  the Canadian Rockies (Lake O’Hara in particular); Alaska (especially the Denali Highway); the Canaan Valley and Bear Rocks in West Virginia; the California redwoods; the Oregon Coast; the Smokies; the Upper Peninsula of Michigan…really, the list is very long.  The ability to adapt and apply what I’ve learned from an initial opportunity is priceless.

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What is (to date, obviously) your all-time favorite photo location/trip?

Steve: This is a question I’m asked on a regular basis. My answer probably frustrates the questioner, because I don’t have a favorite, or even a few favorites. I’ve loved nearly every place I’ve gone to photograph, and each has its own wonderful qualities. For me, it’s perhaps akin to asking a parent to name his or her favorite child (not that I’d equate photo destinations with one’s children, of course, but the logic of the answer is similar). Each destination has unique qualities that both make it special and cause frustration. 

Holland Harbor Light at sunset, in the channel between Lakes Macatawa and Michigan – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

I’ve loved and struggled with each destination for different reasons. There are some places that I feel I’ve “worked” adequately and don’t justify a return visit. There are other places that, given all the time in the world, I’d be very happy to visit multiple times. But that doesn’t mean I consider one better than the other. It’s just that I think some have additional potential with different/better conditions.

Kerry: That’s a very, very difficult question to answer.  I don’t think I can pick out a single favorite place.  It’s not really a direct response to the posed question, but I think my most photographically productive trips were the ones I took to the Canadian Rockies, Alaska and California.  These were all (for me) very long trips (roughly two weeks each) and I was, with few exceptions, blessed with very good conditions.  But these locations were also simply chock full of great–and varied–subject matter, the kinds of places where looking hard for images–while always advisable–really wasn’t, strictly speaking, necessary.  There were so many marvelously photogenic locations, you simply had to be sentient to realize great opportunities, pretty much anywhere.  But did that make these my favorites, strictly speaking?  I don’t know.

“Mother and Child Reunion,” Columbia Black Tail Doe and Fawn, Hurricane Ridge, Olympic National Park, Washington – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

The truth is, I can conjure up wonderful memories from any of my photo trips…and, conversely, memories of disappointment and/or difficulty, from pretty much all of them as well.

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To view larger renditions of any of the images in this post, click on the image itself.

Earlier posts in this series:

Back Story Day 1 Day 2  Day 3 Day 4

In this ongoing series of posts, which I began, seemingly, during the Truman Administration, I’ve attempted to establish something of a theme: the weather conditions during this April, 2002 trip were, shall we say, less than ideal. As noted repeatedly, sunny and breezy was the standard, both in forecast and real time experience. Day 5 held true to form, after the first couple of hours of daylight.

I decided to head up to Oconaluftee Valley View overlook for sunrise and was treated to something other than clear skies this early morning.

Sunrise, Oconaluftee Valley Overlook, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

This particular overlook provides some challenges. Unlike most overlooks, where the the viewer is perched on the edge of something, looking out over some grand vista, Oconaluftee Valley View is on the opposite side of the road from the compelling scene. The parking area is, essentially, the highest viewing point but it’s also the location most susceptible to foreground clutter. It’s possible to cross the road and set up in a steeply pitched field, but I’ve found that to be self-defeating. In addition to placing oneself smack in the way of anyone photographing from the parking area–which comes with its own consequences regarding one’s popularity–every step the photographer takes to establish a clearer view of the scene lowers the shooting position due to the pitch of the slope. It’s kind of a two steps forward, two steps back motif.

Sunrise, Oconaluftee Valley Overlook, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

There’s a certain irony to the absence of direct light at sunrise this morning on a trip dominated by clear skies, but that’s how the proverbial cookie crumbles sometimes.

My plan was to take advantage of the fleeting even light conditions by zipping down the Newfound Gap Road, in the direction of the Oconaluftee Visitors Center, located at the southern end of the park, to try and photograph locations scouted on previous days, but I stopped at several of the pull-offs along the way because the swirling low clouds were producing some interesting mountainside scennes.

