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“Welcome home,” Yosemite beckons.
Birthday musings on my love for Yosemite
On our way to Yosemite, we have found our way home.
Tyler stands near the top of the aptly-named “death slabs” as we approach the base of Half Dome’s sheer, northwest face. Our route up the face largely travels left of the prominent, dark, water streak that runs down the middle of the face.
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What do you love about Yosemite?
Upon leaving Yosemite after an incredible, revitalizing week with friends, I was prompted by my good friend and an incredible documentary filmmaker, Tava, with the question, “what do you love about Yosemite?” My response, and a loose, edited transcript, are below.
Tava posed this question to the whole group, most of whom had been living in the Valley for the week prior. He combined the answers he recorded with inspiring footage that he had shot around the Valley, culminating in a truly touching short film that can be viewed here, and is also embedded below. I am honored that some of my musings made the cut.
My Full Response
I had just recently completed an ascent of Half Dome’s Regular Northwest Face over the last few days with a couple of incredible climbing partners, Tyler and Kyle. After this multi-day excursion, I was exhausted and in no state to be answering such an open-ended question! So I took a few days to unwind, think intentionally about my experiences in Yosemite, and write out some thoughts. I ended up sending Tava the following recording, of which snippets can be heard in Tava’s video above
(Loose) Transcript
“What do I love about Yosemite?
Where do I even start? What is there not to love? That is a really tough question to answer!
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There is something ineffable about the experience of existing in such an inspiring and powerful place that is simultaneously so soothing and gentle. The Valley, in particular, is an indescribable place that leads to indescribable experiences, and that pervades whether you seek to actively engage with the expansive trail systems or looming rock walls, or if you choose to coexist passively by simply being mindful and present. To experience Yosemite, in any way, is to blur the line between self and world - to let go of one’s ego as it dissolves into the expansive landscape around you.
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There is a quote I really love from John Muir, and I think of it often when I am in the Valley. He considers, “I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”
When we go out and experience the natural world, we are presented with an opportunity to experience and learn about not only the world that surrounds us, but also that which exists within us. An experience outside is simultaneously an experience within. And, ultimately, I believe having experiences of all kinds is what life is all about. Experiences fill our hearts and nurture our souls in a way that material matters just cannot. And it is in these experiences and the emotions they evoke that we find our sense of home.
Home is not a house, home is not a bed, home is not a physical place at all. I think it is not in a specific location, but anywhere that we are able to relish in the beauty of experience.
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So, when we gather around the campfire each night, deep in the Valley, we feel a warmth - not of flame, but of friendship, emanating from the circle of glowing smiles and hearty laughter.
In this warmth, we find home.
When we set out to scale the towering rock walls that guard the Valley, we are pushed to our limits - forced to dig deep and test our mettle. And though the imposing towers and domes of granite are solid and unyielding, they show us that something within us is equally durable and persistent. They ignite in us a newfound self-confidence.
In this challenge, we find home.
When we lie somewhere deep in the meadows, close our eyes, and open our ears, we are immediately enveloped by the percussive symphony of roaring waterfalls, rushing river rapids, and thundering rockfall that drown out any signs of our human presence there. The sounds of the Valley remind us that though we are strong and pervasive, there are forces at play whose scales still escape our comprehension.
In this humility, we find home.
As we bike around the Valley floor, we are greeted by flora and fauna around every turn - butterflies and birds, squirrels and deer, mighty oaks and tall pines, blooming dogwoods and lupines. Each stroke of the pedal takes us deeper into this haven brimming with life.
In this beauty, we find home.
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We left our houses, took time off from our jobs, departed from our cities, and ventured off to meet each other in Yosemite. We left all these things that feel like home, that feel like us. But the moment we arrive - when we emerge from that long, Wawona tunnel - we find that we haven’t truly gone away. In fact, it feels more like a return.
A return to a place that, even upon first glance, feels so undoubtedly familiar. It draws us in with a voice we cannot place, though we know we have heard it before. It calls to something deep inside of us, and we cannot resist. Whether it is our first time or our fiftieth in the Valley, we cannot help but slide easily into the flow of Valley life, in a way that seems to come more easily than anything we have found in the places we left to get here.
On our way to Yosemite, we have found our way home.”
