As a photographer, I’m acutely sensitive to light: how it changes from moment to moment, or even from season to season. I was thinking about this last week during the summer solstice—the time of greatest light. Thus far every day of 2013 had been building toward that single great culmination. Now, the sun is in a new phase of retreat.

 

As with any big victory or achievement in our lives, the solstice is not a permanent state. It’s just one point on a journey. All climbers know that the summit is only half the battle. Any high, or low, point is, in reality, just a mid-point in a continuing cycle of rise and fall, culmination and decline. Ascent and Descent.

 

What I’ve discovered over the years is that the most interesting moments—the ones worth photographing or writing about—always seem to occur just before or after that decisive culmination. What happens directly preceding or following these points of extraordinary transformation, in which one phase ends and another begins, perpetually reveal themselves to be the most significant. Those are the moments that truly tell the greatest story.

 

That could mean the change from dark to light, as the sun rises, or light to dark, as the sun sets. These natural laws somehow even apply to our own lives, as we make those big choices that drive us from one place to another. 

 

For me, one of those pivotal, dramatic transitions came right in my last year of school. Originally, I’d begun college as a photojournalism major at San Jose State University. However, I was actually spending most of my time not in the classroom but outdoors, shooting the things I loved. Rock climbing, in particular.

 

Eventually, I transferred to Fresno State University because it was only 1.5 hours from Yosemite National Park, where I was spending just about every weekend anyway, climbing and shooting. 

 

During my admittedly lackluster college career, I began to notice a phenomenon: There seemed to be a direct correlation between my GPA and the number of images I was getting published in magazines. The more time I spent outdoors shooting the things I loved, the more images I got published. The more images I got published, the worse my grades became. The cycle compounded and spiraled. More images published meant more checks coming in, which meant more money for film and gas, which equaled more resources to get outdoors and photograph the things I loved. 

 

Eventually, three classes shy of a degree, I recognized what the universe was trying to tell me and acquiesced. Really, I was traveling on assignment so much, already doing the job I was allegedly studying to learn how to do, that I no longer had time for school.

 

Another phenomenon I noticed was, the more photos I got published in magazines, the more frequently I received totally random phone calls from prospective clients who had seen some image of mine in print, looked me up online, and cold called me to hire me for a commercial advertising shoot.

 

Just after leaving Fresno State, I got one of those phone calls from Nike ACG—the technical outdoor-apparel division of Nike. They wanted striking rock climbing and hiking images set in the High Sierra. Winter was just around the corner. I knew Tuolumne Meadows, with its staggering granite formations, would be the perfect location. But I also knew it was risky to plan a late-autumn shoot here because the instant a single snow flake touched down, the Park Service would close the road. 

 

Still, I pictured  Tuolumne’s iconic, captivating formations, like Cathedral Peak and Eichorn’s Pinnacle, and knew I needed to take the gamble.

 

Upon leaving school, I’d set up a studio in Sacramento and already had enough work to justify hiring Todd Snyder as my first full-time studio manager. Through his life, Todd has enjoyed wearing many hats. Todd was actually a teacher at my high school, Quartz Hill High. He was a mentor and one of my first climbing partners when I was growing up. Before being a teacher, Todd was an aerospace engineer—a rocket scientist. Now, this guy who was always looking for the next challenge had decided to take on the one of helping me, a 20-year-old college dropout, turn his photography passion into a business.

 

There was some part of me that intuitively understood that staging a successful shoot begins with assembling the right team. Todd, with his enormous climbing and teaching experience, would be invaluable. I also brought on Justin Bailey, our part-time employee, to run logistics and put to use his incredible skills as a backcountry chef. Finally, I invited my father, Dave Rich, who had just recently retired, to help us shuttle cars and gear in and out of Tuolumne. 

 

When the first day of the shoot finally arrived, Dad shuttled us into Tuolumne Meadows, and Todd, Justin, two athletes from Nike and I suddenly found ourselves situated in the surreal, almost magical reality of the high Sierra. 

 

That first day, we shot Eichorn’s Pinnacle. After I captured the cliche images of the athletes standing in victory on top, they descended and headed back to camp for dinner. Meanwhile, I hung back and waited for Todd to rappel down and clean all the anchor equipment and ropes from the wall. As Todd descended, in a moment just before the sun set, he pushed out from the wall and I took this photograph. 

 

Jim Balog, a photography mentor and great friend of mine, once said that you should never be satisfied with the image you’re making. You can interpret those wise words in many ways, but I think that he meant that you should never stop pushing yourself. Don’t put down the camera and head back to camp for dinner, even though it was a long day, before the sun has set and all the light is absolutely gone. 

 

The ultimate value in Jim’s advice, however, is that it forces you to stay out there and be in position to witness those rare, transcendental moments always seem to occur right before or right after some significant moment—the transition from day to night, or fall to winter, or even from a climber on the summit to a regular guy back on the ground. The idea is that you need to push yourself mentally, physically and creatively to capture those moments. It always seems to involve some degree of discomfort, if not downright suffering, too. Never be satisfied and never call it a day before the day is done. I believe that that is what it takes to create any lasting photograph that stands the test of time.

 

Those two days in Tuolumne were huge.  As predicted, the late autumn weather was fickle, throttling toward winter. Nights were freezing and windy. We were way out in the backcountry, among the granite giants of Tuolumne Meadows, with a storm moving in. 

 

 When the shoot ended, and we hiked out to meet my father waiting for us at the cars, the first few snowflakes of the year began to fall. We escaped from the park just as the rangers shut the gates behind us, ending the climbing season for the year. 

 

But for me, as I sped ahead toward my office in Sacramento, I felt as if a new phase had just begun. 

Sometimes I feel like I have a dual personality. When I’m 2,000 feet up on El Capitan, the best chunk of granite in the world,  shooting some of today’s best climbers in the beautiful evening Yosemite light, I feel like Superman. 

But there’s this whole other side of me that feels more like Clark Kent. Let me explain.
Over the years I’ve spent an enormous amount of my time hanging from the sides of cliffs, diving in tropical oceans, skiing steep powder, or floating remote rivers, my camera always in tow. My first love is documenting adventure—those high-test situations in which the outcome is uncertain, to borrow the definition from the legendary climbing pioneer, business man, photographer and friend Tom Frost. 

But there’s another part of my professional life that has nothing to do with documenting adventure. I’m still working to creatively tell stories with my camera … only I’m—gasp—indoors in a sea of cubicles!
Let me explain. Through my production company, Novus Select, I work with a number of BIG companies (frequently Fortune 500) around the globe to help tell their stories through both still and motion. Part of the storytelling process frequently involves shooting for some of these enormous companies on their corporate campuses or other company facilities. 

Early on, as I tried to get a foot in the door within this world of advertising and commercial photography, I would often hear clients raise this legitimate concern: 
“Listen, buddy, I can appreciate that you like to hang off of ropes and shoot in wild places. But that doesn’t mean you can come into these corporate settings”—factories, offices, warehouses, data centers, etc.—”and make that work.”

Eventually, because I really believed this was true, I started responding with, “If I can shoot interesting images in the most dangerous places on the planet, you better believe that I can stand on my own two feet, on concrete, in a temperature- and light-controlled environment, with abundant power available and access to all the equipment I could ever possibly imagine at my disposal, and take a good photo. And believe me; I know how to work with people.”

And it’s true. Obviously, there are far fewer variables to contend with indoors or in a corporate environment than on the side of El Cap, with two exhausted athletes and a storm moving in. First and foremost, in climbing photography, and adventure photography in general, I have to consider my own safety—double checking my knots and that everything is rigged properly. After going through those checkpoints, only then do I begin to think about making pictures, which involves an entirely different set of logistical hurdles, of course.

But there are challenges to shooting, say, a sea of cubicle, too. Compared to an open Yosemite vista, a corporate office offers some pretty tight constraints in which to work. Making a good, if not great, interesting photograph in such a small space is, ironically, quite challenging. I’ve stood on filling cabinets, crawled under desks, reorganized furniture, covered windows, completely transformed the light, and shot through plants in order to spice up the foregrounds. Overall I’ve had to work and push myself hard to find the most compelling, creative ways to capture those interior situations and create authentic moments on demand.

What I think is so cool is how these two very different worlds intersect and even complement each other. I believe shooting in the adventure world helped me become a better commercial / advertising photographer and director, and vice versa.

Take this image of Tommy Caldwell and Kevin Jorgeson, two of the world best climbers, sitting on a portaledge 2,000 feet up the Dawn Wall of El Cap. Mid-day on El Cap is a pretty bleak place to be, for free climbers, photographers and filmmakers alike. The sun is relentless. The light horrible. The climbing conditions miserable. At those times of day, we resign ourselves to sitting on the portaledge, hydrating, Facebook-ing and swapping stories as we wait around for the blinding heat to pass. 

