The Forest for the Trees

The first of many posts about photographing forests. Check out my 10 tips on photographing forests.

Let me introduce you to my enthusiasm of photographing forest scenes and why I get excited about photographing forests.

I grew up on the wet side of the Cascade Mountains in the Pacific Northwest, and I didn't know how good I had it. I'm a bit claustrophobic and the thick forests around the Puget Sound, at times, made me tense and anxious. I would often escape to the east side of the mountains to "let my eyes breathe". I felt free, and still to this day feel a sense of freedom when I hit the road to drive over Snoqualmie Pass into the arid open lands of eastern Washington. The colors of the earth filled of hazy greens and browns fascinated me - and I could see to the horizon. The west side of the mountains were just so  . . . green and if I could see to anything in the distance, it was usually the next tree. I felt locked in by those trees, trapped.

It was no wonder that I moved to the front range of the Rockies after college. Big open skies, prairies that went on forever, mountains at my back. I was in love with the sights, the tones, the smells. Even after moving home Montana, Wyoming and Colorado still pull at my heart. But what I didn't have there, what I couldn't have was the cool embrace of the Puget Sound forests. I missed them more than I thought possible. I came home on a wet autumn day - the gold and brown leaves of Big Leaf Maples drifting to the ground to rest in puddles in the roadway. Every frayed nerve in my body dissipated. I was home.

Winter that year was grey, the kind of grey that seeps into every color in the spectrum. But as spring arrived, I began to realize how many tones of green I had missed in my early years. As leaves unfurled in the forest the greens were soft and fresh. They appeared to vibrate to the sunlight as it streamed through the canopy to touch the different shades and textures of green. Oh, how my eyes opened. I drank in every new green I could see and held it close its beauty. To this day spring is one of my favorite times to photograph the forest. I love to tell its story of life and rejuvenation.

As summer takes hold, the forest is a cool place to relax from the hectic days of activity. I slow down when I enter the forest. The trees shade my trail and I look for the textures in the moss and leaves. Flowers and berries dot the trail side with splashes of color - contrasting beautifully against the greens of Salal and Oregon Grape.

But all too soon it seems, splashes of another season begin to show in the bright places along the edges of the forest. Vine Maple is the first to turn from green. Oranges and reds speckle the landscape - demonstrating to the rest of the forest how beautiful it can become. Autumn would be my other favorite season in the trees as the vibrant colors of berry bushes and deciduous trees compliment the dark greens of our conifer.

Growing up, I used to describe winter as grey. Everything was grey, even yellow. Grey, boring, and depressing. I really can't say that anymore. I head to the forest for contrasts during the winter months. Contrast of white snow against dark trees. The soft texture of snow against the rough texture of bark. The movement of falling snow against the stationary forest.

Each forest season has its story and I am eager to help tell it.

What's your nationality?

What's your nationality?

It's a simple question with responses about being German, English, French, more likely a combination of ancestral heritage. I've asked the question of friends and friends have asked the question of me. And we've answered without much thought to the question or our answer.

It's a conversation starter.

But not the type of conversation I was expecting when I asked a friend while hiking this past summer.

Her answer startled me. Embarrassed me. And made me think.

"What's your nationality?" I asked.

"I'm American." she replied.

But of course she is. I had not intended for my question to imply that she wasn't. I sputtered an apology and reframed my question and she answered, Taiwanese, and our conversation continued. As did the conversation in my head.

I wondered why I was startled and embarrassed until I realized that she had slapped me upside the head with my white privilege as my mother would have slapped me when I did something stupid. A solid backhanded slap that let me know she was tired of my antics. Here I was getting the verbal equivalent from my hiking buddy.

I know I have privilege. I was not born with the proverbial silver spoon - far from it. I was a farm kid who ate her pets. For a time when dad was out of work, I would accompany mom to the food bank for our weekly allotment of butter, cheese, and oatmeal. I was however born with a hereditary silver spoon - I was born a white American. And I have benefited from that privilege - simple things mostly like being served more graciously than people of color were served. Yes, I've noticed the difference.

You see, to be born white in America grants you the privilege of never having to remind people that you are an American. You never have to defend your American heritage. It is automatically assumed. We've all made that mistake - looking at a European family vacationing here and not realizing they're tourists until they start speaking. But my friends who are Asian and my friends who are Hispanic, well it's assumed that they were not born here or, worse yet, are "illegal".

We expect People of Color to prove to us that they are American instead of assuming that they are.

My question that I asked my friend - how many times have you actually been asked, "What's your nationality?" I know I haven't been asked very often. Have you? I neglected to ask, but I am sure my friend has been asked that question all her life and far too often than she'd like to recall. I am sorry I added to that list. It was my assumptions based on my privilege that made me ask.

