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Mt Whitney Alabama Hills and Mt Williamson Mt Whitney Mt Williamson Beams Mt Whitney Lone Pine Peak Owens River near Aberdeen Independence Boulders Mobius Arch
Mt Whitney Alabama Hills and Mt Williamson Mt Whitney Mt Williamson Beams Mt Whitney Lone Pine Peak Owens River near Aberdeen Independence Boulders Mobius Arch
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Taken in the Gardiner Basin, Kings Canyon National Park, California, on July 19th, 2018.
On the day I took this photograph I was at war with myself. I was standing on a rocky outcrop high in the Kings Canyon backcountry deciding which direction to hike. To my right was a welcoming valley full of idyllic meadows, gurgling streams, and bountiful sunlight. To my left was a menacing thunderstorm pounding an endless moonscape of Volkswagen-sized talus, without a single blade of grass to be seen.
These were my two options, and while at first glance the valley to right seemed like the obvious choice, I instead went left, battling into the thunderstorm and wrestling my way over the great blocks of granite in my path. As the rain spattered around me and lightning and thunder crashed over the outcrop where I had just been standing, I was having second thoughts about my choice. But I continued nevertheless, because I had made a promise to myself that I wasn’t going to break.
I had heard of the legendary beauty of the Gardiner Basin, but on this trip I was finally going to see it for myself. Moreover, I wanted to photograph it during the final moments of a monsoon thunderstorm. This goal was why I decided to press on into the storm, rather than retreat to a valley full of sunshine. In the world of landscape photography, conditions are never guaranteed. And if I wanted to see the Gardiner Basin at the tail end of a thunderstorm, well then I had to hike to the basin during a thunderstorm.
But I have experienced many dozen, if not hundreds, of Sierra thunderstorms, and I know that they have a tendency to dry out after a few hours of ferocious rain. Sure enough, as I approached the lip of the talus field, the storm began to break, exposing the entirety of the basin to view. Within minutes, a brilliant, supernumerary rainbow appeared behind me, arcing over the mountains to the east. To date this abrupt change from ominous storm to intense beacon of light is one of the most profound moments I’ve experienced in the backcountry.
After photographing the rainbow for nearly an hour (!), I set off to explore the basin in more depth. I quickly came to a series of tarns set high on a granite bench. Due to their position overlooking the basin, these tarns seemed to be the world’s most incredible infinity pools. They reflected everything in sight, from the shining face of Mount Gardiner to the lingering remnants of the thunderstorm. I felt a deep peace wash over me and had to put the camera down just so I could exist within the landscape for a few moments. My heart was soon overflowing and I knew I couldn’t hold back any longer.
I grabbed my wide angle lens and composed a vertical image to show the boulders beneath the tarn’s surface in addition to the expansiveness of the sky. The sun slipped closer to the horizon and cast a cozy blanket of warm light across the scene. I knew a special moment was at hand, and I pressed the shutter button, capturing this photograph.
“Not all those who wander are lost,” goes the famous line by J.R.R. Tolkien. And though this quote has become something of a cliche, printed on the side of many a Jeep and tattooed upon travelers the world over, there is an undeniable truth to its poetry. My own wanderings have led me to more beautiful moments and profound experiences than I ever could have imagined. Moreover, these wanderings have helped me feel deeply connected to nature, the people around me, and even the universe as a whole.
In late 2019 I was exploring a part of the world for the first time: the Middle East. I was participating in a conference at sea with hundreds of entrepreneurs and digital nomads. In between the seminars on value ladders and tax strategies for freelancers we had the opportunity to visit magical places full of history like Petra, Jordan and Muscat, Oman. Our conference disembarked in Dubai, UAE, and while many of the attendees opted to move on to places like Koh Tao, Thailand, or Cape Town, South Africa, I opted to stay in Dubai for nearly another two weeks. This was not driven by a love for the city, but rather due to the wanderings of two celestial travelers: the sun and the moon. You see, the day after Christmas, the sun and the moon would temporarily align and create an annular solar eclipse.
