Taking infrared photos often doesn’t give you a lot to work with in post-processing; if you’re only allowing a very small portion of invisible light and NO visible light to reach your camera sensor, the results are going to be fairly limiting, from an exposure, contrast, and color perspective. Those of us who shoot infrared realize this, which is my many infrared shooters choose to convert their photos to monochrome. This also is why the vast majority of infrared shooters take photos during the day.
But the results that can be achieved by shooting infrared at night can be…well…interesting. I took this infrared panorama in April of 2017, and you can see many of the familiar objects of the night sky. Notable is the bright Antares (mid right), which still looks the red-orange color you’ve come to expect. However, you can also see how strangely infrared rendered the rest of the night sky. Airglow seems to disappeared entirely. And of course the spring vegetation in the desert has fluoresced into some really interesting colors.
Plants fluoresce and an oddly-colored Milky Way shine brightly in the sky over Joshua Tree National Park, California, in this panorama. For licensing or prints, please use the “Contact Me” form on the right side of the page.
During my trip to Baja, my small group spent a couple nights camping near Baja’s Bahia de los Angeles (also known as LA Bay). It was an area I’d remembered visiting on a trip 15 years before, and surprisingly I didn’t think it had changed much. The quaint small town nearby was still quaint, the bay was still amazing, the weather was mostly good, and the night sky was breathtaking.
The day had intermittent clouds rolling through that made me a little nervous, but those clouds had largely dissipated by the time I awoke for a 4 am date to photograph the night sky. After leaving the tent, I was greeted with an amazing sight–the full galactic core of the Milky Way (the 28.9-degree latitude helped with that) as well as three planets: Jupiter (brightest, in center), Mars (in the galactic core), and Saturn (just to the left of the galactic core).
A vibrant Milky Way and three planets glow over my camp in Baja California Norte, Mexico, in March of 2018. Click photo for a larger version. For print or licensing inquiries, please use the “Contact me” form to the side of this page.
By the way, the yellow-orange glow you see in the sky isn’t light pollution. It’s airglow. The skies down there were fantastically dark, and there’s no way the tiny towns around there can put off enough light to affect the night sky.
Another side note: While I was taking this panorama and a couple of others, I could hear a pod of whales snuffling and splashing as they came to the surface in the strait to my left. At first I thought the noise was a change in tides, but over half an hour the noises moved from north to south, and included a couple of fins slapping the water. Additionally, a raccoon-sized animal scuttled across the rocks at the left of the frame around this time, too, but I couldn’t quite identify what it was in the dark, and my headlamp had dimmed to the point where I couldn’t make it out when I shined a light on it.
The annotated version of the photo can be seen below.
A vibrant Milky Way and three planets glow over my camp in Baja California Norte, Mexico, in March of 2018. Click photo for a larger version. For print or licensing inquiries, please use the “Contact me” form to the side of this page.
On March 26th (2018), I had finished my short trip to the Baja peninsula and was spending the night camping near Arizona’s Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. The sky was incredibly clear, totally free of clouds, so I had skipped shooting sunset and was instead exploring around my campsite looking for good compositions for shooting the Milky Way later that night.
However, while walking around in the twilight, I noticed that something strange was happening on the western horizon. Venus was glowing brightly—along with a number of strangely colored clouds. The sight was really pretty stunning, and I immediately got excited and ran to get my camera equipment. I had never seen noctilucent clouds before, and I had also never seen iridescent clouds before. Somehow, interestingly, these seemed to be both, and I couldn’t recall having ever heard of that phenomenon.
For the next hour or so I shot various photos, scrambling to find a foreground without missing the show. As it turned out, I could’ve spent a little more time looking for compositions, since the clouds were readily apparent for about an hour, but I didn’t know that at the time (and I’m pretty happy with the compositions I did find).
My first photo was taken at around 7:31 pm, about 44 minutes after sunset (which was at 6:47 pm on March 26th), during nautical twilight.
The planet Venus is low on the horizon while strange noctilucent, iridescent clouds swirl over the Arizona desert. Click to view full size. Contact me for prints or licensing opportunities.
