Winter

After spending a wonderful night on Old Mission Peninsula with one of my dad's best life-long friends, Andy Gaines, and his wife Wendy, we spotted this scene alongside the road the next morning. As we often do, we pulled over and I hopped out to build a picture I have always dreamed about making.

A well-known fishing hole in front of our family cabin on a large bend in the Pere Marquette River looks tranquil in the sunshine this morning. We often try to put leading lines in the exact lower corners of our compositions. It is not an accident that the water and ice meet in the bottom left corner of this image.

I have photographed dozens of storms with waves as big as or bigger than those I shot during this February 1995 storm, but this image remains one of my favorite storm images because of the wave’s shape, position in relationship to the Ludington lighthouse, position of the seagulls and drama created by the storm light. I consider this image “perfectly poetic.” As my Grandma Reed liked to say about her small but precisely designed and tastefully decorated home: “There is a place for everything, and everything in its place.” I made dozens of exposures on Fuji Velvia film this day, none so perfectly poetic as this one. My youngest son, Willie, and I watched this February storm for hours, capturing photographic moments during lulls in the blizzard. As sunset neared, I prayed for storm light. If this magic light arrived, it would appear shortly before sunset, and only if the sun could find its way through, or beneath, a band of boiling clouds skirting the distant horizon. It is a photographer’s game of hide-and-seek I have played with the sun and clouds thousands of times. I love winning, but experience has taught me that I am more likely to lose or at least not win big. This time, as I had envisioned, sunlight broke from beneath the clouds, backlighting the waves and the lighthouse. Rewarded by the knowledge of what could happen and by perseverance, Willie and I were oblivious to the gale winds pummeling us as we witnessed the magic light and lake’s fury come together against the storm cloud backdrop.

Little things can make or break an image. Straight horizontal lines in a photograph can be extremely destructive to the flow of a composition. This photograph would not work if it were not for the three diagonal lines in the sky. The diagonal lines get the viewer's eyes moving around the photograph and lead one's attention to the lighthouse.

I would love to hear the stories from all the different farmers who have worked this old tractor between Honor and Empire, Michigan. The farming life really intrigues me. Someday!

This is my favorite tree to photograph in Mason County. This scene is on Kinney Road just east of Old US-31. To date, this is the best piece of art I have made of this scene.

Ice Fortress

A great challenge for my dad and me is to find new and creative ways to photograph the same subject. Fortunately, the ever-changing skies of the Lake Michigan shoreline work in our favor. On this morning, I had just captured the Little Sable Christmas Eve image and I was determined to find another beautiful photograph of the lighthouse. With the snow no longer falling, I waited for a fleeting moment of sunshine to illuminate the lighthouse against a stormy sky.

January 22, 2010” “He is risen!” That familiar Christian declaration of faith in Jesus as savior came to mind on January 22, 2010 as I lined up the sun with the cross marking the long-recognized death site of missionary explorer Pere Jacques Marquette. According to the Jesuits, Father Marquette died on May 18, 1675, near this hilly spot between Pere Marquette Lake and Lake Michigan. I had been trying to make a sunset image like this for years, regularly scouting the potential from across Pere Marquette Lake during evening drives home. On this day the cross, sun, clouds and color combined to create a view better than I had ever imagined. One glance told me this was the day! But the sun was not quite lined up. I quickly calculated that if I could get to the end of the Ludington Yacht Club peninsula in time, everything might align. I drove the two blocks quickly, jumped out of my truck with my camera, 500-millimeter lens and tripod and ran until I ran out of land. Still the sun did not line up with the cross. Fortunately, a cold spell had built up the ice on Pere Marquette Lake. I did not hesitate to keep sprinting onto the ice. Twenty yards of running without falling on the slick ice later, everything lined up. I mounted the camera on the tripod, fine-tuned the tripod position and fired. Then I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God for good ice. I lived a few blocks away from this cross for more than a dozen years. During all those years of passing by the monument, almost daily, I had made only a few images of the cross that pleased me. None of them held a candle to this one. This image is especially dear to my heart not only because of its Christian symbolism but also because I have always loved and valued history, including the history of Father Marquette’s Ludington connection. Ludington was recognized as the death site of Father Marquette by generations of local Native Americans and settlers. In fact, when the area was first settled, Ludington was named Pere Marquette in honor of Father Marquette. The town was years later renamed Ludington in 1864 at the request of the most powerful lumberman in Pere Marquette at the time, James Ludington. The Pere Marquette River, Pere Marquette Lake, a street, a township and much more remain named Pere Marquette. Many different crosses have marked this spot over the centuries. This cross was erected in the 1950s as a community project. In 2019 and 2020, a new base for the cross was built through another community effort, and the cross has been put back in place to tower over Pere Marquette Lake. A lot of people believe that cross belongs there; I am one of them.