The annulus (often called the Ring of Fire), would be visible only along a narrow slice of the Earth’s surface stretching from the Philippines through the deserts of the UAE. Knowing that the eclipse would occur just after sunrise as viewed from the UAE, I began brainstorming ideas for what I could photograph as a subject for the rare occurrence. I contacted local photographer Dany Eid who put me in touch with a local camel farmer whose farm was in the path of the eclipse.
Driving out to the camel farm with another local photographer, Kertu, I constantly checked the alignment of the eclipse with the endless dunes of UAE’s Empty Quarter. We arrived at the farm and set about calculating the angles and distances that would allow the eclipse to appear just over the top of a dune. Having checked and double checked the calculations I went to sleep in the dunes, passing a restless night full of worry that I might wake up to a sky full of clouds.
Thankfully, the morning dawned with cloudless splendor. I led the camel farmer to the exact spot on the dune I had calculated, then waited as the sun and moon rose together and passed into annular totality. It was a moment of supreme beauty, but not the one I was waiting for. As the sun and moon rose behind the dune, totality ended, transforming the eclipse into a stunning crescent. It rose above the farmer, encircling him and his camel, and casting them into a dramatic silhouette edged with a radiant light. I triple checked my exposure and focus, composed, and fired off this shot. Within minutes the eclipse was over, an opportunity never to come again.
As I reflect back on that day I’m blown away by the power of wandering, and how it can bring four travelers -myself, a desert nomad, the sun, and the moon- together in a moment of beautiful connection.
Photographers are often preoccupied with moments. We spend our days hunting for compositions and studying light so that we know where to go when The Moment hits. This is a great way to experience the beauty of our planet but it also has an unintended consequence: this preoccupation with finding the best moment often takes us out of the moments we’re in right now.
When you’re in a beautiful place in challenging shooting conditions, it’s far too easy to think about better light you could be experiencing another time. And when you’re experiencing gorgeous light, it’s easy to get caught up thinking that you need to be in another place to best take advantage of it.
Over the years, rather than wishing for better light or a different location or a better moment, I’ve found much more satisfaction from simply being as present as possible whenever I am in nature. This allows me to be more receptive to the stories that Mother Nature is telling me in those moments. And to use my camera to capture those stories.
On this beautiful spring evening I was strolling through the oak savanna on the west side of the Sierra. I wandered into a grove of stately oak trees and was blown away by their perfect organic shapes. I felt all of my senses come to life: my eyes were drawn in by the vivid green of the grass and leaves, along with the strong graphical shapes of the trunks. A soft breeze whispered through the air, bringing a fresh spring scent and lovely susurration to the evening. I could feel the grasses dancing against my legs.
The sun dropped into a gap in the clouds and I could tell that this was the defining moment of the evening. I fired off a handful of shots, then I stood peacefully and simply watched the scene. I wasn’t thinking about other compositions, other locations, or other times. I was simply there, in the moment.
I have more photographs of Mt. Whitney than of any other mountain. Not only is it distinguished by being the highest peak in the contiguous United States, but it’s also strikingly beautiful. Its towering east face and attendant pinnacles seem to pull light and atmosphere to them as though they were magnetically charged. There is an endless variety to its temperament, and I never tire of photographing this beautiful granite monolith.
Over the past few years, as I’ve studied the light and mood of the mountain, I began to seek out a photograph that conveyed a very specific moment and feeling: the magnificent glory of Mt. Whitney at sunrise, when the first rays of the rising sun paint a ruby glow across the peak’s granite face.
But my vision for this photo required more than just red light. To capture the image I saw in my mind, I needed to photograph in winter, as the angle of light better shows off Whitney’s striking contours. I also needed the right amount of clouds. Too many clouds would obscure the sun or the mountain. Too few would allow the sun’s rays to shine indiscriminately across the entire landscape. But just the right amount of clouds, in just the right place, would provide spot lighting on the peak, and give extra dimension and color to the sky.