This second photo was taken almost 10 minutes later, with a slightly different composition. This was taken at the end of nautical twilight.
The planet Venus is low on the horizon while strange noctilucent, iridescent clouds swirl over the Arizona desert. Click to view full size. Contact me for prints or licensing opportunities.
This third photo, a panorama, was taken at about 7:57 pm, over a full hour after sunset. Taken with a higher ISO, you can see a number of stars that have emerged during astronomical twilight. Additionally, the strange noctilucent iridescent clouds have settled lower onto the horizon.
The planet Venus is low on the horizon while strange noctilucent, iridescent clouds swirl over the Arizona desert. Click to view full size. Contact me for prints or licensing opportunities.
Have you ever seen anything like this before? Do you have any insights?
I’ll continue to add to this blog post as I find out more about these clouds. In the meantime, please feel free to share this post by using the buttons below.
UPDATE
Since first posting this I found this article in the Washington Post, which states that the clouds likely came from the exhaust of two Trident missiles launched from the Pacific Test Range, off the coast of Southern California.
On our second and third nights in Baja California Norte last month, we followed a wending dirt road north from the sleepy town perched next to the edge of Bahia de los Angeles, past the one-step-above primitive camping of Playa La Gringa, where a row of not-very-private three-sided outhouses sat just a stone’s throw from the beach, bounced over deep ruts and rocks in my uncle’s Subaru Forester over a hill, to finally arrive at a secluded beach where we had great views of Isla Coronado and its volcanic northern tip, Volcan Coronado.
We pitched our tents in a wash to give ourselves a windbreak and proceeded to spend the next couple of days exploring the nearby hills, throwing rocks in the water, eating fish tacos, digging clams, and attempting to make our old inflatable kayak seaworthy.
And, of course, I took some photos.
Our second day was a cloudy one, and windy like all the others. However, the clouds were fantastic: Large stacked lenticulars lingered over the bay for 24 hours, mammatus clouds, wave clouds, and a number of others passed overhead. All were probably a result of the stormy weather blowing in from San Diego, travelling a few hundred miles down the peninsula, and then getting shaken up while passing over Cerro Santa Ana (otherwise known as Mike’s Mountain), It made for quite a show for anyone who appreciates a well-constructed cloud.
While watching these wild clouds, I had thought ahead to sunset and hoped that the clouds would still be visible. In the hours before sunset, the western horizon had been packed with clouds, and my hopes for an interesting sunset had begun to diminish.
That evening, I had begun to help make fish tacos when my son alerted me to the fact that the sunset was about to go off, so I dropped my knife and went into full-on landscape photographer mode. I’m glad I did, as the sunset was probably the best we experienced on this trip, with 360-degree color painted over some of the interesting clouds that had been hanging around all day.
Finding a foreground was relatively easy. I really enjoyed shooting the varied pyroclastic rocks in the area; they made for interesting foregrounds with their differing shapes and colors.
Sunset colors explode over Baja’s Volcan Coronado. Please use the “Contact me” form on the right to inquire about art prints or licensing the photo for commercial use.
The galactic core of the Milky Way makes its first appearance of the year over a frozen Lost Lake, Oregon.
I took this panorama in January of 2015, one of the earliest calendar year captures of the Milky Way’s galactic core I’ve made over the past 6 or 7 years, particularly in Oregon, where the winters are rainy and cloudy. A thin layer of ice covered Lost Lake, which was pretty exciting, because at the time I’d never really seen any night photos of Lost Lake in the winter (and this is still true to some degree). I’m glad that on this particular morning, I forced myself to get up at 1 am and make the drive.
Sometimes getting outside of your comfort zone is the best possible thing.
Doing things that aren’t particularly fun is often rewarding, purely because no one wants to do them. Very few of us are good at getting up at 1 am and gathering our photography gear, trekking out into the cold and unknown, and taking good technical photos in bad conditions.