Eagles in Muskegon

I was running out of daylight yesterday and worried that I would have to shoot my photo of the day for the 365 Project in the dark, when the sun broke through the thick cloud layer and cast magic light along the Lake Michigan shoreline. I quickly found some beautiful grass to frame my photograph. F2.8 at 1/6400, ISO 640, 18-50 mm lens at 50 mm

En route from Fremont to Walkerville, Brad and I discover this old house that is slowly but surely returning to the earth. As aged and deteriorated as the structure is, it somehow retains a certain grace and dignity that appeals to both Brad and me.

This winter was brutal on the wildlife in Michigan. A friendly, hungry deer walked right up to me looking for a handout of food at Ludington State Park today. If I'd had food, I know it would have eaten right out of my hand.

Legend of Kitch-Iti-Kipi

It would appear that a huff and a puff might blow down this old barn southeast of Walkerville, Michigan. And yet I wonder how many years the wooden structure has leaned eastward without collapsing.

My dad taught me as a young boy that if you see an excellent sunrise to the east in Michigan to make sure to turn around and look at the sky in the west. I was blessed with a great teacher! The Ludington North Breakwater Light was glowing this morning with a pink and blue backdrop.

Standing inside this 50-foot-tall ice cave on Grand Island, I had the strangest feeling I had been there before. With the warm sun and an occasional water droplet hitting my face, I felt like I was at a new beginning in my life. It was a spiritual moment for me.

I can’t imagine how many shots of songbirds I have taken in 50 years, but I can unequivocally say this is by far my favorite and most artistic. The moment this male cardinal, in all its glory, landed in this spot, I realized this was the perfect bird in the perfect position in the perfect place at the perfect time. The bright red bird rocketed out of the monochromatic background of the rocks and fresh snow. I couldn’t have designed or painted a better background. Click. Mission accomplished, not because making that image was my objective; it wasn’t. I got out early that morning because of the gorgeous blanket of snow that had fallen overnight. I drove to Ludington State Park and hiked across the foot bridge to the far side of the Sable River and found a spot to hide myself, my tripod, my Nikon camera and 500-millimeter telephoto lens amidst some young pine in hopes of catching some shots of a mink or two coming out of an opening in the rocks as I had observed on a previous hike. Just as I had anticipated, a mink soon emerged. I was all set to capture the moment the mink’s splendid coat would be framed against the snow. Photographers dream of what wildlife might do. As in this case, sometimes you can even visualize the finished picture on the wall. But of course it is up to the wildlife to decide for themselves where and how they present themselves and the course they will travel. We can’t pose them. For more than two hours I watched mink occasionally come out and go back in. Never did one of them set foot in the snow. I was getting more frustrated and colder by the minute. Suddenly a cardinal flew in. Fortunately, my camera was already trained and focused on the spot because cardinals almost never stay still for more than a few seconds. Because I chose to get off the couch, because I got out early to take advantage of the fresh snow, because I had paid my dues spending a lot of time at the park, because I had previously seen the mink along the river in that location, and because I overcame the great disappointment of the lack of cooperation from the mink, because I stayed, I made a completely unexpected but better image that will be most pleasing to me for the rest of my life. Many of my favorite images did not come easy. That makes them especially rewarding.

Is this one horse or two? I usually make certain to avoid mergers when I am making a photographic image, but this one is irresistible. While scouting for pictures in Hamlin Township, I spot a horse with incredibly beautiful eyes. As I am preparing to make this shot, a second horse ambles into the frame. I am laughing as I trip the shutter.

My son Brad and I teach that 90 percent of a good outdoor photograph is about the light and or atmosphere. Three videographers were with me on a late January early evening that could best be described as gray on the emotional scale. They probably wondered why I was stopping along this country road with it getting so dark. However, I instantly saw, looking at Cherry Hill Farm, that the soft snowfall was creating a painterly, Christmas-card atmosphere that I could previsualize much brighter. A longer exposure would do just that but I needed the snowflakes to remain relatively distinct. Adding to my challenge, I wanted as much of the scene sharp as possible. The solution was to raise my ISO (digital sensor sensitivity speed) to a fast 3200, which allowed me to shoot at a relatively fast shutter speed (1/100th second) and still maintain a medium depth of field (f9). All I had to do now was slap down the tripod, mount the camera and trip the shutter. I have studied and photographed our Conrad Road neighbors’ farm for years. This image is one of my wintertime favorites