Well, the climbers do. I never put my camera down! Even when it’s hot and there’s no action happening, I still work to make pictures. 

Every climber probably knows the cliche photograph of a portaledge. From a position of about 45 degrees up and right, or up and left, the photographer shoots down on two climbers on the portaledge, using a wide-angle lens in order to include the Valley floor below. But that shot has been shot to death!
In order to capture Tommy and Kevin “sky lounging” in a new way, I treated the portaledge as if it were a cubicle. Using the type of creativity I might employ in a corporate or commercial environment, I decided to get down underneath the portaledge and shoot from an unexpected position. I spent about 15 minutes arranging ropes, fussing with my jumars, and clipping the appropriate amount of camera gear to my harness in order to have everything I’d need once I got into position. 

Under the portaledge, I was pleased to discover that this vantage offered me a way to really appreciate just how airy, if intimate, it feels to be sitting on a tiny, little canvas rectangle, way up the side of El Cap. I used a 17-35mm f/2.8 lens and intentionally shot wide open at f/4.0, with at 1/500h shutter speed and 100 ISO, making the background slightly out of focus and therefore adding depth and dimension. 

Instead of getting the same cliche portaledge shot, or just idling around while we waited for it to cool down, I was happy to find a new way to capture an old scenario. Though I have to admit, maybe the best part was getting my face out of the sun and into this little bit of shade underneath the portaledge.
As photographers and filmmakers, we tend to define ourselves in narrow, specific ways. Some may call themselves portrait photographers, or landscape photographers, or bird photographers. I prefer to think of myself as an adventure photographer and filmmaker. 

But what I’ve learned is that these self-imposed adjectival descriptions  might also be scaring us away from new, completely unfamiliar opportunities. After all, regardless of what we love to shoot, we’re all really just people who use cameras to tell great stories. Those skills that you’ve acquired in your chosen field can be applied anywhere. If you’re a landscape photographer, try shooting product indoors, and vice versa. 

So don’t be afraid to step outside your box—even if it means stepping into a corporate one. In fact, you might be surprised to discover how similar the two worlds are, and even how much the new one has to teach you.

Are we born into our destiny, or can we steer our fate in the direction of our own choosing? Where we come from and what we go on to do with our lives is often not just a mystery, but humanity’s most enduring adventure.

 

Some eight years ago, I was driving 1997 Subaru Legacy down HWY 50 from Tahoe to San Francisco to meet with Sarah Malarkey, an editor at Chronicle Books. On the drive down, I was speaking on the phone with my friend Jason Paur, a freelance writer, National Public Radio correspondent and fellow adventurer. We were casually brainstorming ideas for future collaborations. Driving with my knees, I scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. The word we kept circling back to was “playgrounds.”

 

The concept would be to do a project in which we would find a dozen or so of the most prolific adventure athletes, and get them to take us on a tour of their backyard “playground”—the place they first fell in love with their chosen sport, and how that place influenced their lives. Part of the goal was to show the humble and varied beginnings of these athletic superstars, because very rarely are we born into a climbing, kayaking or even a photography dynasty. We all come from somewhere, but where?

There are as many interesting answers to this question as there are people in the world. In my case, I grew up in Leona Valley, California, and my father was a school teacher and my mother was a nurse. Now, I’m an adventure photographer and filmmaker. There is no direct correlation, per se. But I discovered climbing and photography when I was 13 years old and almost instantly knew that working with cameras to tell adventure stories would somehow forever be a part of my life.

 

I hung up with Jason and filed away the “playground” concept in the the back of my brain for a rainy day. Then I started thinking about my meeting with Sarah at Chronicle Books. I had gathered that Sarah was familiar with my work because she has a passion for climbing, surfing and the outdoors in general.  For months we had exchanged emails about me coming down to the city and showing her my portfolio but I was traveling and shooting non-stop. Finally, I had the time to do a face-to-face.

 

We met in her office in downtown San Francisco. She wore a friendly expression, and had brown hair and bright, kind eyes. As I opened up my portfolio, we started swapping stories from the field, and the meeting felt more like two old buddies getting together than a business interview.

 

Sarah asked if I would ever consider doing a book. I said, yeah, when the time is right, but I explained to her that I probably was not ready. She pushed on and asked if I had any ideas. I thought I had a couple of decent ones. She said, Go on. I wound up and gave my two best pitches. 

No response. Crickets.

 

Ouch!

 

The proverbial rainy day had arrived. I figured before I strike out, I might as well pitch mine and Jason’s fresh idea of Playgrounds—which, of course, we had only come up with no less than an hour ago. 

As I continued talking, I noted that Sarah was nodding her head and her expression had changed while saying, “Yeah, yeah. Tell me more.”

 

Encouraged, I kept elaborating, making stuff up on the spot, and hoping that Sarah wouldn’t see through my pitch as the half-concocted, improvised idea that it was.

 

We went out to lunch, shared more stories, and by the time the check had arrived, Sarah said, “Let’s do it. Let’s do the book!”

 

What followed was one of those remarkable moments when I got back into my old Subaru wagon, called up Jason on my antiquated brick-sized cell phone and said, “Shit man! You won’t believe this …”

Later, Jason and I met up, clinked beers and toasted the forthcoming project. However, by the time we’d drained our bottles of brew, the sobering reality of having to actually write and photograph an entire book set in.

 

We made a dream list of all our heroes in the various adventure/outdoor genres, from climbing to kayaking to BASE jumping, and decided we would take turns calling up the legends on our list. After I lost a coin toss I made the first call to Eric Jackson, or “EJ,” as he’s commonly known. EJ is probably the most decorated whitewater kayaker of all time.

 

It wasn’t hard to track him down. Like many athletes in the outdoor community, EJ is a “normal” or “real” guy who lives with his wife, Kristine, and two kids, in Tennessee. As EJ was my first call, I recall hearing the painful uncertainty in my voice as I nervously said hello and began describing our book idea. To my surprise, I only made it through half the description before EJ interrupted me with an enthusiastic, “Yes! Count us in!”

 

We talked logistics: dates for the shoot, and places for us to stay. EJ said that he lived near Rock Island State Park, in a house closest to the river but otherwise near nothing else. He said we should definitely stay with him.

 

“Are you sure?” I asked. “We don’t mind staying in a hotel and driving up each day. Are you positive you have room for me and Jason?”

 

“Absolutely,” EJ said. “Plenty of room!”

 

When we arrived at the Jackson home, a double-wide trailer while they saved money to build their dream home, EJ greeted us with bone-crushing hand shakes. He introduced us to Kristine and their two children, Emily, 13, and Dane, 10. No sooner had we said hello than EJ turned to Emily and Dane and said, “You’re out of your bedroom for the next week while Jason and Corey are here.” Then he turned to us and said, “Jason, you’re taller than Corey so you get bottom bunk. Corey, you’re up top.”

 

The patriarch had spoken. I kinda got the sense that this commanding presence was one of EJ’s assets as a kayaker, father, and CEO for Jackson Kayak, now one of the biggest kayak manufacturers in the world. He struck me as a guy who always knows what he wants and wastes almost no time in getting it done, but beneath that exterior, I sense that EJ was really just a big kid who doesn’t hold back when it comes to having fun.

Today EJ is almost 50 years old and has far more energy than most 20-year-olds I know.

 

At 6 AM the next morning, we headed to the river, and it quickly became apparent that both Emily and Dane were, like their father, world-class kayakers, too. After all, these two kids had been Eric Jackson’s paddle partners from day one. EJ told me that he had Dane paddling even before he could walk, and I believe it.

This photograph, taken at the end of day one on the water, is certainly one of my favorites from the week because it epitomizes a day in the life of the Jacksons. Their entire lives revolve around kayaking, family and living each day to the fullest.

 

EJ has created a simple life focused on what he loves doing most: kayaking with his family. And accordingly, this photo is simple, too. I opted to shoot the Jacksons in silhouette as opposed to standing on the other side and exposing for the beautiful evening light illuminating their faces. I wanted an image that would be graphic and clean, something that would be easy to read at a glance. A silhouette has that effect, of distilling a story to its bare essence so that you can comprehend a lot in just a split-second’s glance. Through this effect, we see a father and two kids, all best friends and kayaking partners, at sunset, dog in tow, after a great session on the river.

 

To me, this image says: We’re a family. And this is what we do.

 

To capture this silhouette I exposed for the highlights of the setting sun and consciously allowed my subjects to go black. In situations like this I am very aware of my background in that it needs to be clean and uncluttered. The wonderful sunset colors in the sky provided just that backdrop. Additionally I become hyper-focused on the moment my subjects matched in perfect, graceful stride. Finally in this situation I wanted my subjects to be separated or not overlapping—again, for the sake of pleasing simplicity. Its also worth pointing out that of the 20 or so images I shot (this was on slide film) of this situation, this image was certainly the winner; it was the only frame where all of the elements came together.