I was reminded of this conversation today when I saw a "corrected" meme. The original meme stated that It doesn't matter if you're black, white, yellow or brown - You're an American start acting like it. The corrected version stated that Whether you're black, white, yellow or brown - You're an American start treating each other like it.

I really don't have the answers for all of us to magically get along, but I know that taking the time to ask the wrong questions, listening to the response then finding a better question - a conversation can get started.

In the Shadow of Dege Peak

In the month I’ve been away, the alpine meadows have begun to tarnish under the summer sun. The vibrant yellows and purples of spring wildflowers are replaced reds and golds of autumn.

Just yesterday, my sister posted a photo of bog gentian – its deep blur bell shaped flowers a stark contrast with the yellowing grasses in the frame. It is the herald for summer’s end. My friend Karen Sykes would look upon the low-lying blooms with sadness knowing autumn was right around the corner and the first winter snows nipping at its heels. Soon the high meadows will be under feet of snow.

There is no such thing as a lazy summer at 6400 feet. Spring is a hard-fought season in the NW mountains with avalanche and glacier lilies pushing their way through the last snow drifts into July. As summer arrives, you can begin seeing the colors of autumn kissing the foliage and flowers start to seed. Life is on a limited clock in the alpine zone. In a few weeks, purple cascade asters will curl onto themselves and the only blooms left are the white heads of the pearly everlasting. But the huckleberry bushes and the false hellebore leaves change to more vibrant colors.

Albert Camus once said, “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” In an alpine meadow the flowery leaves come in the warmer hues of the rainbow. The seed pods are gathered by the critters who will live under the snow for the next months. If there is any season that luxuriates in the mountains, it would be winter. Flurries begin coating the warm meadow colors as earl as September and last well into our low-land summer celebrations.

In Seattle, our only hint of oncoming fall and winter’s first flurries are fresh faced kids waiting at the bus stops and the Halloween decorations stacked up at our local stores. But here, in the shadow of Dege Peak on Mt Rainier, autumn has arrived.

Oh the Fern!

I learned an interesting little fact today. Quite surprised me.

The bracken fern is the most common fern in the northwest and throughout the world.

Growing up in the northwest, I had always thought our most common fern was the dark green sword fern. It's the fern that is seen on our forest floors all year round with its Christmasy green leathery leaves. You will always see the sword fern along your trails and paths. Then I'm told by a national park ranger I trust that no, the bracken fern is even more common than the sword fern.

So yeah, I had to look it up and wouldn't you know - the ranger was right. The bracken fern grows on every continent (except Antarctica) and in all life zones (except deserts). That's pretty amazing.

Not only is it prevalent around the globe, its fossil remains have been dated to 55 million years ago. It's old and abundant. The plant that just keeps going and growing no matter what mother nature throws at it.

In fact it was made to be dominant and take over. Allelopathic chemicals that inhibit growth of other plants are produced and released by bracken ferns. They seem to take over in areas of forest fire because of this chemical.

Another interesting tidbit I found is that the name bracken is derived from Swedish & Danish words that mean simply, fern. So when we say bracken fern we're really saying fern fern.

Then there's Plan B

Plan A:

It's my sister's birthday and we decide to gather our gear and hoof it out Eagle Creek in the Columbia Gorge. Check another trail off Kristi's bucket list, sleep under the Pacific Northwest sky, and shake out the cobwebs.

Eagle Creek is the most traveled trail in the Columbia Gorge - for good reason. While you will not have summit views, you will hike through a river canyon with moss covered walls, towering big leaf maples, fern-lined trails and 5 named waterfalls (and dozens of smaller unnamed falls). Most who hike the trail go in about 2 miles to see Punchbowl Falls. Others continue on to travel through Tunnel Falls - the trail is high on a cliff and they drilled a tunnel behind the falls to hike through. Stunning but not for those who have a fear of heights.

Even though it's highly traveled, it is so very worth experiencing. So it is on my sister's bucket list.

We invited our friend Evie, who will be joining us on our John Muir trip. Evie brought along her husband. I brought along Zillah.

The day wasn't shaping up to be perfect like the weather reports read, but we had faith the rain wouldn't start falling until we set up camp. We weren't 2 miles in when we needed to get our rain gear out and I looked at Zillah, already soggy and thought sharing a tent with her would not be good for either of us. After a quick consensus, we turned tail and hoofed it back to the car.

Plan B:

A waterfall tour of the gorge with short little hikes.

Our first stop was to Starvation Creek Falls for lunch. Perfect! The rain hadn't yet reached the area so we enjoyed the sun glistening through the new green foliage overhead. The new leaves sparkled in the sun. We left there just as the rain hit us and traveled back to Horsetail Falls. Then on to Multnomah Falls where we walked up to the overly crowded bridge and then bought Kristi a birthday ice cream.