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A backlit Half Dome, as seen from Glacier Point during a beautiful sunrise
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The Valley
The steep, valley walls tower above us, pushing out the sun. They instead welcome us wide-eyed wanderers into the cool, shaded embrace of their glaciated faces. A lush blanket of evergreens cushions the valley floor, though here, against a backdrop of soaring cliffs and imposing, stone domes, grand pines that would normally stand tall and proud over a landscape instead find themselves crouching timidly below.
In this rocky realm, the sun’s reign is short. At the close of each day, shadows march up northwest faces at dusk’s command, extinguishing the final embers of daylight. But in the ensuing darkness emerge pockets of light that belie the inhospitable nature of the Valley’s walls. These lights spin and flicker as they scan for a path upward. They slowly dance their way up the seemingly blank, unscalable walls, like disoriented dinghies navigating a vast, granite ocean. A couple of these scattered souls finally pull themselves over the summit lip after many hours, or even days, of incomparable exertion, joining the ranks of the few who have scaled the mighty monoliths guarding the valley below.
The only form that appears to navigate these massive escarpments with any sort of ease is the water. Cold, crisp streams of snowmelt race across the High Sierra, quickly gaining momentum as they hurtle towards the rim of the precipice. Tributaries flow into each other and grow larger, like capillaries feeding into an artery, until they form a veritable torrent that screams towards the edge, culminating in an explosive leap, thousands of feet above the valley floor. In an act of defiance against gravity itself, thousands of gallons of water burst over the brink, finding themselves untethered, weightless, floating, in an ethereal space suspended in air and time. But the illusory stasis of free fall collapses just as rapidly as it arises. The thundering waterfall succumbs to gravity’s persistence, pummeling down to the valley floor, where it regroups with the Merced.
The morning fog hangs low to the ground. It does not stray far from the waterways as it winds its way down the valley like a serpent, sluggishly slithering through the treetops. The river of fog meanders on, in no apparent rush to escape the impending heat of day. Dawn’s early light emanates through the valley well before the sun can peek over lofty, eastern summits. The southeast aspect of El Capitan is the first of the slumbering valley giants to be awoken by warm tendrils of sunlight brushing gently across its face. Blushing resplendently in the early morning light, El Cap ushers in the new day. The rushing river and cascading falls provide a constant rumbling through the night, but as the day grows, so does the ensemble of sounds that builds upon this auditory backdrop. The wind rustles through oak leaves and pine needles, small creatures stir in the bushes and scamper across branches, and songbirds fill the air with their mellifluous melodies.
And at last, campgrounds begin to stir. A few motivated souls have scampered out before dawn to embark on the kind of grand adventures of which most only dream, and a few others have awoken in the midst of such quests, high on valley walls or deep in the backcountry, but the rest rise in no rush. The sizzling sounds of sustenance are followed closely by friendly chatter and playful laughter. The lightness and simplicity of valley life lifts the hearts and spirits of all who venture here. Some will lean into this calmness, finding comfort in the pockets of stillness sprinkled throughout the forest, meadows, and wading pools. Others will set out in search of modest adventures on the myriad trails, crags, or stretches of river that wander the valley and beyond.
But no matter where our endeavors take us within this wondrous microcosm that is Yosemite Valley, we find an unequivocal sense of belonging. An incontestable feeling that we are exactly where we need to be. In this remarkable paradise, we return to unadulterated joy and curiosity - to the childlike wonder that has retreated deep within us, emerging only through experiences in the natural world. In Yosemite’s grandeur, we return to ourselves. We shed societal restraints, shake off the pressures of our past milieus, and now, newly unmasked and free, we relearn how to simply be. And as we embrace our new selves, Yosemite greets us anew, granite arms outstretched, as if to say “welcome home.”
Cory admires the sunrise view from the Separate Reality cave, high above the Merced as it winds its way out of the Valley. In the distance, Bridalveil Fall glows in the golden light of dawn.
nikon fm2n | kodak ektachrome e100
Looking out across Stoneman Meadow towards the Royal Arches.
nikon fm2n | kodak ektachrome e100
The verdant Valley sure feels like spring with dogwoods blooming all around.
nikon fm2n | kodak ektachrome e100
A few proud, yet exhausted, hooligans stand below Half Dome’s summit cables. After navigating 23 pitches and ~2,200 feet of near vertical granite, we began our descent by schlepping down the unsupported cable to the Sub Dome, where we begin our 8+ mile trek back to the valley floor. Jacob met us at the summit and supported us with much appreciated food, water, and helping hands to lighten our loads for the descent.