In pursuit of this photograph, I camped overnight in the Alabama Hills many times, hoping to wake up to these kinds of conditions. But the magic I was looking for never quite materialized, until late February 2022. After studying the weather and forecast, I determined there was a strong chance for clouds on the morning of the 27th. The night before, I drove to the Alabama Hills and set up camp in the chilly air, hoping (but not expecting) to see something beautiful in the morning.
I awoke early on the 27th, long before dawn. Peering at the skies, I saw the potential for a spectacular sunrise: clouds to the east were already radiating every shade of pink, orange, and red. And while Mt. Whitney had a thick bank of cloud above it, the peak itself was completely unobstructed. I felt my adrenaline pumping as the sunrise drew closer and the colors in the sky intensified. Sensing a critical moment, I fine tuned my composition, focus, and exposure. Just then, the sun broke free from behind the clouds to the east, and Mt. Whitney’s face erupted in a fiery glow.
Realizing this light would be gone as quickly as it arrived, I triggered my shutter, capturing this frame. Barely two minutes later the light had completely faded from the mountain. As I reviewed the back of my camera, a feeling of deep joy coursed through my body, as I saw that this shot had far exceeded what I had hoped to capture.
During the 2022 – 2023 winter, the Sierra Nevada was pummeled by storms. In fact, it ended up being the snowiest winter in recorded history, with the southern Sierra receiving over 280% of its average snowfall. Even places that rarely see snow, such as the town of Lone Pine, were getting coated white.
But unlike storms in places like the Pacific Northwest which can go on consistently for week after gray week, storms in the Southern Sierra are always dynamic. This is due in part to the extreme geology of the area. In the span of barely a hundred miles, the elevation drops from 14,500 feet at the top of the Sierra crest to 282 feet below sea level at Badwater Basin. In between the Sierra and Badwater there are two major and two minor mountain ranges (the Inyo, Panamint, Coso, and Argus ranges), which force the storms into bizarre contortions.
Having observed this atmospheric chaos for many years, I know that even during the wildest storms, the high peaks of the Southern Sierra can emerge from the clouds at any moment. I have also learned that breaks between storms are likely to showcase stunning light and mood. Thus, whenever I see stormy weather arriving I grab my camera and go photograph.
During mid-January 2023, storms were crashing over the Southern Sierra day after day. Each morning during the storm cycle I woke early to make the drive to one of my favorite viewpoints of the mountains. And each morning I was treated to a spectacular atmospheric show: high wispy clouds one morning, lenticular clouds the next, dappled light the third.
On this particular morning I arrived on location to see the mountains draped in wreaths of low cloud. The way the atmosphere danced around the peaks blew my mind and I began to sense the potential for a spectacular photograph. As I watched the mountains, I saw that Lone Pine Peak kept appearing and disappearing into the clouds like a granite mirage.
I couldn’t pull my attention away from this marvelous show, and I knew this could be an incredible focal point for a photograph. Ignoring the rest of the scene, I used my long lens to zoom into 400 mm, isolating the highest peaks and ridges of the mountain. As the atmosphere swirled, I waited for just the right moment. The clouds parted, sunlight streamed across the mountain, and the top of Lone Pine Peak emerged. I triggered my shutter and captured this image.
Lake Tahoe has many beautiful places along its shores, but for me Sand Harbor is at the top of the list. The way the white granite boulders merge with the crystal clear, turquoise water is simply incredible. I’ve visited this spot numerous times and it never fails to leave me in awe of Mother Nature’s magic.
But simply being in a beautiful location is not enough when it comes to creating a powerful photograph. You have to master your gear and technique, understand composition and light, and be able to anticipate what’s going to happen next. And sometimes the most important thing of all is a little bit of luck.
On this night I was shooting a sunset that appeared to be a dud. Even though I had arranged a strong composition of stunning boulders rising out of the lake, the late evening light fizzled and my photographs became mediocre at best.