Layered Sunrise, Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Budding Trees in Morning Light, Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Ridgeline Highlights, Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Layers, Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

My main point of interest was a spot I’d stumbled across during the extraordinarily unproductive previous day. I described this experience at some length as part of a “Story Behind the Image” post that I produced last year. Here’s a portion of what I wrote:

During one of my many forays on the southern half of the Newfound Gap Road, I scouted a roadside waterfall during one of the interminably long harsh light periods on a blue sky day. There was no pull-out dedicated to this particular waterfall, so I utilized a paved pull-out several hundred feet from the falls, on the opposite side of the road, then walked back to the cataract. After spending about 10 minutes investigating the site–sans photo gear, given the light–I returned to my vehicle, all while planning to return to the spot at a time when I knew the scene would be blessed with even light.

As I was getting into the car, I heard the muffled, but unmistakable, sound of rushing water. It definitely wasn’t the waterfall I had just scouted–that was too far away, and too small, to be audible from the pull-out. I decided to follow my ears, so I wandered off the pavement, onto a grassy field. There, I discovered an informal trail, heading into a nearby stand of trees. As I moved along, the sound of moving water grew incrementally louder and more distinct.

I followed the trail into the trees and, very shortly thereafter, the path made a sharp bend to my left and headed down an embankment. I could see a stream below me. I carefully made my way down the short, fairly steep, trail and in short order found myself astride a waterfall that plunged into the Kephart Prong of the Oconalutee River below me.

The light, of course, was just as awful at this spot as it had been at the waterfall that had led to the scouting session, but it wasn’t difficult to see the location’s potential. As I stood there–again, without my camera–I scoped out at least four different perspectives that I wanted to explore, in better light.

The clouds that had impacted that morning’s sunrise were essentially gone by the time I arrived at this spot. but the area was still in even light–courtesy of the mountains to the east–and would remain so for a little while. But I had to make a decision: head to the roadside waterfall or take the trail to the Kephart Prong confluence. It was likely that I’d only be able to photograph one of these locations before losing the light this morning. It didn’t take me long, if it took any time at all, to decide to hit the confluence. It was a more compelling location and I knew that I’d have other opportunities to photograph the roadside waterfall later on the trip. The roadside waterfall was hard up against the mountainside on the west side of the road; just about any day, from mid-afternoon on, would have this scene in open shade. The confluence was a lot trickier to predict. The opportunity was staring me in the face and I opted to take it.

Having scouted the location just the day before, I knew exactly where to go and what I would need, so I grabbed my tripod, the camera with the 24-120 mm lens on it, made sure I had a polarizing filter on the lens, grabbed my cable release, and hit the trail.

When I reached the confluence, the benefit of the previous day’s scout kicked in as I’d already scoped out the locations I wanted to access to photograph the scene.

The Confluence, Kephart Prong, Oconaluftee River, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Kephart Prong Intimate, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Sure enough, by the time I returned to my vehicle a simple glance across the road told me that the roadside waterfall was now in mixed light, so I deferred that photographic session to another time and made my way further south on the Newfound Gap Road in the direction of some spots that I had reason to believe would still be in even light for a bit.

The previous day’s scout had included several promising roadside dogwoods, and I was pleased to find these locations still in soft light. With no wind to speak of, I took my time to tease out a couple of compositions.

Dogwoods, Layers, Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Dogwoods, Layers, Newfound Gap Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

I then made the short drive to the Smokemont area, a spot along the Oconaluftee River that I’ve found very fruitful during mornings on blue sky days in the spring over the years.

Oconaluftee River Rapids, Smokemont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

My last stop of the morning was an exploration of a new location (for me): Towstring Horse Camp. I wasn’t sure what I’d find–hopefully some horses grazing in a fenced meadow and, in fact, that’s exactly what I found, with an unexpected addition.

Grazing, Towstring Horse Camp, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Most of the rest of the day, which was almost entirely cloudless, was spent scouting back on the Tennessee side of the park, mostly along the Little River Road. At one point in the middle of the afternoon I did have the opportunity to photograph some Little River reflections.

Little River Reflections, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

And near the very end of the day, I was able to make good on one of my scouting finds: more dogwoods, these located at the Metcalf Bottoms Picnic Area.