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From left to right, Tyler, Kyle, and myself finally stand on the Valley floor again after our successful climb up Half Dome’s Regular Northwest Face, seen in the background.
nikon fm2n | kodak ektachrome e100
Rise: Soft palettes from the day’s edge, and musings on forward progress from the present moment
Rising is an endless transition. Just as this frame captures the enchanting beauty of a sunrise and a moonset, so the present moment in which we each rise illuminates the beauty in our interwoven pasts and futures.
“Shift Change” - Sunrise and moonset at Zabriskie Point, Death Valley.
Shot on 135 format Portra 160 with the trusty Nikon FM2n
Inspired by a 2023 ViewSonic ColorPro photo competition prompt: RISE. “Shift Change” was submitted along with the following essay.
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Abstract: Rising is an endless transition. Just as this frame captures the enchanting beauty of a sunrise and a moonset, so the present moment in which we each rise illuminates the beauty in our interwoven pasts and futures. “Shift Change” is a set of analog frames captured on film and stitched digitally into a single, larger panorama. Like most of my work at the intersection of film and digital workflows, this frame marks the rise of an emergent, hybrid process that aims to incorporate the best of two distinct, yet fundamentally interconnected, worlds. Likewise, the captured image incorporates the blending of elements from night and day.
The sun rises. The full moon sets. Day from night, light from dark.
The rising sun brings with it a new dawn. New light, softly illuminating the landscape before me, paints the sky with its gentle, pastel palette. These soft hues pulls me out of the darkness of night. They direct my gaze to the future. The nascent light teases me with promises of deep shadows, sharp contrasts, and vibrant colors of daylight to come.
The sunrise, as with all forms of rising, is merely a transition. In this case, a transition connecting the ephemeral states of night and day. This night, the recent past, is so easily forgotten, as it is washed out by the sun’s blinding promises of the future. But without night, there is no day. Without past, no future. So as I look out towards the light of the new day, I cannot forget the night that led me here. The moon shall set, but it’s light still guided me to this point.
To rise is indeed to look eagerly to the future. To build up and ultimately relinquish control to the inertia of forward momentum. To crawl, walk, run into the welcoming embrace of progress! But importantly, to rise is to do so without forgetting the past. We must bundle up what is to come and what has already been, seeing them both for what they truly are: just memories and dreams in the only time we truly have: the present.
As we rise, we embrace this frantic, unstoppable unfolding of the current moment. We trust in how we have set up the present moment. And as present melts into the past, it also forges our future.
Our past is the unassuming giant on whose shoulders the present crouches, ready to leap into the future. Our pasts, without fail, lead reliably to the present, and our futures reliably become the past. Through it all, the giant grows. And as it grows, we see further and further ahead, into the coming times, to where we wish to leap.
Each stage, past, present, and future, informs and is informed by the others. By defining the boundaries of day, the sun also marks the edges of night. And though the moon illuminates our path through the night, its glow is just a reflection of the sun’s light. This fleeting moment captured on film encompasses both an end and a beginning. We simply traverse the interconnected cycle of time. And, like this sunrise, all of it collapses down into one single moment. And that moment is now.
So seize this moment. And the next. And the next. See the past through to its ever-receding end. Fall repeatedly into the present moments that await. Ride the unstoppable trajectory of now. In our eternal sunrise, this burgeoning moment is the only inevitability. There is nothing else.
So Rise.
-v
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“shift change” full panorama:
Summer Stars over Half Dome: Musings and Making-of
Summer star trails over Half Dome - Film astrophotography in Yosemite Valley
The Night Sky
Stargazing has been a huge part of my connection to the natural world since I started camping as a child. Capturing pictures of the stars has thus been a natural extension of that childhood curiosity, burgeoning quickly into a creative fascination of mine early in my photographic journey. Catching a glimpse of our vast Milky Way, connecting the dots of ancient constellations first discovered by our ancestors, or watching incomprehensibly old stars roll through the sky, in person or through the lens, offers an unparalleled experience of scale. Little is as humbling as witnessing even a portion of the scope and grandeur of the cosmos.