Thinking the night was over, I packed up my gear and began boulder-hopping back to the shore. Just as I rounded a bend, the clouds to the north unexpectedly lit up with luxurious pink and purple hues that reflected magnificently in the tranquil waters of the lake. Scanning the boulders around me I was amazed to discover a gorgeous natural composition: a deep pool of aquamarine water separated from the lake by whale-shaped boulders. Just as I set my camera up to capture the scene, a moment of pure harmony arrived: The color palette between the sky and the lake was flawless, the reflections were mirror-smooth, and the silence was profound. I captured this shot, then stood there in awe. With the beauty of the scene, and a complete lack of any wind, it seemed as though Lake Tahoe and I were both left breathless.
Stirling Falls in Milford Sound is surely one of the world’s most unique waterfalls. It’s a tall falls, stretching nearly 500 feet in a single, elegant drop from its precipice down to its base where it crashes and splatters in cacophonous melody. If it ever looks small it’s only because it’s being dwarfed by the mile-high mountains surrounding it. Secondly, the waterfall leaps into space only to land directly on the ocean below it. There is no land to interrupt the descent; it’s a free-fall with a salt water landing. The height of the falls and the ocean landing contribute directly to the third unique thing about the waterfall: if the flow of water and the direction of wind is just right, a marvelous display of interference patterns appears at the base of the falls, radiating out from the crash zone like so many jagged rings of electricity. And on the day I took this photo I felt that electricity extending from the waterfall directly to me.
The only way to reach Stirling Falls is by boat. I’ve taken that voyage many times, and the experience is always exciting. But on this particular day the patterns at the base of the falls were the best I’ve ever seen. As we rounded the cliff to reveal the falls I dialed in my settings and snapped a few quick test shots to ensure my exposure was perfect. I knew the boat would only spend a few minutes at the falls, so I had to be prepared. As we drew close to the base of the waterfall and I saw the stunning patterns radiating from the bottom, my adrenaline surged and I began shooting purely on instinct. The roar of the water, the dancing mists, and the elegant grandeur of the scene gave me goosebumps, and caused energy to course through my body.
It was a matter of composing, focusing, taking a shot, then wiping spray from the front of my lens. I repeated that cycle as quickly as I could, but I still had only enough time to capture 20 frames over the course of one minute before the boat started to rotate out of position and back away from the falls. But that one minute was one of the most breathtaking and exciting I’ve ever had in New Zealand, and it kept me smiling the rest of the day. Even now when I look at this photo and recall my experience that day, the exhilaration of the moment washes over me in electric waves.
The winter of 2016-2017 was a big one in the Sierra. Which meant that come spring, copious amounts of snowmelt began rushing down from the high country into the valleys below. Knowing this snowmelt meant spectacular waterfalls, I ventured to Yosemite National Park for some photography.
Though I knew there would be a lot of water, when I arrived in the park I was absolutely floored by what I saw. There was water everywhere: the meadows were all flooded, and there were ephemeral falls I’d never seen before. The big waterfalls in the park sounded like dragons roaring, and the spray they produced was like a fire hose.
I wanted to photograph a different view of Yosemite’s magnificent waterfalls, so one afternoon I took an arduous, off-trail route to a unique vantage point almost directly under Upper Yosemite Falls. Standing that close to the waterfall was invigorating (and a little deafening), and I felt my emotions swelling in its powerful presence.
I craned my neck up to look at the top of the falls and noticed that when the wind was absent, coalescing comets of water would form. Those comets would then plummet 1400 feet from the top of the falls to dash with savage fury on the rocks below. I was mesmerized by the shapes in the water. They provided a totally new perspective on this iconic waterfall and I knew they could be a fascinating focal point for a photograph.
To achieve the look I wanted, I used my telephoto lens to isolate the comets of plummeting water. Then I dialed in a fast shutter speed. Tripping shot after shot with my camera, I chased each set of comets as they fell. The shape of the water was constantly changing and the perfect image continued to elude me. However, I relished the challenge and wasn’t ready to give up. Giving it one more attempt, I caught this final set of comets as they plummeted to the rocks below and I knew I had the image I was looking for.