 

Jason and I finished our book and in 2006, Chronicle Books published My Favorite Place: Great Athletes in the Great Outdoors.

 

And as anyone familiar with the kayaking world knows, Emily, now 23, and Dane, 19, have gone on to become two of the best competitive freestyle kayakers in the world, both holding World Champion titles. The Jacksons remain great friends of mine, and I can’t speak highly enough about them as great people with a verve for  living life the fullest.

 

In fact, back during this shoot, Emily and Dane were two young kids who were very insistent that I get in a kayak and be on the river with them. They, as well as EJ, wanted to make sure that I experienced what they love about their sport.

 

Being around this contagious enthusiasm, I saw something of myself in Emily and Dane. I thought back to when I was 13 and first discovering rock climbing and photography, and realized that Emily and Dane’s eagerness to see me in the kayak came from this very selfless, genuine, basic desire to share the passion, so that everyone feels what you are feeling. And isn’t that what it’s all about? I was struck by how our two interests intersected at this critical juncture—in sharing something positive, and potentially life-altering, with the people around you and if you’re lucky, with the world at large. This is precisely one of the things that drives me as a adventurer and a photographer.

 

After all, whether we are born into our destiny like Emily and Dane, or discover it for ourselves like I did with climbing and photography, we all come from somewhere. But I’ve realized that what we go on to do with those circumstances is where the story really gets interesting.

What do you think when you see this photograph, aside from the obvious My god, what is that guy doing up there without a rope?

 

Does anything change for you in knowing that this photo of Alex Honnold, free-soloing a section of the Nose of El Capitan, was taken during an arranged photo shoot? Do you have a drastically different emotional response to seeing this figure 2,500 feet up a sheer cliff without a rope, by knowing that this picture is “staged”—even though the risk Alex faces, with or without my presence, is frighteningly real?

 

What details matter?

 

In my life as a professional photographer and filmmaker, the most enduring identity crisis I face is whether I am an artist or a journalist. To what degree am I beholden to the absolute truth, and how much can I bend certain details in order to create or capture something that wouldn’t, and really, couldn’t, exist otherwise?

 

These are the questions I wrestle with.

 

Incredibly, I have found the greatest synthesis as a “journalartist” through this realm of adventure storytelling.

In 2010, Alex Honnold, climbing alone, mostly free-solo, enchained Half Dome and El Cap in under 11 hours—an incredibly fast time. The enchainment was big climbing news back then, the far-more-dangerous equivalent of hitting a record number of home runs in a single baseball game, or destroying the record for running a mile. 

Yet Alex’s achievement took place without a stadium-sized audience or even a single camera in tow. One of the most incredible athletic feats of all time happened and, for all purposes, no one saw it.

Literally. Alex climbed through the night in order to have the best (coolest) conditions, to stay out of other climbers’ ways, and ultimately to set himself up to achieve the fastest time possible.

 

So, a few days after Alex did what he did, I teamed up with the DP and renowned climber, and also my friend, Renan Ozturk. Together, we collaborated with Alex to recreate his record-setting achievement. 
Alex, Renan and I hiked up the backside of El Cap, jugged up the East Ledges, rapped down the Nose, and got into position during a time of day when the light was best. Then, we worked to capture Alex re-soloing certain sections of the iconic granite big wall—Renan shot video and I shot stills. Together, we all joined forces and carefully, thoughtfully, captured the essence of what Alex had accomplished.

 

Renan’s and my role in this situation was simple. We were there to help Alex share his immense achievement with the world. If we were successful, we would be providing people with something they’d never before seen. If we were lucky, people would find it inspiring.

 

I’m not really sure if many people really realize the degree to which most outdoor-adventure media is entirely re-created in the aftermath of the actual event by a production team working with the athlete. 
Or, if the event is not re-created, the shoot will often involve a degree of coaching and direction. To wit:

 

Look that way. Stand here. Ski close to that tree. Move your surfboard to the right. Take you pack off. Walk toward me. Don’t look at the camera. And the all time favorite: Could you do that one more time? 
I admit that this is a difficult pill for us core outdoorsy people to swallow. Imagine if you found out that the World Series was actually played in advance, on a private field without an audience, and then after the game was over, parts of it were reenacted for cameras on a Hollywood set; then the footage was edited down in order to provide viewers with the “essence” of what had taken place.

 

(Actually, come to think of it, this might not be such a bad thing if it meant we didn’t have to sit through all nine innings of baseball … but I digress.)

 

Again, it’s not a stretch to say that this is how most outdoor-adventure media is created: it’s re-created. Or scripted. Or just directed. Why? Simple. The logistics of capturing these dangerous, inspiring, incredible adventures are formidable, especially when compared to, say, shooting a baseball game, where the environment is contained, controlled and scheduled to happen at a precise time of day.

 

Recording, in real time, a climber performing on his “playing field” as he solos up a 3,000-foot-tall vertical face is as overwhelmingly complex as that sounds. It would involve pre-installing multiple camera crews all the way up Yosemite’s greatest monolith and having helicopters standing ready for the day and time when the climber arrives at that rare inspired moment and decides to actually go for it. 
Not even Hollywood, let alone the outdoor industry, has the budget for this kind of production. Nor does it even necessarily make sense to approach making media like this.

 

All artists, writers, journalists and, yes, even filmmakers and photographers, are bonded in a single, overarching purpose: to seek Truth. We all struggle and strive to achieve something resembling that lofty ideal through our various crafts, and this is where our sensibilities as artists come into play.  What ultimately matters when it comes to rendering a work? In the end, anything we create—as “successful” or powerful as it may be—will still be but one interpretation of Truth. 

 

Take this photo. In one sense, it’s as real as it gets. There are no smoke and mirrors. We did not Photoshop Alex onto the wall. No downright deceptions. Were Alex to have slipped the moment after I depressed the shutter, he would’ve fallen 2,500 feet to the ground below. This is a real climber, on a real route, taking a real risk.

 

And this was exactly the situation Alex found himself in during the actual event. He climbed this pitch ropeless during his 11-hour enchainment, just as he is ropeless here in this photo.

 

The details that aren’t accurate are that this photo was taken during the day. Obviously, the time of day doesn’t correspond with the time of day Alex was here during the actual enchainment.

 

Though that particular detail is sacrificed, look at all that has been gained in the process: we see the exposure, the rock, and the intrepid climber alone on a wall. Don’t all those details add up to a greater truth?

 

Finally, it’s worth mentioning that it’s important that I make no attempt to hide any of this by pretending that this photo was taken during the actual climb. I’m completely open about the fact that this shot is a re-creation of another event, taken in the aftermath, exclusively for the purpose of making the visuals that are needed to really showcase just how truly inspiring Alex’s story is.

 

This photo is real. Yet ... you could also argue that it’s somehow not real. And the journalistic side of me continues to struggle with that. But the artistic side takes solace in seeing the bigger picture: that this image tells a greater, better and truer story than the one I could’ve taken during the actual event.

These are the details, I believe, that matter.

All great creative endeavors have a secret. They almost always begin with a mistake, a failure, or a jump in the wrong direction.

 

As a viewer or admirer of any work of art, it’s easy to forget this because the final product appears to be so easy, so correct, so natural—as if it is the way it is because it always was and always will be.

 

Take climbing videos, for example, that feature a strong climber effortlessly floating up a hard route. You don’t see all the falling, flailing and working on perfecting those hard moves that first took place over the preceding months or even years.

 

Or, consider drawing. All great works of art begin with a single wrong line sketched onto a piece of paper. But the artist uses that initial line to draw another one, which may still be wrong, but perhaps it’s a little more accurate than the last. Eventually, the lines get tighter and tighter, and a beautiful, well-considered drawing soon appears on the page.

 

Photography is especially deceptive in this sense, because any time we see a single photograph, we don’t get to see all the other photographs taken first. But those initial photos, as gory and unflattering as they may be, are directly responsible for the realization of the final, beautiful product. This is why I always tell my clients that the longer I have to shoot, the better the pictures will get. The creative process is, typically, not fast. It takes time to make interesting photographs—even for the most veteran, experienced photographers out there.

 

This photograph, of Ashley Laux jumping in the air in a sleeping bag, embodies that slow creative process for me. Several years ago, I was in Death Valley on assignment for Backpacker to shoot department openers for their Gear Guide. It was a cold and windy day. I was shooting a tent camping scene in these sand dunes when I turned my head and saw Ashley bundled up in her sleeping bag, trying to stay warm. I was struck by the stunning panorama before me—the red sleeping bag, the hiking boots with red boot laces, and the beautiful untouched patterns in the sand.

 

“No one move!” I called out. I did not want anyone to accidentally walk through the sand and ruin the patterns with a footprint. I turned all my attention to Ashley and began the slow, methodical process of creating an interesting photograph.