Season by season, day by day, even hour by hour, we are surrounded by an incredibly dynamic environment here on Earth. In fact, change is the only thing that truly resists itself. Yet beyond the confines of this rock we call home, the celestial bodies dance to a different rhythm. One whose tempo falls so far out of our human range that the stars appear to stand still, but for the rotation of the earth itself. Star trail photos are my attempt at capturing a component of this cosmic dance as it moves along, transcending our limited perceptions of time.
Despite my early astro work being carried out in the digital world, it was only a natural progression to transition even this subset of my photographic pursuits to film. What more appropriate way to capture something as timeless as the stars than by returning to the resurgent medium of film and shooting from a monumental valley carved by glaciers over millions of years?
last shot of the night, captured with a vertical composition instead. another bracketed test shot at 15 minutes
A Hybrid Photographic Process
My photographic work largely follows a hybrid approach, exploring the intersection of analog and digital processes. I find that the analog, physical processes in any of my pursuits facilitates access to a deeper flow state than their succeeding, digital counterparts. This extends beyond shooting and developing film for photography, to using live instrumentation or analog synthesizers for music production, returning to pen and paper for writing, or even rowing through a manual transmission’s gears when driving. On the flip side, the modern, digital world affords incredible flexibility and opportunity that has no parallel in the analog world. Blending the two offers the best of each.
In photography, this means being able to embrace the methodical, tactile process of film exposure and development, then moving into a digital post-production workflow for freedom in scanning, inversion into a positive image (in the case of negative film), gamma correction, and finally, color correction and grading (in the case of color negatives). A digital workflow also introduces non-destructive editing possibilities and simplifies some of the difficulties of analog print process like dodging, burning, and spotting.
The Shot: Technical Details
This is actually the first astro shot I ever attempted on film, and was one of the first rolls I developed myself! In typical hybrid fashion, I used a more modern DC-Nikkor 135mm f/2 lens on my trusty, mechanical Nikon FM2n (save for the internal light meter, which is useless for astrophotography anyway). Shooting wide open at f/2 on Ilford HP5+ 400 for its wide range of midtones, I exposed the frame for roughly 13 minutes to account for reciprocity failure. I developed the roll in Kodak HC-110 dilution H (1:63) for 7.5 min at 75ºF (it was hot here!). I scanned the roll with my DSLR setup (ironically using an older, manual-focus, AI-s macro lens) and inverted manually with Lightroom curves.
Film Astrophotography: Considerations
I actually prefer my older, manual focus AI-s lenses for astro work as they have a hard infinity stop, eliminating the trial-by-error focusing game necessary on modern autofocus lenses. For this particular frame, however, I wanted a tighter crop than available through any of my legacy glass, and the 135mm is the longest lens I have with an aperture control ring, allowing me to still control the aperture while on my FM2n body. Focusing was aided by the Nikon’s split prism focusing screen, and turned out great!
Despite the additional logistics of shooting on film, I find that film tends to create smoother, cleaner star trail images due to its lower sensitivity to dimmer stars, and the continuous nature of the exposure. No more skipped frames or over-crowded skies that are common on digital! These can be fixed, of course, in digital shots, but this can be arguably a more involved process than simply shooting and developing! But there is a real risk in film astrophotography of camera shake disrupting the trajectory of the trails, whether due to strong wind (and an improperly braced tripod) or an accidental bump. This, too, can potentially be remedied in post, but may prove to be more effort than it is worth.
The biggest issue with film astrophotography, however, is reciprocity failure. Negative film’s overexposure latitude helps a great deal, but knowing how long to keep the shutter open for is still greatest difficulty in using film for long exposures metered at 15s and above. Exposure time compensation factors and generous testing is the only solution, in combination with researching other photographers’ successful settings to use as anchor points for your own tests.
Final Thoughts
Astrophotography comes with a hefty set of logistical and technical considerations on its own, as does film photography. Embarking on the two in tandem then makes for quite an endeavor! But as with most things, the increase in required input effort makes the outcome that much more satisfying! Pulling this roll out of the development tank and seeing the inverted star trails was an incredible moment in my photography career, and I already have a few other trips and shots planned to recreate that experience! More to come, including on color and medium format film from Joshua Tree, so stay tuned!
-v