Like any relationship, our connection with a place can be complicated. As I explore the forests of Victoria’s Central Highlands, I often reflect on my reaction to the landscape and how I could capture the sense of being there in my photographs.

The Central Highlands contain a spectacular and fascinating mix of the primeval remnants of a much wetter past and the towering forests of the world’s tallest flowering plant.

I feel many things in these forests. One constant, I have come to realise, is that I carry a deep sense of anticipated loss.

Fire in the landscape

Fire has always been a driver of change in these forests. There has been a dance over geological timescales between the fire dependent Mountain Ash forest on the drier slopes and the fire sensitive temperate rainforest in the wetter gullies. With the movement of tectonic plates, the continent that is now Australia became drier, the rainforest retreated and the eucalypts came to dominant.

The behaviour of fire across these forest types can be seen along the Taggerty River, above the town of Marysville, which was burnt in the 2009 Black Saturday fires. The hills are covered with the towering skeletons of Mountain Ash and the thick regrowth from millions of seeds germinated by fire that now race for the sun. Intense fire, driven by the amassed bark and leaves on the ground and crowns full of volatile eucalypt oils, is essential to these forests.

Much of the rainforest in the wet gullies remained untouched despite the intensity of the Black Saturday fire at the end of the Millenium Drought of the 2000s. Fire is not part of the rainforest’s natural cycle and, when burnt, will struggle to return in competition with the faster growing eucalypts.

Unfortunately, we are tipping the scales of this delicate balance and these temperate rainforests are at immediate risk.

The changing world

The heatwaves and wildfire seen in this northern summer continue the pattern of recent years, likely to be made worse with a strengthening El Niño down south.

If I have a criticism of science, it is that it is too slow and conservative. While there have been many studies over the years, the gold standard has been the United Nations' Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) Assessment Reports which periodically summarize the global state of knowledge on climate change. This means the compelling evidence for policy solutions comes far too late (fire is a lagging indicator). But when it comes, the science in unequivocable.

Dr Joëlle Gergis, who was a lead author for the United Nations’ IPCC Sixth Assessment Report1, notes that “When the First Assessment Report was released in 1990, there was little observational evidence for a detectable human influence.” Certainty has since grown to the point that the Sixth Assessment Report, released in stages between 2021 and 2023, concluded that ‘human influence on the climate system is now an established fact’. 2

Even the impact of heat waves in Europe was well understood. Joëlle Gergis again.

“An attribution study by scientists from the UK Met Office released in November 2021 demonstrated that the record-breaking summer experienced across Europe in 2021 is impossible to explain without the influence of human-caused climate change. They show that Europe can now expect near 50°C heatwaves – which used to be a one-in-10,000-year event in pre-industrial times – to occur every three years as climate change continues to affect weather patterns in the immediate future.”3

While it seems some people want to contest the science, it is hard to ignore what can be seen with our own eyes. The vast increases in areas burnt over the past few months are astounding.

While 2009 Black Saturday fires were big (450,000 hectares), the 2019–2020 bushfires in Australia burnt a staggering 21 per cent of Australia’s temperate forests (a total of 24 million hectares).

As I explore these forests, I reflect that the fires of next summer might reach these forests I love. This is not about some climate change future, this is now.

The only answer is hope

All seems hopeless. With decades of recognition of the challenge (since at least 19924) and now statistical certainty (the world is not flat), action has been and will continue to be too slow. Now that the economics of renewable energy is compelling, the alignment of the market with climate action is resulting in remarkable adoption. But most areas of mitigation and adaptation are not progressing as they need to.

I have tried to understand this sadness I feel when I think about the future of these rainforests. It is different to what I feel about the future of my children and their generation. I somehow feel they will be able to overcome whatever adversity arises. Perhaps this is just naive hope? Perhaps this hope is the only way to move forward?

The concept of solastalgia does not quite fit. According to Glenn Albrecht, this idea relates to “the pain or distress caused by the ongoing loss of solace and the sense of desolation connected to the present state of one’s home and territory”5. I do not feel nostalgia or homesickness for these forests – they are not my home, they are wild and exist independent of humans.

What I feel is more related to anticipatory mourning or grieving. Albrecht uses the word mermerosity (from the Greek word mermeros, to cause worry), which he defines as “a chronic state of being worried or anxious about the possible passing of the familiar, and its replacement by that which does not sit comfortably within one’s sense of place.”

What is important in this definition is having a sense of place. I realise that not only are these forests wild and thriving; they are also innocent. They have the right to exist. It is one thing for the landscape to evolve with the moving of the continents. It is quite another to be impacted by climate chaos caused by humans over 150 years (acknowledging that not all humans are equally culpable).