Lone Pine Peak is one of my favorite mountains in the Eastern Sierra. Its perfect triangular shape and numerous craggy ridges make it photogenic from virtually every angle. And while I have photographed the mountain dozens and dozens of times, it wasn’t until I moved to Lone Pine in May 2022 that I gained a deeper appreciation for the peak and its multifaceted character.
Seeing Lone Pine Peak from my backyard on a daily basis inspired me to create a series of portraits of this beautiful mountain showcasing its various moods. I knew that perhaps the most important shot in the series would be the one that captured the positive wash of emotions I feel whenever I look at the mountain: awe, happiness, lightness, and wonder.
I began to visualize an image that would convey these feelings. The shot would have to be taken at sunrise. There is a magic to this time of day when possibilities begin to become reality. It’s also when Lone Pine Peak’s striking east face is illuminated by the light of the rising sun, making it glow. The shot I envisioned would also need to be colorful (but not overly dramatic), and have an uplifting sense of light and air. In short, I would need to photograph the mountain during a moment of pure radiance.
With this vision in mind I set about photographing Lone Pine Peak as often as I could. And though I created some strong photographs, none quite worked for this vision. That is until January 2023 brought some of the best photography conditions I’ve ever seen to the Eastern Sierra. A series of winter storms kept the mountains coated with fresh snow, and dynamic weather patterns created spectacular light on a near daily basis. With these conditions I sensed an opportunity to create the photograph I was looking for.
On a brisk morning in the middle of the month I drove to one of my favorite vistas of Lone Pine Peak and set up my equipment. The day began crystal clear and 30 minutes before dawn the mountain was already awash in stunning rosy alpenglow. As sunrise approached, wisps of cloud appeared in the sky as though painted there by some delicate brush. There wasn’t a breath of wind, and I stood there in the silence waiting to see what would happen next.
The sun rose over the mountains to the east and cast a delicate pink light over the scene in front of me. The shadows in Lone Pine Peak’s valleys were reflecting the blues of the sky, creating a perfect color palette. I double checked my focus and exposure, then pressed the shutter button, finally capturing the image I had long hoped to get.
Photographing wildflowers always requires planning, anticipation, and a healthy dose of luck. I’ve studied spring flower blooms for many years and know that although there is a typical window in which they appear, you must be ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice if you want to catch the peak of the season.
In early 2013 I was living just outside of Yosemite National Park, and I had my flower radar turned up to maximum. Near the end of April, that radar went off with a bang, and I drove to Yosemite seeking flowers. Despite following one of the driest winters on record for the Sierra, that spring came to Yosemite Valley in full force. As usual the waterfalls were spouting like colossal fountains, but even more spectacular were the Yosemite dogwoods, which were blooming profusely throughout the Valley. I’ve never seen such abundance and incredible vibrancy in the blooms. The entire Merced River was surrounded by endless expanses of the white bracts, and I was overjoyed by the sheer magnitud e of this new life.
From a photography standpoint there were almost too many blooms, as it was challenging to find a composition that wasn’t overly busy. After searching all along the river I finally came to the Pohono Bridge. Climbing onto the stone walls of the bridge I spotted this delicate arrangement of blooms, their diagonal flow creating a beautiful series of layers above the deep blue waters of the Merced River.
I held my camera steady, waited for a lull in the breeze, and snapped this shot.
Joshua Cripps is a renowned landscape photographer who has garnered worldwide acclaim for his breathtaking images of our planet’s wild places. His photos have been published by the likes of National Geographic, NASA, CNN, BBC, and Nikon Global.
The Mt. Whitney Gallery was founded in 2023 by Joshua Cripps as a way to share his passion stunning landscapes of the Sierra Nevada and beyond.
Set at the foot of the breathtaking Sierra with a view of the range’s highest peaks, the gallery features large format, museum-caliber fine art prints of Josh’s signature photographs.
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