 

I walked back and forth, looking for just the right angle. I considered the lens: do I want the 50mm or the 17-35mm? Then, I began working with Ashley. I shot a lot of photos of her just standing there, bundled in her sleeping bag. OK, but not good. The horizon lines behind her were running into her legs.

So, I had her jump. OK, now we’re getting somewhere. At least we solved the problem of the horizon lines.

Then, I realized I was standing up, and the angle wasn’t quite right. So, I laid down in the sand. Ashley jumped some more. Now things are getting much better. The new angle really added height and drama to her jump!

Ashley was having fun, which helped immensely. Ultimately, the little touch that sealed the deal for me—that thing that made me realize that we might have something close to a finished image—was when Ashley jumped and added a slight, playful bend in her legs. At that point, I realized that we had reached the apotheosis of this idea. We’d gone from a snapshot to an OK, to a better, to perhaps even good picture.

 

And while all creative endeavors may begin with a jump in the wrong direction, the point is to not get discouraged, to stay vigilant and to keep working on it. Hopefully, you will end up with something that jumps in the right direction.

Sometimes it takes a loaded weapon pointed directly at your head to make you realize that you might have a problem.

But not me. I already know my problem.

Hi, my name is Corey Rich. I am addicted to photography. I can’t pass up the opportunity to try to make a good photo. And I will do almost anything it takes to get that shot.

Even beg the guy with the drawn bow and the razor-tip arrow to PLEASE let me stand directly in his crosshairs!

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the value of tackling personal projects—creative or meaningful work that doesn’t have a home with a client, but is just for you. This freedom allows you to do something totally different, take some risks, experiment with new techniques, diversify your catalog of work and maybe, if you’re lucky, even get a new client.

My personal project involved shooting local CrossFitters in their gym in South Lake Tahoe over one weekend. I wanted to produce a high-contrast, hard-edge commercial studio look—not exactly my forte, which is normally working with natural light in beautiful mountain environments. But this was why I wanted to do the shoot—to push myself creatively and boost my studio-lighting skills.

We brought in four Profoto Pro-7b 1200 flash units, which gave us enough juice to run seven Profoto ProHeads and a Profoto ProRing. We set up a Chimera Pro II medium strip lightbanks on each side, positioned a medium softbox overhead. We even set up a fog machine to create a moodier atmosphere.
On Sunday morning, the second day of the CrossFit shoot, the period of open workout was just ending. Out of the gym walked my good friend Brad Jackson—“The Ultimate Dude,” if you recall one of last month’s Story Behind the Image post.

As I wrote, Brad and I go way back. He was one of the very first people I met when I moved to Tahoe almost a decade ago. The former fire captain for South Lake Tahoe and now in retirement, Brad spends a lot of his time hunting, climbing, biking and being just an all-around badass outdoorsman.

Knowing Brad, I assumed he would be spending the rest of the day in the mountains. And he almost walked right by me. ... Suddenly I had a vision—an idea for a photograph! Brad in full camo clothing, camo face pain, with a bow. We already had all of these lights set up for the CrossFit shoot; why not leverage this situation and get the most bang for our buck?

Opportunity was knocking and my photo-junkie brain, now pumping full of dopamine for this kind of stuff, responded.

“Brad, do you have time to come back this afternoon for a portrait? It’ll only be 15 minutes, I promise!”
Brad knows me, too. He saw through the thin veneer of my casual proposition, and recognized the searing obsession I have for making photographs that was burning beneath. He smiled. Happily, he agreed to indulge me and return that afternoon in full hunting costume.

When Brad arrived, I moved one of the CrossFitters I was photographing out of the way, and using almost the same lighting set-up, dropped Brad into the scene. There was almost no set-up time. And I stayed true to my word and got this photograph within the 15 minutes I had promised Brad.

However, it’s not exactly the shot I wanted. The photograph I most wanted was the razor-tip arrow pointed directly at the camera, bow fully drawn. But this is where Brad (thankfully) drew the line. Coming from the world of firefighting in which he has seen many accidents, and just being a responsible hunter, Brad would never, ever point a weapon at a person, especially not their head.

“Safety is no accident, Corey,” Brad reminded me.

I sighed. He was right. If something went wrong, the arrow would’ve pierced my Nikon 70-200mm lens and skewered my skull and I would’ve become one gruesome-looking kabob. I settled for shooting Brad from the side, slightly askew. (Still, you gotta admit: the head-on photograph would’ve been such a cool shot!)

Safety is no accident indeed … But neither is great photography! Getting a diverse body of work is all about being proactive and recognizing a great photographic opportunity when you see it. Catch it and go with it before it gets too far out the door of your local CrossFit gym.

Dean Karnazes is widely regarded as one of the best ultramarathoners in the world, and in 2006, he staged one of his greatest achievements: the Endurance 50: 50 marathons in 50 states in 50 consecutive days.

How is this even humanly—not to mention logistically—possible?

 

In an amazing display of shrewd planning, tenacity and stamina, Dean pulled it off. He began with the Lewis and Clark Marathon in St. Louis on September 17, and finished on November 5 with the New York City Marathon. As most marathons fall on weekend days, only eight of the 50 races took place during the cities’ actual marathon. On the other 42 days,  with the help of race directors and staff, Dean ran certified marathon courses, alongside between one and 50 other runners.

 

That’s a lot of running!

 

The North Face asked me to document these 50 brutal days of Dean’s life. When discussing the plan of attack with The North Face, we decided it didn’t make sense to shoot all 50 marathons. Instead, I would choose three diverse geographic regions, shoot those days, and come away with a collection of imagery that really gave you a feel for the geographic diversity of what Dean was trying to accomplish. 

 

I met Dean in Anchorage, Alaska, first. From there, we flew to San Francisco, then Hawaii, then Arizona. In just four states, we’d experience the coldest and hottest temperatures of the entire Endurance 50, and span vistas of great mountains, a beautiful iconic city, tropical beaches, and a rugged desert. Later in the event I joined Dean in the Northeast and then finally in the South.

 

Prior to the 50/50/50, I had worked with Dean during some advertising shoots. In this type of photography, it’s all about finding a great location at sunrise and sunset, then staging the most spectacular photographs possible.

 

This particular assignment was very different in that I would be observing, not directing or influencing the day’s events. But coming from a photojournalism background, this style of documentary photography suited me really well. I was excited. I joined forces with a small crew that included Dean’s coach from Carmichael Training Systems and Jimmy Hopper, the athlete manager at The North Face, among a few other event producers. We devised a number of ways, ranging from rental cars to rented bicycles, to stay as close to Dean as possible without interfering in his runs.

 

One of the challenges in photographing a 26.2-mile marathon is that there sure is a lot of running, but not a whole lot else happening. In any shoot, my goal is always to come away with the most diverse collection of photography possible. We’d already chosen distinct locations, but I knew I would need to push myself to go beyond just strict running photography and find creative ways to tell this story. 

I recalled a memorable, interesting detail that Dean wrote about in his bestselling book Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner. In order to take in enough calories during his all-night 50- to 100-mile training runs, Dean would often order an extra-large Hawaiian pizza and ask for it to be delivered to a certain street corner. He’d scarf the pie and continue onward.

 

Dean was hungry prior to the race in Alaska, and mentioned that he’d be ordering a pizza sometime during the marathon. Bingo.

 

I knew we had to get this shot and coordinated with Dean’s crew to make sure that we were there when his pizza arrived. Sure enough, we got there just in time to see him taking this first delicious, well-deserved bite.

As photographers, it would be so easy to only focus on the action, those peak action moments that drive the main story in Dean’s case. But I think that the seemingly minor details, the stuff that happens in the down time or the pre and post run rituals, the behind the scenes, are the elements that really add to the series. These are the moments that really tell the story. Don’t miss them. In other words, don’t put your camera down just because the so-called “action” has ended.

 

I came away from the Endurance 50 with an immense respect for Dean, but also I came away with a new understanding for what a caloric titan pizza actually is. Researching this story, I later learned that Dean burned 160,355 calories during this 50-day running binge. He began the Endurance 50 at 154 pounds, but finished it at 153.

 

Now that’s food for thought.

Last week I gave a one-hour presentation for the good folks at SanDisk, the maker of the flash memory cards I use in all my cameras, in their brand-new auditorium in Milpitas. I spoke about how the worlds of still photography and video are converging, and the future of visual storytelling has never been brighter. After the presentation, one of the employees of SanDisk approached me with a very direct question, one that caught me a little off guard.

“How do I make great pictures?” she asked.

It was a flattering thing to be asked, and at first I wasn’t sure how to give a decent answer. I found myself reciting the fundamentals, the stuff that you learn in photography 101, namely that a good photograph is made up of three things: Composition, Light and Timing. 