But, looking back on this moment three years ago, I don’t remember my irritating alarm clock buzzing me awake. I don’t remember the long drive to the trailhead; I only remember that the drive was filled with uncertainty about how I would get to my destination. Was the road even going to be open? What if there was a tree down blocking the road? How far would I have to walk? What if there was a tree that fell down behind me, trapping me on the mountain?
Luckily, the journey up there wasn’t nearly as difficult as I thought it would be. And despite the cold of that night, sitting in the dark and taking photos was actually pretty pleasant (mostly thanks to what feels like thousands of dollars spent on high-quality outdoor clothing). This isn’t always the case, of course.
Just last month I found myself moonless-night hiking on an ice and snow-slicked trail to get to a destination for a shoot that was a bust. I was by myself, and I had slipped a few times, stretching some muscles just a bit further than they were meant to be stretched at my age. I was out of my comfort zone: weighed down by equipment, sweating, unsure about predators and nervous. Just plain uncomfortable.
I guess my point is that it’s getting harder to create original nightscape photos, as more and more photographers enter the landscape astrophotography game (which I advocate for, by the way). It’s harder and harder to find and photograph unique landscape under unique conditions, to carve out a unique niche and to be your own photographer.
But it’s not impossible.
And it often starts with doing the things that no one else wants to do.
Do you have any questions or comments regarding this blog or the photo featured in it? Feel free to add a comment below!
Like a fool, earlier this summer I decided to start following up with for-profit companies and individuals who were using my photos for free, some of them for years at a time. (I have no idea why I didn’t do this during our amazingly rainy winter and spring, but, alas, I waited for the good weather to begin this project.) Although I had occasionally exchanged emails with some prior infringers, I hadn’t launched any sort of full-scale email campaign, which is what I’ve been up to (other than my Crater Lake workshop) over nearly the past month.
So, rather than going outside into the bright sunshine and enjoying my summer (or at least getting some much-needed yard work done), I’m scouring the Internet, drafting emails, and then replying (and replying and replying) to reply emails.
Although I’ve had a couple of reasonably pleasant experiences in dealing with infringers, for the most part it’s a little like going down the rabbit hole into a universe where culpability doesn’t exist, where copyright theft is committed by no-longer-with-us interns, rogue website builders, or just people who don’t want to take a few seconds to see if the image that they want to prominently place on their website’s home page may in fact actually be copyrighted. The same excuses keep cropping up over and over again until you know how the infringers will reply before they even reply. It’s disheartening, to say the least, and an activity not unlike reading the comments on news stories online: If your faith humanity has been shaken, you’re not going to re-solidify your faith here.
This accountability blitz started when, after reviewing some records, I realized that I haven’t licensed much imagery in the past year. Weird, I thought to myself, maybe no one really is interested in using my photos to promote their business anymore. Of course, a quick google search immediately proved that to not be the case. Instead, what people wanted was to use my photos without paying for them, a subtle but important distinction.
In the past, I’ve been criticized by members of the photography community for placing watermarks on my photos. As a result, I’ve spent way more time than I should’ve trying to find a balance between making sure that my copyright can be seen and trying not to make it obtrusive. It’s not easy. And believe me, I would rather not mark them at all, but with “I didn’t know it was copyrighted” being such a rampant excuse for theft, it seems more necessary than ever.
What’s most surprising, to me anyway, is the members of the creative community who have used my photo to promote their services. As someone who creates and uses my own music on my website, blog, and videos, I’ll never understand that.
Anyway, I’ll keep you posted as to how it goes.
Photo Details
“Against the night”
“Against the night,” a rock spire stands against the galactic core of the Milky Way, southern Utah, spring of 2017. Click the photo to view it full size.
I took this vertical panorama this spring, with my full-spectrum Canon 6D and a Rokinon 35 mm f/1.4 lens. This is a total of 6 shots, 3 focus-stacked and 3 for vertical height, each taken at ISO 6400 for 15 seconds. (My aperture was unrecorded, although it was probably either f/2 or f/2.8.) I panned upward using my Nodal Ninja 4, which I love. The photo was taken in southern Utah.