Dogwoods, Metcalf Bottom Picnic Area, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

Dogwoods, Metcalf Bottom Picnic Area, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

It was another less than tremendously productive day, photographically, but I had reached the point where I had more or less accepted the conditions for what they’d be. I had managed to produce a few images I was pleased with, had explored wide swaths of the park and was, despite the breeze and the overwhelmingly blue skies, having a pretty good time. Not so bad.

In case you missed it, Photo Dialogue, Part I explains what this exchange between Steve Carter and myself is all about and begins the dialogue. Part II extends the discussion. This post represents the third installment in this series of undetermined length.

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How do you research and plan photo trips?  Is there a rationale behind the level/depth of research you do?

Steve: I first try to find a published photographer’s guide for the area. For the Southwest and Northwest, the seven volumes written by Laurent Martrès and others are invaluable. For other areas, I search for any books that look like they might be helpful and try to buy a copy (preferably used). Amazon has completely absorbed the used-book marketplace, so now that’s where I start the search. If I happen across an informative article I’ll scan it to a PDF for future reference. Certain websites can also be quite helpful. For example, thewave.info has excellent articles about many locations, including maps and GPS coordinates. If I can’t find a photographer’s guide, I sometimes look for books of photographs of the region and contact the author to see if they might be willing (for a fee) to create a list of locations where they enjoy shooting. The basic principle is to research and plan every detail possible.

Undulating stripes line a dark corridor through Zebra Slot, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, Utah – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

The more I know about a location, the better I’ll use my time. Travel is expensive and my time is precious; I don’t want to waste any time on location due to inadequate planning. Mother Nature has enough surprises in store for the photographer!

Kerry: I like to have a sense of the potential of a place, visually, and what the broad options are for experiencing that potential–subject elements, trails, access, best times of year, weather tendencies and so forth. And if someone wants to tell me about a little known location that’s rich in photographic potential, I’m all ears. All of this isn’t just helpful, it’s arguably crucial. 

But that’s about the extent of what I want to know before I decide to pay a visit somewhere.  The above types of information are typically transferred from books, websites and personal inquiries.  What I’m looking for is guidance to places that I am likely to find stimulating and will have the opportunity to explore.  That, ultimately, is what I find satisfying about the photographic experience:  the ability to discover something at a location.

Caddo Lake at Sunrise, Marion County, Texas – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

What I’m not looking for, generally speaking, is information about how to “get the shot.” I know that this can seem counterintuitive, but given my proclivities, I don’t like to spend a lot of time looking at images of an area I’m planning to visit. My concern is that I’m going to fall into the trap of looking for the images I’ve viewed and not seeing the location through my own eyes, without the possible biased introduced by someone else. Don’t misunderstand, I never go to a new (for me) like some sort of tabula rasa; I have some idea of what’s there, as I indicated above. But, for me at least, there’s a fine line between having a feel for the likely elements and a preconceived idea, induced by someone else’s photographic choices, about what I “should” be looking for, and I strive to say on the former side of that line.

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Do you prefer shooting alone or with one or two others or with a group?

Steve: I love having a relative or friend on a shoot, but find myself a little annoyed if I encounter a stranger at a remote location. They are a distraction from my concentration, a dissonant note in the beautiful silence of that wild place. I still go to crowded places like Arches National Park – where crowds can be minimized by shooting at the edges of the day or at night – but I strongly prefer locations where I’m unlikely to encounter other people. 

Fallen Roof Ruin, near Blanding, Utah – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

As an example, I recently decided to go on a 17-day float trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, guided by a photographer expert on the canyon whom I’ve known for a decade. I signed up primarily because I looked forward to spending the time with him. But after thinking about the overall experience and spending that much time with a large group, I changed my mind about the trip. I realized that I would not enjoy the experience. Granted, it would have been a real adventure and I would have captured some beautiful images. But the overall experience would have been draining – a bit like work. I decided that I would derive greater joy from a different experience where I’d be on my own.

Kerry: As a rule, I do not like to photograph with a group.  I’ve done it, but I typically find photographing with a group to be stultifying, creatively.  This doesn’t mean that I absolutely won’t do this.  There may be reasons–limited access to a location that I’m particularly excited to visit, for instance–where I will deem the tradeoff worthwhile (this was certainly the case regarding last fall’s trip to Caddo Lake), but it’s never my preferred modus operandi.  