First, composition: think about how you want to frame your subject in order to create the most interesting image. The often-cited guideline is the “Rule of Thirds,” in which you imagine your image as being divided into nine equal parts by two equally-spaced horizontal lines and two equally-spaced vertical lines. Then, you compose your image so that your subject is placed along these lines or at those intersections—as opposed to dead center. This creates photographs with more tension, energy and drama.

Second, light: Where is the light source coming from, and what is its quality? After evaluating the quality of light and its source, you go through a thought process that might involve simply tweaking your ISO, aperture and shutter speed, to using reflectors or flashes to create the lighting effect that will best bring out the elements and details most important to your photograph.

Third, timing. The Moment. When do you press that shutter? A second too early or too late might mean that you miss that perfect expression in your portrait, or that crazy moment of action. Timing is everything.

But these are tips for making good pictures. This employee at SanDisk wanted to know how to make great pictures. And the more I thought about it, I realized that there’s a fourth element that many great photos all seem to share. That is, the element of surprise. The Unexpected. Serendipity.

One photo came to mind as being illustrative of having these four elements, and it was this running photograph I took a few years ago during a catalog shoot for Road Runner Sports. The composition is the classic Rule of Thirds, with the horizon of the ocean in the upper third, and my running subject placed along the lower third. The rising sun over the Pacific adds a really nice dramatic element, but its position behind the runner meant we needed to use reflectors to fill in the shadows and illuminate our subject so she really pops. Then, there’s the timing of freezing her stride right when her pose is most active and energized because both feet are off the ground.

But what makes this shot better than average (I cringe to call my own work “great”), are the two stand-up paddle boarders who just so happened to drift into the shot and frame themselves perfectly around the sunlight reflecting off the ocean. This little detail, this little serendipitous occurrence, was a gift that I couldn’t have scripted. But this kind of stuff happens all the time, and what I’ve learned is that to get that rare Fourth Element in your photos, you have to just keep shooting. Don’t put the camera down. 

Also, be open to the Fourth Element. For example, I could’ve stopped the shoot and waited for those paddle-boarders to paddle out of view. But instead, I went with it. And once I got back to the computer, and saw the final product, I’m really happy I did.

Standing before me was a very beautiful, naked woman. She had undressed quite suddenly, and I stood there dumbfounded. I was 21 years old. If you had told me back then that, in a situation like this, I would actually encourage a naked woman to put her clothes back on, my college-age self would’ve called you crazy. But in fact, that’s exactly what happened.

Let me back up and start from the beginning, sometime in the winter of 1995.

Through my career, the best assignments always seem to begin with an unexpected phone call. This time, Nate Simmons, co-owner of Backbone Media, was on the other end of the line. Backbone was still a young PR-and-advertising agency, already working with some major companies in the outdoor industry.

“Hi Corey,” Nate said. “We’ve been admiring your work out here in Colorado. Great stuff, man, great stuff. But let me ask you a question: Have you ever done any studio work?”

“Not a lot,” I blurted, then quickly added, “but I am totally comfortable shooting in the studio.” 
Honestly, at this point in my budding photography career, saying this was a bit of a stretch. 

Then Nate asked, “What about nude portraits? Any experience there?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Of course! No problem at all.” 

Now I was flat-out lying. I had never shot a single nude portrait. Obviously, I’m not going to tell the guy who wants to give me a job this pesky little detail.

My philosophy from day one has been to say “Yes,” then figure out how to do whatever it is I’ve agreed to later. This philosophy, however, comes with one important stipulation: If you say yes, you cannot fail! 

Nate went on to explain that he was handling the advertising account for Polartec, and they were interested in a print campaign featuring portraits of four prolific adventure athletes—a kayaker, a skier , a climber and a mountain biker. The idea was to photograph the athletes in the nude and use their respective climbing, kayaking, biking or skiing gear to cover themselves. The tagline of the eventual ad would read: “Imagine a World Without Polartec.”

Several weeks and many phone calls later, I found myself standing in a rented studio space in Denver, Colorado, with my close friend and college roommate Jay Clendenin (now a staff photographer at the LA Times), who would be assisting me with the shoot. Jay and I had arrived two days early to make sure we knew how to light the studio, and familiarize ourselves with our rented medium-format Hasselblad cameras. We needed images of the highest resolution, and a Hasselblad film camera was the ticket.

On the day of the shoot, it was bitterly cold and snowing. At dawn, in the icy light, Jay and I waded through almost a foot of fresh to reach the studio. We wanted to be there early to warm up the space. If the talent was going to be nude, we didn’t want them to have goosebumps—the Hasselblads would capture each and every one.

Deep down, I was quite nervous about shooting nudes. How would I tell the talent to undress without appearing awkward or, worse, leering? But I had gotten myself into this situation, and now, I needed to not fail. 

Nate was there early, too. We began setting up lights. At about 8 a.m., a taxi dropped off the day’s first model: telemark skier Kasha Rigby, an athlete for The North Face.

Growing up as a competitive skier in Utah, Kasha became a tele ripper who would go on to solidify her name as one of foremost ski mountaineers in the world. 

This morning, Kasha was in a bit of a rush. She had a plane to catch to some remote, frozen corner of Asia, where she would be exploring first descents. She walked into the studio with her ski bag draped over one shoulder, an expedition-sized The North Face duffle on the other, and a backpack on her back. With a big exhalation, she dumped the cumbersome luggage on the floor.

“I’m a little nervous about all this!” Kasha admitted.

I swear, no sooner did she say this than she peeled down to her birthday suit. Within mere seconds of meeting us three strange men—and without any prompting on our part—Kasha was standing in the studio’s entryway, perfectly in the buff. It seriously happened so fast, I wondered if she had pressed some kind of special button that instantly ejected all the clothing off her body.

The room fell silent as Nate, Jay and I searched for some appropriate words. Finally, I turned to Kasha and said, “Kasha, we’re 30 minutes out from shooting. You’re welcome to get dressed again.”

We all laughed. It was the perfect ice breaker we needed to get over our nerves.

From there, the shoot was fantastic, and we made some really creative, interesting pictures. Over the course of the day, I learned that less was more: less equipment covering the athletes resulted in more elegant, graceful images.

 

But where I saw elegance, others saw a certain raciness. Unfortunately, Polartec ended up not using any of the images in print. At the time, Polartec was run by a third-generation owner, Aaron Feuerstein, who was in his 70s. Aaron liked the images, and Polartec used them in their trade-show booth. But when Mrs. Feuerstein walked into the booth, and saw “all the skin,” she killed the risqué campaign before it ever saw the printed page.

However, these images took on their own lives in the adventure-sports world, where they spread like crazy. I’m not exaggerating when I say these shots blew up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve received a request for a print of this image of Kasha, with her signature.

 

I’ve always loved this story about Kasha. Despite—or perhaps precisely because of—her nerves, she was willing to just go for it and literally open up. I would imagine this fearlessness is one of the reasons she is able to do what she does in the big mountains. 

I know that for me, as a photographer faced with unfamiliar projects that I might be nervous about, I’ve definitely benefited from adopting a little bit of Kasha’s naked gusto. When taking on an assignment in which you’re not quite sure how you’ll fare, it can be a major asset to adopt the attitude of saying yes, opening up, and going for it as fearlessly as Kasha. 

Now, seventeen years later, Kasha and I remain friends, and this is something we continue to talk about whenever I mercilessly bring this shoot back up. I’ve told this tale so many times, it’s taken on a mythic quality, and I often wonder if I am still getting all the details correct.

Stretching, both literally and metaphorically, is a necessary part of life. Yogis have long noted that there is strength and vitality in flexibility. A young sapling is pliant and difficult to break, while an older one is stiff, rigid and easy to snap in half. Thus, flexibility is equated with life. And actively practicing stretching, whether physically or mentally, is one means to achieve both strength and growth.

Every now and then I’ll take on an assignment that I know is completely unrealistic for me to complete in the allotted time. I’ll do it if I strongly believe in the opportunity. But sometimes, I’ll take on an improbable challenge simply for personal reasons: To push myself beyond my limits, to go beyond my comfort zone. I believe in the importance of finding ways to push yourself, whether that’s creatively or just in terms of your own preconceived ideas of what you are capable accomplishing in a single stretch of daylight. 

Several years ago, I took on an assignment for the Tahoe Regional Planning Agency (TRPA), a government-funded organization with the charter to protect the beautiful environment surrounding Lake Tahoe. I think I can speak for most people living in this area that sometimes we feel like pulling our hair out over TRPA’s strict rules, but deep down in our hearts, we appreciate the conservation and protection TRPA provides.

