New Print Release - 'Ultima Requiem'

'Ultima Requiem'.
I typically don't reveal an image the same day I create it. Photographs typically go through several editing revisions before they are deemed ready for 'public consumption'. 
But I'm really excited about this one.
It starts with an explanation. As I walked the trail this morning, about a quarter mile from this view, I stopped for a few minutes to be with a small song bird that was taking its last breaths. It was laying in the middle of the trail, its wing bent awkwardly. It looked up at me warily as I knelt beside it. I don't know how it ended up there, but it made me stop and consider things. 
The frailty of life, for one. 
Some may say, "It is just a bird..."
But its life deserved a moment out of my day. 
A moment of respect.
After a while, I solemnly moved on, glancing back occasionally.
This scene is what greeted me at the end of my walk. The trees here are another example of frailty and things that have passed. This is a 'ghost forest', formed after the ground dropped roughly 12 feet during the 1964 earthquake. When the ground stopped liquifying, saltwater from the Turnagain Arm rushed in, killing the trees as they stood. But the trunks remain, preserved in somber beauty.
Throughout the elevated sections of this tidewater slough were millions of small purple flowers.
A final resting place was never more appropriate, or more beautiful.

Ultima Requiem

Ultima Requiem

New Print Release - 'Solitude'

Almost as if the earth unwrapped a surprise gift for me. Then it dawned on me. This present was like a bouquet of flowers. Beautiful to behold, but it too would soon fade away.



On Friday, June 6th, at 6:30pm, I unveiled the second photograph in my new series, 'Through Time'. The new photograph, named 'Solitude', is a stunning image of a lone iceberg floating in the serene glacially fed waters of Portage Lake.

This scene was photographed at 10:55am, on February 1st. I could barely see more than a few feet around me, as I walked the rocky shoreline of Portage Lake. A heavy fog had settled on the lake, during an unseasonable warm winter morning. This lake is typically covered in a thick layer of ice by this time of year, ice strong enough to trek across to visit the terminus of Portage Glacier, nearly three miles in the distance.

My wife and I stood at the edge of the lake, our dog (Kodi) pacing anxiously in the shallow water. Something lurked just beyond our sight, enveloped by the fog. As the sun light began to filter over the mountain tops, the fog began to glow with a warm light. Within minutes the fog began to lift off the surface of the water, and revealed this incredible iceberg (also known as a 'growler'). The fog seemed to hover over the lake, not rising or falling. I hurriedly set up my tripod, not knowing how long the ceiling would last. 

I sat there, on the rocky beach, over the next four minutes, as Jena walked Kodi further down the coast. I watched as the water gently lapped at the rocks below my feet, and around the exposed portion of the iceberg. Since the majority of an iceberg's mass lies beneath the water, I figured that it had grounded itself in the shallower water at the lake's edge.

I utterly lost myself in the moment.

The crisp air.

The soft melody of water.

Before long, all I could hear was the relaxed beating of my heart.

Jena came back, Kodi leading the way, and asked how it had turned out.

'It' meaning 'the photograph'.

I had completely forgotten to check the camera after it was finished with its 4-minute exposure. I don't know how long I sat there.

I just know that it was time well spent.

This photograph is now available for purchase as both Open Edition and Limited Edition Prints.