During the final days of my family’s trip to Italy, we stayed at an apartment set directly in the middle of a dusty olive grove on the outside of Vieste, on Italy’s Gargano peninsula. The place was so clean and new, smelling so strongly of fresh paint, we suspected we were the unit’s first occupants, a suspicion confirmed when we discovered that the owners had forgotten several items of importance, including a trash can.
Despite the seemingly endless beaches just a mile away, one of my fondest memories of the trip was sitting outside of our apartment in 90-degree heat, eating sliced tomatoes drizzled with olive oil that had been pressed the day before by our host family.
But my second fondest memory involved the afternoons my wife and kids and I spent hiding under brightly colored, oversized umbrellas and occasionally risking splashing around in the shallow waters of the Spiagga del Castello (Castle Beach). I was captivated by the beauty of the vertical white cliffs that erupted from the seaside to support the city’s old town, as well as the iconic beach monolith Pizzomunno, which stands around 80 feet tall.
While lying on a recliner on the beach I wasn’t entirely sure that I could get up to this photo’s vantage point. But one morning, while in a delirium after a full night of long-exposure photography, I decided to attempt a sunrise photo.
The first step was to find a place nearby to park my rental car, which proved to be a harder task than I first realized on the one-car-wide cobblestone streets of the old town. After parking, it was just a matter of walking uphill and occasionally checking Google Maps. I then found myself at a 6-foot-tall iron gate that blocked off the parking area of a condominium.
Not being one to balk at gates, especially in the pre-dawn of one of the longest days of the year, I climbed over and walked into the apartment’s parking lot. The parking garage itself was couched in the side of the hill, so again I scrambled up the dirt on the side of the garage before I found my way up to its roof.
And there was my view. I cautiously picked my way through some thorny weeds, approached the edge, set up my tripod, and began to shoot. After a series of panoramas, I began to imagine the small section of land I was standing on cleaving and falling 120 feet to the beach below, which led to me losing my nerve a bit.
I decided to get out before I got kicked out, so I packed up my gear and turned to go, only to see an old woman sitting on her apartment balcony. Apparently, she had been watching me the whole time.
The resort town of Vieste unfolds below this clifftop view. Click for larger view.
Exciting news! My photo “The alpha and the omega,” a shot of North Cascade National Park’s Liberty Bell Mountain shot at sunset, is a finalist in The Smithsonian Magazine’s 12th Annual Photo Contest. We’ll find out at the end of the month how it did, but in the meantime, if you’d like to assist me in winning $500 for the “Reader’s Choice prize,” I would appreciate your assistance in voting for my photo. Just follow the link here, add your email address, and voila! Good things could happen!
A stream meanders through a meadow at sunset, North Cascades National Park.
“The seventh wave recedes, Cape Kiwanda” Click to view larger. Prints available (use the contact me form below to inquire).
It’s summertime at the Oregon coast, and the sun set 20 minutes ago. The horizon still glows warm, a perfect soft breeze blows your hair from your eyes, and churning waves drum at the base of the sandstone cove where you’ve watched the sunset with friends. Somewhere around the seventh or eighth wave you hear a heavy, hollow ka-whump, and a six-foot wall of water jumps vertically, just an arm’s length in front of you, only to crash straight down. These are the sandstone bluffs of Cape Kiwanda, a strange juxtaposition of tranquility and chaos.
Dream seeding; a whitebark pine leans over Crater Lake for a better view; available in 11×14, 16×20, and 24×30 print sizes
Personal details
It’s Monday morning, and I’m just sitting around the house sipping some Folgers (we ran out of the good stuff, so I’m drinking the “camping coffee”) and getting ready to roll up my sleeves and do some work on my website. That is, of course, a lie: I can’t roll up my sleeves, because every since the cast was removed from my arm last Friday, I’ve been in a fairly involved (and expensive) elbow brace. The reality of my situation is slowly starting to sink in: Recuperating from tendon repair is a lengthy process, and I’m only now checking my blind spot while merging onto the road to recovery.