Anyway, TRPA gave me a single day to tick off a series of images on a shot list that could’ve easily filled up two or more days. I knew it was unrealistic, but thought I should give it the old college try.
The goal was to circumnavigate the 22-by-12-mile Lake Tahoe and shoot a bunch of rather complex scenarios. Thirty minutes before sunrise, we drove to the first location and just started ticking shots off the list. It was a non-stop day. I tried to keep the energy high, but as the hours wore on, I could see that the clients as well as all the talent I was photographing were all bonking with fatigue. 

About 20 minutes before sunset, everyone was ready to throw in the towel. But I was in this for the challenge and wanted to use every last photon of light available to me. I rallied the team to check out one final location—a set of round boulders on the East shore that I had once discovered and noted as a potentially interesting location for a shoot. 

Sadly, by the time we reached the boulders, the sun had set and we lost the opportunity. We returned to the car, cracked a beer and toasted a day fully lived. There are a few absolute truths in this world, and I’d argue that one of them is that the harder you work, the better the beer tastes at the end of a long day.

Photography isn’t just a matter of knowing how to use your camera equipment to capture interesting pictures. Part of being a photographer is having a sort of “mental rolodex” of good locations worth shooting: Places that you know are good at certain times of day for certain particular types of images. 
During the TRPA assignment, I didn’t actually get to shoot anyone here at these shoreside boulders. However, I made a mental note of this special location, thinking that one day I’ll have just the right opportunity to justify a return. 

Sure enough, several years later I was doing a shoot for Title Nine Sports, a women’s clothing catalog, with Sarah Underhill. (Ironically, Sarah was my client for that original shoot with TRPA!) One of the shots that Title Nine wanted was a yoga shot in a dramatic outdoor location. 

Because I had pushed myself on that big day several years before, because I stretched my own photographic limits, I knew just the right spot to go. 

I believe that there is always value in taking that extra step, even if you’re tired, even if you know it may be unrealistic. Sometimes you’ll get lucky and surprise yourself. But even if it doesn’t work out there and then, it was worth it if for no other reason than it’s good practice to stretch yourself to try to achieve improbable things. If for no other reason than to live life to the fullest, to stay limber, to stay strong. Inevitably, one day you’ll find yourself in a situation where you realize it was worth it.

When I “clock in” at the proverbial office, I often get to work with the fittest, boldest, fastest athletes in the world. Sounds awesome, right? Well … this can be a mixed blessing. Let me explain. I come from a documentary photojournalism background. And like any good, well-behaved, classically trained photojournalist, I was taught that one of the most sacred tenets of our craft is to make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible. That is, to simply document the story without judging, influencing or participating in the outcome of the events.

 

The reality of producing adventure storytelling media involves a drastic departure from the traditional “fly-on-the-wall” style of documentary work. Capturing today’s cutting-edge climbs is nothing like, say, photographing Adam Scott sinking a putt and winning the Master’s last weekend. There are no “press boxes” up on Mount Everest (at least not yet!) offering photojournalists a removed, sheltered vantage from which they can safely record the action.

 

When you tie into a rope with two other climbers, you aren’t “just” the photographer; you’re a member of the team. There are risks and responsibilities, unspoken but accepted, that come with that simple knot. And this can create a complex, almost conflictual situation in which you are focused on making pictures, but you also don’t want to slow the climbers down.

 

Almost four years ago, I joined Austrian climbers David Lama and Daniel Streuerer to document their controversial, but ultimately celebrated mission to free climb the Southeast Ridge of Cerro Torre. For David and Daniel, both young and talented athletes, free climbing Cerro Torre turned into an epic multi-year mission that really challenged them to elevate their skills. In the end, David and his second climbing partner on the project, Peter Ortner, emerged as two of the best multi-pitch alpinists in the world.

 

As an adventure photographer, I’m always thinking through a multitude of logistical challenges. What lens do I have on my camera? Am I trying to stop action? If so, what shutter speed? Do I want shallow depth of field? What’s my aperture?  Is the sun going to move behind that cloud? How many batteries do I have remaining? Should I switch CF cards? Is this a still situation or a video situation? And the list goes on. But most importantly, I am thinking about where I want to be relative to my subjects. On an alpine climb, this can be distilled to three basic questions: When should I get ahead? When should I fall behind? And when should I jump off to one side?

 

The art of photography is the art of anticipation. This is a real-life game of chess, and the best photographers are the ones who can think 40 moves ahead. What happens 10 seconds out, 1 minute out, 5 minutes out, 3 hours out, and even the next day?  A good photographer knows all those answers.

 

Where adventure photography separates itself isn’t just in that incessant internal dialogue, but in your delicate relationship to and communication with your teammates. This is all about finding that fine balance between being a documentary photographer who stays out of the way, but also being an equal participant in the adventure who doesn’t slow the action down.

 

For this photograph of David and Daniel climbing a beautiful ridge on the approach to the slender turret of granite that is Cerro Torre, I made the decision to fall behind and move to the left to the get this epic angle. But there’s another way to say it, too: David and Daniel are so fit and so fast that I could barely keep up with them!

However you choose to look at it (my ego prefers the former), I was behind David and Daniel and I saw the opportunity for this picture. But to get it, I had to breach that delicate relationship between being a climber and a photographer. I called up to David and Daniel, and asked them to wait for me to catch-up after I made this image. Making pictures takes time.

 

This is a rare favor that I only ask a few times per expedition. It’s a request you would be wise to save for when you see those ultimate, deserving moments: like climbing an amazingly sharp snow ridge in Patagonia. Though I’m stalling progress, if the photo is valuable enough, I will call in that favor. 
Fortunately for me, asking David and Daniel to wait up had another really nice benefit: they got to catch their breath and so did I.

For many folks, the opportunity to raft down the Colorado River would be the adventure of a lifetime. The idea conjures up visions of riding roller coasters of fun white-water rapids, all amid one of the wildest settings on earth.

Well ... not exactly. To paraphrase one of our raft guides, floating the Colorado into the Grand Canyon actually involves hours and hours of boredom punctuated by brief periods of sheer terror. 

While this may sound like torture for some (tip: bringing plenty of beer helps!), on this trip, I was struck by a profound sense of our relationship to time.

Geologically, this is a trip backwards through time. As you go deeper and deeper into the canyon, new layers of rock are revealed, each one more ancient than the last. It’s as if you are reading the story of the Earth itself, from back to front. 

But simultaneously, the river is moving you forward through time. In fact, the speed at which the river runs seems to be in exact synchronization with the second hand of a clock. Each second ticks forward, as steady and smooth as the river itself. And with each passing second, new panoramic moments are gestating, growing and finally appearing in full spectacular view. 

Then, as quickly as those moments appear, they pass by. One of the great responsibilities that we photographers enjoy is to not miss those stunning photographic moments. I dare say we must document them, lest they be lost to our fickle, biased, imperfect memories. 

This means that you can’t just turn off your brain, as much as you may want to, during the hours and hours when nothing is happening on the river. This is actually one of the things I love about photography: how demanding it can be. Even the moments you aren’t taking photographs are still mentally stimulating. Sure, you allow half your brain to relax, engage in conversations with your friends, and just enjoy being out in nature. But the other half—the photographer’s half—remains as alert as a wild predator. This side of your brain is hunting, seeking and, most of all, anticipating what will come around that next river bend. 

One of the biggest challenges of photographing rafting is that you often don’t know what’s around that next corner: what the foreground and background will look like. So you’re always looking ahead, then back behind you, anticipating pictures. 

The other challenge is that you are photographing moving targets. Not just any moving targets, but clunky, 800-pound rafts that basically just drift wherever the river takes them. These aren’t exactly precision vehicles, and you can’t “direct” them to maneuver into the position you desire for your composition. Nor can you really move yourself, as you are also subject to the capriciousness of water in motion. 

All of this adds up to the fact that, when you’re on the river, you have to always be prepared and ready to make a picture. Having easy access to your camera gear—while also protecting it from water, sun and dust—will make or break you. 

One of the tricks I learned in advance came from fellow Aurora Photos photographer David McLain, who taught me how to rig a Pelican Case for rafting trips. I drilled holes through the plastic fins on the bottom front and back sides of the Pelican Case, which allowed me to lash it, using threaded webbing and carabiners, to the raft’s bench. The beauty of this system is it allows the lid of the Pelican case to opened and close easily while the case is secured to the raft. Essentially, the raft could tip over and sink and my camera gear would be safe and dry. I also spray painted my Pelican Case white, which helped reflect the inescapable hot sun to keep my camera cooler. 

But it wasn’t enough just to have easy access to my camera. I also kept the lens cap off, the camera on, and always set to a “ballpark” correct exposure. 

I also had a mental checklist that the photographer’s side of my brain was always scanning. I was thinking about the rafts’ position relative to the water, the angle of the light, the background, the position of the rafts, and finally the horizon line. It was a million little details that I kept in constant review, so that when that special moment arrived, when all the little details miraculously came together, I’d instantly recognize it and be prepared to capture it.