Next stop Bridal Veil Falls where we stopped to photograph the wildflowers along the way. The sun began to peak out again, but we weren't too upset about that - we were having fun. The hike around the lower loop of Latourell Falls had us all giddy. We each saw something exciting to photograph and investigate. On up to Vista House to see the view, we noticed the clouds looked awful dark back the way we had come. Our last stop on Plan B was the Portland Women's Forum at Chanticleer Point for one more view. Just as we got there, the sun peaked through the clouds to light up Vista House. We congratulated not on the pretty picture though - we congratulated ourselves on calling it quits and avoiding the dark band of rain clouds on the horizon.

But it's icky Outside.

It happens the the best of us. We work all week, planning in our mind what we'll do after 5 pm on Friday. We imagine the places we'll see. The grand vistas to photograph at golden hour. The joy we'll have as we hike along the trail in beautiful meadows. As Friday afternoon winds down and gets closer to your time, the clouds creep in and the rain begins to fall and with it your heart.

Don't despair. There is still so much photography to do.

One of my favorite rainy day photo activities is to head to the nursery or greenhouse. In Seattle we're lucky enough to have the Volunteer Park Conservatory - a large greenhouse filled with tropical plants, orchids, and cacti. It's always warm on a cold rainy day.

As it is so warm and humid inside, you'll need to take care of your camera. The lens will immediately steam up as will the viewfinder and the screen. I bring a microfiber cleaning cloth with me to wipe off excess moisture while I meander around looking at the orchids and waiting for my camera to match the greenhouse temperature.

I also wipe the moisture of my diopter filters. I use these instead of a macro lens because I'm cheap and I really have no issue with the focus fall-off they can have. I rather like it - as I'm one of those artsy photographers.

The conservatory (and other greenhouses like them) frowns on the use of tripods so make sure you bump your ISO up to accommodate for hand-holding. On bright rainy days, I can usually get away with 400 ISO. When working with flowers and macro, I tend to open up my aperture fairly wide so I have a very narrow plane of focus. If you like more detail and want a smaller aperture, you'll want to bump your ISO up to 800 or more if your camera can handle the increased sensitivity without adding too much noise. Always be respectful of the rules. Tripods tend to get in the way of other visitors.

I have a few indoor destinations that I like to head to when the weather turns wet. Check your area for a few that you can run to for some playtime with your camera. There is never a need to put away your camera when it's raining. You can still have some photo fun and then go home, make some popcorn, put in a sappy movie, and edit your macro treasures.

Do you know the story of me?

Hi my name is Heidi. Do you know my story? Not MY story but the story of a little girl living with her grandpa in the Swiss Alps who moves to the city to live with her aunt, uncle and her cousin Clara? It's a story I know all too well. When I was 7, I was given at 3 different holidays, the book entitled Heidi. How many of the same book does one child need?

As a refresher, Heidi lived with her grandpa in the mountains and spent her days playing in the meadows with her friend Peter and his herd of goats. Her aunt and uncle come to take her to the city where she can go to school and befriend her cousin Clara, a child suffering from illness so that she could not walk. In the city, Heidi becomes depressed so her aunt and uncle send her to visit her grandfather and Peter and allow Clara to go with her. While they are visiting, and avalanche closes the way and they are stranded in the mountains for months. When Clara's parents finally reach the cabin, fearing the worse after months without Drs and medicine they find that Clara is happy, healthy and walking. The power of nature on a person is nurturing and healing.

I may have been named Heidi but I am more like Clara. I was a sick child always dealing with stomach issues of nausea and cramping. Colds that turned quickly into bronchitis. And parents who started to believe the doctors when they couldn't figure out what was wrong with me so referred to me as lazy (I was faking ill to get out of school & chores), attention seeking, or hypochondriac.

They couldn't find anything wrong with me because they had no idea at the time where to look. Years later, I was diagnosed with a rare hereditary liver disease. Soon followed by a diagnosis of Celiac and other food sensitivities which contributed to the stomach problems. Then this past year on a deep blood test where they were looking for anything and everything (I was dizzy and weak while hiking which turned out to be anemia) they found I am missing a blood protein, an immunoglobulin that protects the mucus layer in your sinuses and lungs (hello, bronchitis).

I don't tell this story for you to feel sorry for me or indignant. But to share with you while I always felt like Clara in the story, I really was Heidi. With all my illnesses, the only place I felt healthy was hiking through the forests and along a wildflower-filled alpine meadow. I could forget about my health while in the mountains. Heidi in the story persuaded Clara to come to the mountains and she was healed. I persuade myself to camp and hike and I too am healed.

When I was 7, I hated being named Heidi. Now I know I am Heidi and Clara and whole.