Yesterday I had a reminder of just how precarious my situation is after I tripped going up the stairs at my house and instinctively extended both arms to catch myself. The result was painful, but it did help to scare me straight, so to speak. I’m not a clumsy guy by any means, but at this point it wouldn’t take much to undo what took my orthopedic surgeon over an hour and several thousand dollars to accomplish in the first place.
Unfortunately, that means that, in the interest of not getting myself (or more specifically, my triceps tendon) into trouble, I probably won’t be taking many photos during the month of November. And I especially won’t be going out at night, when the infinitesimal risk of injury increases slightly. It’s just not worth the risk. I really feel pretty good, so it’s going to be difficult to be patient.
So instead, I’ll likely be going through old photos for most of the month. And this is one of them.
Photo details
This is one of Crater Lake’s famous whitebark pines that rim the lake. As far as views go, it’s doing much better than about 99.9999% of the other trees in the world. Unfortunately, pine beetles, a fungus called blister rust, and a changing climate have taken their toll, and many of these trees are dying off. As you can see, this one’s dead. What you probably can’t see is that a good part of its root system is exposed, and this thing’s going to topple one of these days.
This tree’s been photographed a lot. I should probably capitalize that–this tree’s been photographed A LOT. I alone have spent more time with it than any one person should spend with a tree. Because of this fact, some photographers would stay away from this scene, stating that the act of photographing it can only result in an “unoriginal” photo. I, of course, disagree with that philosophy.
Right now, in Portland, a similar debate is unfolding around the famous Japanese maple at the Portland Japanese Garden. Its leaves are changing colors, and photographers are converging from all over the world and queuing up for a photo of it. The environment is a little circus-like, with long lines, bad behavior, and a whole lotta landscape photographers loudly “declaring” (mostly via social media) that they’d sooner spike their 14-24 f/2.8G lens like a football than be caught taking a photo of such a popular subject. Ironically, it wouldn’t take much of a portfolio review coupled with a quick Google image search to uncover any number of landscape photography clichés with their name attached to it.
You see, I definitely value originality when it comes to landscape photography, but I’m not sure I value it over beauty. There’s a reason that people are drawn to these trees. And it’s the same reason people enjoy butterflies, beer advertisements featuring models, and America’s national parks system: They’re beautiful, and people like beauty.
So how does a creative person who values originality and individualism express their unique vision of an over-shot subject? (Never mind that this question ignores the question of when exactly a landscape subject becomes “over-shot,” that’s a debate for another time.) To me, it’s easy–I work harder to find unique conditions (light, weather, etc), unique angles, and a unique way of post-processing the photo. I work harder to make the photo say something, to mean something. In short, I work harder.
Because saying that you’d never photograph a certain tree, a certain view, or something as ubiquitous as the Milky Way (and yes, the self-righteous declaration of “I’d never shoot the Milky Way!” is becoming a more common refrain) is easy. At best it’s a declaration of the limits of your vision as an artist. At worst it’s an admission of creative laziness.
I’m hard-pressed to think of something I would never photograph. I’m not sure if that’s a testament to my vivid imagination or the fact that I quit using hyperbolic words like “always” and “never” a long time ago. The pursuit of my vision probably won’t lead me to take a photo of a McDonald’s any time soon, but I can think of several scenarios in which I would take that photo. From a creative standpoint, nothing’s off limits. And nothing should be.
Technical details
This was from two exposures, taken about 20 minutes apart. The first was to capture the landscape detail, including the quickly fading sunlight that was warming the white bark of the pine tree. The second was to capture the sky. Both photos were taken with the same focus, aperture, and ISO (100). Only the exposure time changed.
Further notes
Part of the reason I was able to get so many stars in the second, “sky” shot, despite only waiting 20 minutes after the “land” shot was the nature of the southern sky when I took this photo. The bright “stars” on the right side of the sky are actually Saturn (top) and Mars (bottom). In the middle right, you can see part of the constellation Scorpius, with the star Antares. And in the rest of the sky is the galactic center of the Milky Way (albeit one that is washed out by so much ambient light), which has a number of other bright stars in it. In short, these stars appeared much more quickly during twilight than many of the other stars in the sky.
Infrared