In photography—and, really, any creative or athletic pursuit—we talk about the benefits of “going with the flow.” Staying in that centered, present moment without any thoughts of the future or past. 

But I’d say that’s only partly true. In reality a lot of preparation and anticipation must first take place in order to grant you access to that special “flow state”—where all great, spontaneous, creative things happen. You’re waiting for that “Decisive Moment,” to invoke the term coined by the famous French photojournalist Henri Cartier-Bresson. The foreground and background. Your subjects are in position. And the light is just right. 

Then, like that proverbial predator, there’s no thought, no second guessing—you just pounce. You act. You flow. You know your exposure, your composition,your moment. You don’t have to mess around with taking off the lens caps. You don’t have to dig through a camera bag to find the right lens. Thanks to your preparation, it’s all ready.

The story that this image doesn’t tell is the hours and hours of waiting around for all these elements to align. But then, here they are: The rafters are in sync with each other. There’s a symmetry to the oars that is visually pleasing. And the subjects are separated from their background. In fact, I think this photograph would be far less interesting if the rafts were positioned against the black background. Instead, they are framed by blue, reflective water. 

The background really makes this image. The beautiful, layered mountains show were we came from, and where we are now. And, of course, they show the scale and grandeur of this place—how big and beautiful the Grand Canyon really is, and how humbled we are to be there within it.

So, really I think that it’s preparation and anticipation, along with an awakened and alert “photographer’s brain,” that combine and set you up for capturing that Decisive Moment—that “flow state”—when great, creative things happen. Be in the moment, go with the flow, but also set yourself up so you can make great pictures. That’s what it’s all about.

One of the oldest rules of writing goes: Write what you know. The same thing can be said for photography. 

Whether you’re working with a camera or a pen and paper, the goal remains the same: to say something meaningful in your own unique way. The best stories we can expect to tell as creative people are the ones with which we are most familiar. 

Meet Brad Jackson. He is the Ultimate Dude. Brad is the former fire captain for South Lake Tahoe and now in retirement he is focused on the good stuff; climbing, biking, fishing, skiing, hunting, or just tying flies. Not a day passes where his social schedule isn’t full of fun, active, outdoors-y stuff. 

Brad and I met over 10 years ago when I first moved to South Lake Tahoe, and we instantly became friends. At one point in time we were both bachelors, and Brad was my confidant—the classic wingman. We climbed and skied together often, always ending our days in the Sierras by clinking beers in some warm bar, or while sitting on the tailgate of Brad’s truck. 

Brad is a great storyteller too, and one night over a beer, he regaled me with tales of his hunting epics. I confessed that I knew nothing about hunting, and even less about the hunting around South Lake Tahoe. Brad vowed to change that and soon we made plans for a day of shooting—hunting and photography both.

Before the sun had risen on this spring morning, Brad, the dogs and I were in his truck, heading south to Carson Valley. Soon enough we were traversing an incredible Sierra landscape, eastern alpenglow casting us rose-colored. 

That memorably frigid morning, I not only managed to capture a real diversity of authentic hunting imagery—despite my frozen, wooden fingers—but also, I learned a few things about hunting. And I got to spend the day with one of my great friends. 

Talk to many photographers, and you’ll hear them obsess over landing that one big client that will change their lives, or landing that next big magazine cover. Writers might aspire to become the guy who will pen the next great American novel.

But really, I believe that achieving success in these creative pursuits comes down to something much less glamorous: That is, you have to simply get out there and do it, every day. If you’re sitting indoors having a nice warm cup of coffee while watching the sunrise through the window, or having a cocktail at sunset, then you are missing pictures. 

To me, this photo is proof that the most satisfying, successful photographs are the ones that are personal and can be taken right in your own backyard, with the people you know and love. Though before this trip I knew nothing about hunting, I did know Brad. And I was able to use that to my advantage to get this portrait, one of my favorites of the images I shot that day. This photograph really captures Brad in his element. He’s dressed in camo and holding the tools of the trade with a casual comfort that suggests his expertise. And he wears an expression of peace, as if here in this mountain wilderness, he feels as much at home as the deer themselves. 

There are a million stories out there waiting to be told with your camera—and at least two opportunities every day, at sunrise and sunset, to capture those stories in amazing light. So what are you waiting for? It is, after all, the oldest rule in the book: Shoot what you know.

This inspirational image of a solitary runner stretching in a dramatic landscape could represent many things to many people. It could stand for perseverance, strength, serenity ... or even defeat. But when I look at this photograph, strangely enough, I think of one thing: the importance of collaboration and teamwork.

Twice a year, I’m fortunate enough to shoot the entire print catalog and online campaign for Road Runner Sports, one of the largest running shoe and running apparel distribution companies in the U.S. Each season, we pick a new destination and spend anywhere from two to seven long, intense days shooting running and lifestyle. 

Without question, the scale of a production like this requires a team. Not just models, but assistants to help me download files, organize data, hold reflectors, shuttle gear, troubleshoot malfunctioning gear, carry heavy lenses, and coordinate with the client, crew and talent when necessary. 

In 2008, the Nikon D90 had just launched. The D90 was a game changer, the first DSLR to to shoot video. As soon as it came out, I bought one.

Eager to put the D90 to work, I pitched Road Runner Sports on the idea of supplementing the campaign with video of each of the scenarios, then cutting together a 30-second television spot. They were excited about the idea, but the problem was, I wasn’t exactly sure how to document a situation with both photo and video simultaneously. 

I enlisted the help of my good friend Brett Wilhelm to be my assistant, and we headed to Vail, Colorado, to meet our running models. I brought the D90, and the D3 for stills. The D3 also had the benefit of capturing at a much higher frame rate than the D90, which better suited the demands of photographing running. 

Brett and I experimented with shooting stills and video simultaneously. I would shoot stills on the D3, while Brett might stand directly behind me, literally holding the D90 over my shoulder to capture video. 

But it turns out, nuance is everything in photography. Frequently, because Brett’s camera was six inches above mine, the composition, the perfect framing, was off. This was at times clumsy, but ultimately important, learning process. We were experimenting and learning from each other. Brett and I spent a lot of time reviewing each other’s shots in camera. Brett would routinely notice something that I wasn’t seeing because I was so hyper-focused on my own idea. And vice versa.

Ultimately, the shoot became this amazing collaboration in which our collective creativity flourished. Teamwork in a shoot like this goes so far beyond just carrying heavy lenses and setting up lights. With the right people and the right chemistry, I’ve discovered many times that the group’s synergy can push the creative scope of the project beyond anything I could come up with as an individual. 

The only reason I have this amazing image of Andrea Bernard stretching off in the distance, with the sun rising behind her, is because Brett was there. I was so focused on getting this other running shot, that I didn’t look up to see this one. But Brett did, and he pointed it out to me. By having four eyes on location, we managed to get something great that I would’ve missed alone. And though Road Runner Sports never used this photograph—for good reason; you can’t sell product with a silhouette—it remains my favorite of the whole shoot. Every time I see it, I’m reminded that choosing, and cherishing, the right people to be on my team will push the creative possibilities.

Please check out the video spot, one of the first I ever shot, from this production.

Six days and 35 river miles into our trip down the Colorado River to explore the untapped climbing potential of the Grand Canyon, Beth Rodden (pictured) and Tommy Caldwell scored the first ascent of this nice 5.12d trad climb. 

We like to say that climbing is so often about the adventure, the experience, the moves and the flow—not about the gear. But sometimes, climbing is all about the gear. For example, this particular pitch was memorable for Beth because the protection was so challenging. Thin, shallow nut placements and one memorably funky Tri-cam jammed into a tiny hole defined the route more than the difficulty of the movement. 

One of my core philosophies as a photographer is that making fantastic imagery is infinitely more about using your brain and creativity than it is about the tools and equipment you have at your disposal. The technology available to us today, from amateurs to prosumers to professionals, is all so good that making great storytelling imagery has never been easier. The playing field has never been more level. Therefore, the only way to separate yourself from the pack is to have a clear vision about what it is you’re trying to say with your imagery, and the story you’re trying to tell as a photographer.

Yet, inevitably, I find myself in a situation parallel to the one in which Beth finds herself in this photograph—where the gear, the equipment, becomes extremely important. One of the biggest challenges with shooting in the Grand Canyon in December was the light. It was very common for half the canyon to be in the shade while sun blasted the other side. Or the top half of the wall would be illuminated in the sun, but the subject of the photograph would be climbing in the shade below. 

How do we expose for the shadows and highlights in the same situation? Compared to the human eye, cameras are rudimentary in that they can’t “see” detail when the difference in exposure between the shadows and highlights is too great. There are a number of ways photographers have learned to compensate for this mechanical limitation of all cameras in order to create imagery that is more true to what we see in reality. 