With one or two other people–as long as I know them and as long as they’re also photographers and I know we’re compatible in the field–it’s usually fine; in some instances, it may even be a plus.  (For instance, I doubt I would have felt comfortable venturing up Alaska’s Dalton Highway by myself.)

Mt. Sukukpak Evening, Dalton Highway, Brooks Range, Alaska – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

As long as I feel self-assured about where I am–and that’s true the overwhelming majority of the time–I’m quite content to photograph on my own.  From both a practical standpoint (e.g. not having to worry about getting in anyone’s way, being able to come and go without consultation, etc.) and from an intangible perspective (I doubt “The Moment” would have had the impact it did had I not been by myself), there’s nothing quite like the experience of being by oneself in the field.  But you really do, I think, have to feel safe and secure by yourself for this to work.  I know a lot of people who don’t feel safe anywhere out in the field by themselves, and if you’re experiencing anxiety, you’re simply not going to have a good time, let alone be photographically productive.  So I think each person has to find his/her own comfort zone and act accordingly.  

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How much do you like to know about the locations you plan/hope to visit on photo trips?

Steve: For each trip, I prepare two documents: 1) a “detail” document; and, 2) a “shooting schedule.” The “detail” document contains all the descriptive detail I can find about each specific location where I plan to shoot, including precise GPS coordinates (from Google Maps) where I’ll park and for the attraction if a hike is involved. The “shooting schedule” is a timeline for each day of the trip. For each day I calculate the time I need to arrive at the carpark to ensure I’ll be ready for optimal early light (including hiking time), adequate onsite time, travel time to the next location, time for meals, and so forth through the day. The shooting schedule again has GPS coordinates for each carpark. I navigate in the truck with a Garmin GPS, not with Google Maps on my phone. I’ve found that the Garmin is generally superior for navigation, both in verbal instructions and map display. 

Stormy sunset at Toroweap, Grand Canyon National Park – North Rim, Arizona – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

The shooting schedule also displays daily sunrise, sunset, and moonrise/set when that’s important. When I’m planning a night sky shoot, it displays optimal times for Galactic Center visibility.

When I’m on a coast, it displays high/low tides. This shooting schedule, of course, is just a plan – conditions in the field always result in lots of reshuffling of the schedule. But even with all the reshuffling the shooting schedule is still an invaluable tool.

I also identify all hikes during the trip and download hiking routes from Alltrails (occasionally from thewave.info). Those routes are uploaded into GAIA GPS, which automatically syncs with the app on my phone. I use this app on nearly every hike, if only to estimate the remaining distance to my destination. I used to print the trail maps but found it was a waste of paper and ink.

Kerry: I addressed this to some extent, inadvertently, during an earlier response, but I like to have a sense of what a location has to offer, and if there are specific spots that are particularly fruitful in terms of photo potential, I like to know that.  Beyond that, I don’t necessarily want to know a whole lot about a location in the way of specifics.  Again, that may sound counterintuitive, but for me, a lot of the appeal of going to a location is being able to see it with as few specific preconceptions as possible.  I really prefer not to go to a location with the mindset of “where’s the ________?” rattling around in my head.  Some of that sort of thing is probably inevitable, but I really do try to keep it to a minimum.

Ontonagon River Intimate, Bond Falls State Scenic Site, Michigan – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

This thought process is consistent, I think, with my expressed overarching preference for discovering images–and image opportunities, more broadly–at locations rather than pursuing them.

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To view larger renditions of any of the images in this post, click on the image itself.

In the spring of 2012, I spent about 10 days in Utah and Nevada, the back end of which involved several days at Valley of Fire State Park, about an hour northeast of Las Vegas. Valley of Fire is, I think, my all-time favorite state park (with the caveat that I have not visited roughly 99% of the state parks in this country). Had it not become the first state park in Nevada in 1935, I think it should–and perhaps would–be a national park; it’s that remarkable. It is, in fact, a National Natural Landmark.

