Example: Creating Photographic Art

A Day Night And Morning Afield - Dead Horse Point + Canyonlands – January 2022

I depart Moab for a midnight drive through the darkness toward Dead Horse Point, an hour away. My friends call my photography adventures “bat-shit crazy,” and my mother insists I was born 150 years too late—a modern-day Jim Bridger chasing the wilderness. The last twenty miles demand four-wheel drive as snow and ice blanket the ground, my tires crunching slowly toward six thousand feet.

At the end of the road, I step out into the pitch-black night. It’s quiet—almost unnervingly so—and I hike out to the cliff’s edge beneath a canopy of stars. There, I set up my tripod before an old friend. We’ve shared many moments together: summer thunderstorms, the soft light after winter storms, and now this still night.

She is beautiful—her trunk a graceful S-curve rising from bare sandstone. An ancient pinyon pine, more than eight centuries old. She has endured the blistering heat of desert summers and the punishing snows of winter, standing steadfast through the centuries—resilient, solitary, and eternal—keeping her quiet watch over the vastness of the Great Basin below.

Why am I here in January—alone, in the dark, with a camera and tripod?
Because winter’s moisture purifies the air in this vast desert landscape, untouched by the summer’s wind and drifting dust. Dead Horse Point, a designated International Dark Sky Park, is one of the darkest places on Earth to witness and photograph the night sky.

Out here, the heavens are alive with light. Beneath this celestial ocean, I can’t help but wonder: Why me? Why am I on this earth? What is this life all about?
The stars and planets above affirm my belief that we are not alone. These quiet hours strengthen my faith in a higher power and remind me that none of this—nor any of us—is here by chance. Science tells us there are more than two trillion galaxies, yet somehow, I am standing here beneath them—present, aware, and profoundly humbled.

Before I leave, some two hours later photographing the heavens, I take one final image—a “self-portrait.” I program a ten-second delay, step into position beside the ancient pine, and stand motionless for twelve seconds as the shutter opens. My flashlight pointed at the heavens, searching for meaning.

Four Hours Later At Mesa Arch - Canyonlands, National Park

It’s now 3 a.m. on that same frozen night. I leave Dead Horse Point and drive toward Canyonlands. The same spiritual connection takes on another form as night gives way to day. The first rays of light will soon ignite Mesa Arch with sunrise forecast at 7:42 A.M. After all, it is the dead of winter. I hike through a foot of snow, my headlamp guiding the way. My body and mind tingle with anticipation, though a lack of sleep leaves me slightly delirious. My fingers ache from the cold, even through gloved hands carrying my camera and tripod.

I’ve seen Mesa Arch countless times in photography magazines and always assumed the fiery glow beneath the arch was a creation of Photoshop. To my amazement, I am the first to arrive at the arch that morning—4 a.m. —something nearly impossible to do as this is one of the most photographed arches on earth. I stake my claim to the best spot on the cliff’s edge in front of the arch. The stars still shimmer brilliantly overhead as I wait for sunrise— just three hours and forty-two minutes to go. One by one, other photographers arrive, and in quiet voices we talk about the place and the feeling of it all—as if we were in church—sharing the reverence, the shivering with stepping back and forth to keep freezing toes alive, with the great anticipation of dawn.

When the sun finally crests the horizon on this, my first visit, I am awestruck. There are at least 30 other photographers line abreast next to me and others that have no spot. Insane at 10 below zero in the snow. The first few spokes of golden rays pierce the horizon and reflect off the red sandstone cliffs below, painting the underside of the arch with “God light.” It is beyond imagination.

Mesa Arch has been photographed by many serious landscape photographers, so why would I want to get images that others already have. I discovered that every day is different for landscape photography and every Mesa Arch sunrise tells a different story—a unique communion between light, land, and the ever-changing sky. My photograph and that moment was uniquely mine—-different from all others. It was a spiritual and sacred moment, and I was mindful enough to step back from the camera, close my eyes, and truly feel what the spirit of the place had to say. An important aspect of all my trips afield now—meditation and observation before clicking the shutter. I have since made other pilgrimages to the arch, and each as fascination and spiritual as the first.

“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.”

—-Edward Abbey

The Creative Process - Wildlife, Landscapes and Street Photography

• My wildlife work captures those fleeting instants where light, subject, emotion, and story all collide—decisive moments at the very peak of action, often born from hours or even days of patient observation.

• My landscapes, in contrast, explore the quiet transitions of light, season, and time—moments that speak softly rather than shout.

• My street photography reveals human life unscripted—authentic, spontaneous moments that capture my soul through story, gesture, and inspiration.

Pre-visualization and Serendipity

Most of my images begin with pre-visualization—within my very active mind—the place, the light, the subject matter, the perspective, and the composition. I venture into the field searching for that imagined harmony, most often returning empty-handed. But with each trip, learning more and building on that knowledge for the next adventure.

Once in a great while, everything aligns. I press the shutter—and art is born.

Other times, I simply let nature lead the way—serendipity. When I stop trying to control the outcome, patience and awareness reveal the magic that was always there, waiting to be seen.

An Invitation to Explore My Art

Each photograph I create is born from a moment of connection—between light, land, and emotion. My hope is that as you explore my work, something familiar stirs within you—and that we might have a shared love of all things wild and free. Perhaps it’s something you’ve lived, loved, or felt yourself.

“Leap of Faith” is the signature wall hanging on the south wall of the Swaner EcoCenter, located at Kimball Junction, in Park City, Utah

Awarded 1st Place – Wildlife, Professional Division
Art Wolfe International Photography contest, Seattle Washington
(Entries from 63 countries)

Chapters of Change

First Snow On Fall Leaves - La Sal Mountains, Utah – (Warner Lake)
At 9,400 feet in the La Sal Mountains of southeastern Utah, the seasons first snow rested softly on brightly colored aspen leaves.

“First Snow on Fall Leaves – La Sal Range”

Selected for the Springville Museum of Art – Salon 100 (2024)

✨ Transitions of Time

With winter approaching, fall winds had stripped the leaves from the forest.

I watched the sun’s first rays illuminate a stand of aspens—leafless now, and their bronze branches lifted skyward in delicate lace.

A turning page in nature’s timeless rhythm. 🍂❄️