On this trip, I brainstormed with my fellow creatives Peter Mortimer and Josh Lowell, who, as videographers, faced the same challenge that I faced as a still photographer. Josh and Peter were primarily shooting video for the Reel Rock Tour, while I was focused on getting great images for a print ad for Marmot as well as several editorial stories, including articles in Men’s Journal and Alpinist.

 

Peter, Josh and I had the foresight to bring a variety of Schneider Optics MPTV 4x5.65 Graduated Neutral Density (ND) filters. These simple, rectangular pieces of glass are lifesavers. I went for Schneider Optics glass filters because they are premium optical quality glass and ultimately I’m putting these in front of a precision Nikkor lens; my advice, use glass that you can trust and know will protect your lens. Don’t go with plexiglass. Essentially, one half of the glass is tinted dark, while the other half is clear; place the filter in front of your lens and move it so the tinted side evens out the highlights in your composition. There are two styles of Schneider ND glass filters, hard edge and soft edge; for this photo I used a soft edge MPTV 4x5.65 Graduated Neutral Density (ND) filter. By using a Schneider ND glass filter, I was able to bring down the highlights (the bright sun-lit walls in the background) and not lose Beth. The result is a more pleasing, well-exposed image with lots of vivid detail. Beth isn’t lost to the shadows and, in fact, she stands out in this incredible setting.

Without ND filters, there are other ways to achieve an even exposure. One would involve shooting two images, one exposed for the highlights, one exposed for the shadows, then creating a composite in Photoshop. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with this approach, and plenty of photographers have relied on their post-production skills to get evenly exposed images. However, this is hours and hours of work. Or you can create an HDR (High Dynamic Range) file which involves shooting many exposures of the same scene and combining them in Photoshop during post production. Personally, I’d prefer to throw a few ND filters in my camera bag and spend more time out in the field than sitting on my ass in front of a computer, stitching together composites. 

So even though I strongly believe that the best photography requires a cerebral, well-considered approach as opposed to an over-reliance on gear, I also know that it’s equally important to have the right tools in your kit and know how to use them. The more work you can do out in the field, in camera, the better.

Oxen idled in rice paddies. Farmers in conical straw hats tended to the land. The fields gave way to an fathomless range of karst mountains, quintessentially pointy. Lush green forests choked brilliant white limestone cliffs, which, to a rock-climber’s eye, offered some of the most impressive routes you could ever imagine. Here in the spectacular region of Yangshuo, China, I could virtually point my camera in any direction and capture an amazing photograph. 

In 2008, I had the opportunity to visit this still nascent climbing destination with my friends Cooper Roberts and Brett Lowell of Big UP Productions. Joining us were the talented French climbers Michael Fuselier and Axel Ballay. We were on assignment for Nike ACG, which, though no longer available in the U.S., is still widely distributed across Europe and Asia. Brett and Cooper would focus on telling a four-minute viral video story for the Internet, while my job was to shoot a series of still images to promote the web spot, as well as to be used for global advertising and point-of-purchase displays. 

During our time in Yangshuo, we shot Mike and Axel climbing the overhanging stalactites of the famous Moon Hill, an impressive 200-foot arch bored through an entire mountainside. We also visited the immaculate White Hill, where Mike completed the first ascent of American Gangster (5.14b), then considered the most difficult rock climb in China. Simply put, we were shooting strong athletes in one of the most dramatic landscapes I’ve ever seen. Obviously, this place begged to be shot wide.

 

Locals will inscribe boulders with the names of trails, streets and even villages. These aren’t sacred rocks, but more like street signs or maps to help people get around. Climbing on the rocks was OK, and one day we found ourselves in a little village outside of Yangshuo, bouldering on a rock painted with these bright red characters. At first, I shot wide but then moved closer and closer until I ended up with this image. 

Looking back, I consider this to be one of my favorite photographs from my trip to China. There is so much that is said in this shot: the strong chalked hand says that we’re rock climbing, and the beautiful Chinese characters reveal our location. But what’s left unsaid is equally important. The photo forces the viewer to ask the question, “What is really happening here?” Like a well-written introduction to a novel, it draws you in and makes you want to read more. 

Getting those wide, action shots is obviously essential when documenting an incredible location like Yangshuo. But I’m always trying to remind myself that capturing details—those little nuanced images—will really round out the series and bring your body of work to that next level.

Being a mountain elitist from Tahoe, I was a bit skeptical when Garett Graubins, then working at The North Face, called me up and asked if I wanted to do a shoot for Trail Runner magazine in the Oakland Hills. 

“Pfft. There’s nothing in Oakland I want to shoot,” I thought smugly to myself.

But I agreed to do the shoot anyway and made plans that week to head down to the major urban metropolis that is Oakland. 

I arrived a day early to scout locations for the shoot. I was pleasantly surprised by how beautiful these hills just behind Oakland really were. The sun was shining. Trails wound through a forest of oak and eucalyptus trees. Hikers were out. Runners were out. This was the incredible backyard to one of the great big cities of the world. I quickly reminded myself that I should never make assumptions. Always get out there and check it out. 

That afternoon, I found an open hillside with no trees and decided that this spot would be the perfect place from which to shoot tomorrow’s run. Big blue sky. Rolling grassy hillside. Small figure charging up an open landscape. Perfect. 

The next day, however, we woke to the dense fog for which the Bay Area is infamous. The whole region was cloaked in gray mist. Shooting the open hillside, with its now overcast white sky, was out of the question.
Photography, in many ways, is the pinnacle expression of exercising control. We control the focal length. We control the aperture. We control the shutter speed, ISO and composition. As photographers, we are some of the biggest control freaks out there. But there’s another, equally important side to it. Letting go. 

That day, I was shooting Fuji Velvia 100. I had shot my fair share of this film, and knew I could push it one stop to 200, but that was about the outer limit before the image would begin to look to deteriorate. Instead of trying to push the film to do something that it couldn’t do, I embraced the darkness of the day and the film I had brought, and we headed into the trees. I opened the lens up to f/2.8 and shot at 1/15th of a second, and just allowed the model Brett Krasniewicz to just blur through the frame repeatedly. 

I had Brett and his dog—who you can see motion blurred in front—run past the camera many, many times because I knew that where he ended up in the frame would make or break the image. Luckily, I got this photo. The orange jacket, the dog, and Brett’s body position all combine to make for a really interesting image.

There is so much that we can’t control on any shoot; usually, it’s the weather. Photography demands an open-minded approach. Be loose, get creative and never feel exclusively married to a single idea, because 9 times out of 10, things don’t play out the way you expect them to. Whether it’s changing the idea because the weather turned south, or even coming to the Oakland Hills in the first place, having an open mind is one of the most important things in the proverbial photographer’s bag.

Backpacker magazine’s yearly Gear Guide is big deal for them and they put a lot of effort into making it great. Roughly 10 years ago, they asked me to shoot the section openers. They wanted authentic imagery from the field that showcased products such as tents, sleeping bags and clothing. Instantly, I thought of Death Valley, in Northern California, as the ideal location. 

Death Valley’s sweeping desert landscapes would provide me with plenty of options. Here, you’ll find everything from perfectly flat plains to sculpted sand dunes, all with a backdrop of the Panamint Range. I assembled a small team of athletic and psyched friends, the best kind of talent to work with, of course, and we headed into Death Valley for two long days of backpacking, camping and shooting. 

We left Tahoe at midnight, drove six hours through the night, and reached Death Valley at dawn. We started shooting right away. In these types of situations, my philosophy is to use my time, and my models’ time, as efficiently as possible. Get in, execute, and head home, and if that means tacking long drives onto big days, then so be it. It’s all part of the fun! 

First things first: Get the “safe shots” in the bag. A tent glowing in the ethereal light of sunrise. Folks cooking up a hot meal while others sit and laugh in the background. But after nailing some of these more conventional images, I began thinking about ways to shoot these scenes differently. My goal is always to create an unexpected or unusual photograph. Sometimes that means finding a different angle, or using a different lens, but often it’s a combination of the two. I realized that, to do something different, I needed to capture the perspective of the subject.

I decided to shoot from inside the tent. Obviously, I’m not the first person to shoot from inside a tent, but I began experimenting with different lenses. First the 70-200mm, then the 50mm, and finally, the 17-35mm, which got this final image. 

I also experimented with props. At first, there were no boots outside the tent, and the image just didn’t feel complex enough. So I placed two pairs of boots outside the tent, but that felt cluttered. Sometimes less is more. One pair of boots was perfect and, in my opinion, those boots really make the shot. All photography follows this process of experimentation and evolution, in which you must keep pushing to make it better and better. 

When I look back at this photograph, I’m reminded that having great models and a beautiful scenery are important. But sometimes, getting that “lucky” great picture is also about your willingness to explore and think outside of the box. Or, in this case, to think from inside the tent.