The daylight hours were long when I was at Valley of Fire, and, as a result, I spent much of the time each day scouting and photographing intimate scenes in open shade. On the last full day–I had one more morning’s session available to me the next day–I spent some time scouting Pink Canyon, a slot canyon located up a wash, just off the park’s Scenic Drive. It was mid-day when I undertook the scout and the light was truly atrocious. (It was also hot as blazes.) But in spite of the poor conditions, the potential of the location was undeniable and I made plans to come back at daybreak the next morning. I guessed I’d have perhaps 90 minutes of soft light–which Pink Canyon required, in my view–in which to photograph.

I think of Pink Canyon as having two distinct sections. The upper part of the canyon is a traditional slot canyon, and is quite interesting. But the lower part is, in my view, even more compelling, filled as it is with water and wind eroded sandstone and all of the contours, shapes and colors that implies.

When I was photographing that day, I worked my way up the canyon and discovered a fascinating feature–a pothole, of sorts, that would be a waterpocket after a flooding rain. There hadn’t been a flooding rain–or any rain of any sort–in quite some time in southern Nevada when I visited, so there was no water, but the feature was simply captivating.

I wanted to spend some time in the upper part of the canyon, which I knew would be sun-impacted before the lower part, so I made a mental note of the location, so that I could photograph it on my return to the canyon’s foot.

And so I did. A bit more than an hour into the session, I was back in the lower canyon, staring at the pothole. I decided to photograph it from above, as I liked the way the lines of the feature ran from that perspective. Bathed in reflected–but still soft–light I made a couple of exposures of the scene, including the one you see below, which ended up being one of my favorite images of the entire trip.

Pink Canyon Abstract, Valley of Fire State Park, Nevada

To view a larger rendition of this image, with much more detail, click on the photograph above. When you reach the ensuing web page, be sure to click again to view the image at full size.

How do you select places for photo trips?

In case you missed it, Photo Dialogue, Part I explains what this exchange between Steve Carter and myself is all about and begins the dialogue. This post represents the second installment in this series of undetermined length.

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Steve: To begin with, I’ve always been fascinated by the American frontier and the American West. As a child I devoured several books a week from the local library about American history. I suppose it was natural that my photographic interests inclined that way as well. As I selected locations for photo trips, my first instinct was always in that direction. I think one important reason is that it always seemed rather exotic when compared with my familiar New England environment. 

Sandstone formations, especially contrasted with saturated green or golden cottonwood foliage, are just so different from the dense woods of my New England homeland . And the desert is so quiet! New England woods, even on a hot summer day, are always noisy with insects and birds and wind in the trees. I love the absolute stillness of the desert. Watching as dawn revealed the depths of the Grand Canyon while hearing absolutely nothing except my pulse and breathing was a life-altering experience.

An ephemeral pool reflects sunlight onto Navajo Arch in Arches National Park, Utah – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

As time passed I became more systematic and inclusive. I now use a spreadsheet to list possible photo destinations, grouped by season and rank-ordered by photographic potential. The list is based on many magazine articles and books and a few websites. For the U.S. national parks and some national monuments, one wonderful resource is QT Luong’s books. I’ve limited my horizons to North America primarily because there is such fantastic variety here and travel is easy. International travel with adequate gear for landscape photography is difficult at best without expensive shipping arrangements. With so much potential on my own continent, why not start there?

Kerry:  It’s more scattershot than I’d like it to be.  Basically, it’s a combination of a sense of places I’d like to visit for (perceived) aesthetic reasons and raw opportunity, mixed with a variety of external factors that are difficult to categorize.  I’ve limited myself, to date, to locations in North America, on the theory that there are countless places on the continent I’d like to visit and there’s more bang to the buck if I remain (relatively speaking) close to home.  I’ve developed a long, long list of such places over the years, based on some combination of natural exposure and being told about places from others.  But it’s hard to generalize about how all this plays out in reality.

Red Jack Lake, Hiawatha National Forest, Michigan – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

For instance, my most recent trip to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (I’ve photographed there half a dozen different times), in the fall of 2020, came about because, during what was still a highly active facet of the COVID pandemic, I didn’t have much time for planning, nor was I prepared to fly to a photo destination.  If I was going to go anywhere that autumn, it was going to have to be relatively close to my Chicago-area base and be a location that I knew well enough to hit the ground running.  

On the other hand, while I’d always wanted to visit Alaska’s interior, I wasn’t sure that it would ever happen, in significant part due to the cost.  But when my friend Ellen suggested it as a possibility and we ballparked how the cost-sharing aspects of such a trip would play out, it suddenly seemed to become a realistic possibility to me.  And now I’ve been there twice!

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Is your landscape photography primarily in remote locations that require overnight travel? If yes, why?

Steve: While I’m asked regularly (including by my wife) why I don’t do more photography close to home in New England, I find that my photographic interests lie elsewhere. Perhaps familiarity does breed contempt? In any case, I find myself drawn toward “the different.” Perhaps it’s the need to explore, to see “new country.” I always wonder what’s around the next corner. On a dusty two-track, I’m impelled to keep going to see what’s over the next rise or around the next corner. Nothing can compare with the sensation of joy upon finding a place of beauty where few venture and feeling like I have the place to myself, at least for a time. 

And perhaps it’s that I find myself drawn more toward the scenic composition and less toward intimate details, and I’ve found New England to have more intimate details than grand scenics. 

Sunrise spotlights the UN Tablet near Canyonlands Overlook, with the vast White Rim Canyon still in shadow, Canyonlands National Park, Utah – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

Whatever the reasons, my photo trips are nearly always at least a couple days’ drive from home, and often four or five days’ drive each way. Yes, now that I’m retired I drive instead of doing fly/drive. We found that it was too difficult to schlep photo gear on a plane and deal with whatever type of vehicle the rental place happened to have available. With our own, somewhat-customized 4Runner, we can go pretty much anywhere and know exactly where everything is at all times. This choice was a leap of faith, because I’d never done long-haul driving, but I’ve found that I don’t mind it at all. It’s a price I’m happy to pay to have my own vehicle on location equipped with everything I’m likely to need.

Kerry: Most of it has required significant travel, yes, and the principal reason is pretty mundane:  I haven’t lived anywhere within a short distance of the continent’s landscape photography garden spots, at least as I view them.

I believe it’s true that there are compelling images to be had just about anywhere, but there’s compelling and there’s compelling, and I think the latter is comparatively lacking within the circumference of urban/suburban sprawl where I have always resided.

Lake Falls Black & White, Matthiessen State Park, Illinois – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

It’s not a total lack of opportunity; over the years, I’ve spent a decent amount of time foraging around a number of nice spots in the Chicago area, for example.  But I think part of what’s going on is that not only are there structural/visual impediments that make landscape photography more challenging in densely populated areas, I think it’s also more difficult to get into the right mindset when inundated by all of the sensory distractions that are inherent in these places, relative to locations that are comparatively pristine.

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How important is solitude and quiet to your photo experience?

Steve: On the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, which I used on many occasions at work, I fall near the far end of the introvert scale. As a savvy coach once said, introverts drain their batteries while dealing with other people and charge their batteries with solitude. Extroverts drain their batteries during “alone time” and charge their batteries when among other people. For me, part of the appeal of landscape photography in remote places is the solitude and quiet. The silence of the desert is rejuvenating. The constant sound of a rushing, mountain stream as I stand at my tripod, hip-deep in the current, is soothing to my soul.

Reflected foliage in pool near Little River Road, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee – Copyright Steve Carter, All Rights Reserved

Kerry: When I’m photographing, there’s an inverse relationship between the number of people/the volume of artificial sound and my level of satisfaction.  I’m far more likely to be able to get in touch with the essence of a location the fewer distractions there are and, when it comes to natural settings, people and the noises they make tend to serve as a distraction for me.  It is not an accident, I don’t believe, that the seminal moments I’ve had in the field have almost always been accompanied by solitude and quietude. 

A few years ago, an acquaintance of mine did a deep dive into my galleries and paid me what was, in my judgment, among the greatest compliments I’ve ever received.  He said–I’m paraphrasing–your photographs make me feel as though I’m seeing something no human has ever laid eyes on before.  Even though that’s rarely, if ever literally been the case, it’s the way I’ve often felt when I’m somewhere, experiencing a scene by myself.

Mary Lake and Cathedral Mountain from the West Opabin Trail, Yoho National Park, British Columbia – Copyright Kerry Leibowitz, All Rights Reserved

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To view larger renditions of any of the images in this post, click on the image itself.