I know that devastating fire is inevitable. I know that once burnt, these changes are permanent. Like the vast tracts of snow gums burnt by a succession of fires this century, a warming climate means that many of the current rainforest areas will not be returning in human timelines. I know that I am largely powerless to change emissions or protect vast tracks of land.

So what to do? All politics is local because so is loss.

Art has a role to play in connecting people to what is happening. The sense of impending loss is motivating. Photography, of all the arts, can support a collective witnessing of the impacts of climate change, which are no longer generational but seasonal. The challenge is no longer shifting baselines but making sense of what is happening.

This cannot be just about raising awareness of the risk to beautiful landscapes. This sense making needs to focus on action. At a local scale, this could include practical changes to land management practices including rules around campfires and four wheel driving, and developing firefighting plans that prioritises ecologic outcomes as well as human.

I do not want my photography to be a document for posterity, to show my children what was and is no more. I want it to reflect what I feel and engage others in that discussion. As Joëlle Gergis says

I started this newsletter focusing on loss, but overwhelmingly, my emotional response in these forests is positive. These complex, thriving ecosystems provide a model for the future. They point to hope.

After my last newsletter about a hike deep into Victoria’s Central Highlands, I didn’t want to give the impression that I am always heading into that kind of remote country. Most of my photography trips are much easier physically, with shorter distances and more gentle terrain (although preferably without the nice blue skies!).

There is nothing wrong with the big adventures. As I have described in recent posts, being deep in untracked wilderness or on a track five days from the nearest road can lead to profound experiences. But I have found that it is the quiet walk in the woods that leads to consistently better images.

The big adventures are exhausting and usually have a time imperative; you need to keep moving. Most importantly, they are often in places I will get to perhaps a couple of times a year at best; most likely, once in a lifetime.

However, it is on the quiet walk where I can take my time to look closely and allow my curiosity to flourish, often revealing small, subtle observations that spark an idea.

Recently, wanting no more than an easy walk with my camera, I had an early morning start to some new territory to explore. The plan was loose; walk a little way along a track and then head off-track up a spur, traverse across, and then down a creek.

The climb was not steep, and I was surprised at the open vegetation. There were large areas with only intermittent gum trees and large tree ferns over a cover of bracken, ferns and native grasses. Still in shade, the early morning sun was reflecting off white fluffy clouds creating lovely soft light.

This was joyful landscape photography. What stood out to me was the colours in the vegetation. I could walk slowly, tripod in one hand, camera hanging around my neck (minimal risk of damage) and take my time searching for compositions.

Moving quietly, in no rush, I got very close to quite a large deer, giving him a fright. There were signs of feral deer everywhere, and their tracks made the walking even easier. I quickly slipped into that beautiful flow state of exploration for compositions – the exact opposite of what I described in my last newsletter.

Having gained enough height, I began the traverse across the hillside. By holding my elevation, the creek rose up to meet me. Closer to the creek, the vegetation was thicker with large bushes and clumps of cutting grass than needed to be avoided. The topography became more complex, with steep sided gullies and muddy soaks to be negotiated.

Although the winter has been mild, the creek was flowing nicely. There were plenty of ferns although, unlike nearby creeks, there was less cool temperate rainforest than I expected.

Instead, the valley floor was covered with lovely wet forest, often with mid-story scrub crowding the riverbanks. Unfortunately, this tended to result in messy, distracting photographs. In addition, the wind had picked up so the river image below is a blend of a faster shutter speed for the vegetation and a slower one for the water.

There were sections where the hillside crowded the creek, creating sections that were particularly steep and slippery. I ended up with wet shoes, crossing the creek to stay on the flatter side. Before long, a few hours after starting, I hit the track just a few hundred metres from the car.

This was an easy walk with plenty of time to enjoy nature and no expectations for portfolio worthy images. I now know that in different conditions there are some nice images to be made in the open forest. And I can get there in less than 30 minutes from the car park.

I feel I should add a disclaimer. While this walk was easy for me, not everyone would be comfortable walking off-track, reading a topographic map, and traversing uneven ground and crossing flowing water.

The trick is to find a local area that is not too challenging, that you can visit regularly and encourages quiet and slow walking that will allow time and energy for photography. It may be less exciting than the visit to an exotic location, but the images will be better.

As usual, I had downloaded my files immediately after returning from the trip and done a quick review of the images. I made a preliminary selection and edit on a couple. Almost always I have a sense of disappointment – the RAW images cannot live up to the vividness of the recent experience – but I feel it is important to reflect on what worked and what didn’t while the experience of taking the images is fresh in my memory.

Usually this disappointment is temporary and within a few days I am getting enthusiastic about at least some images. Enough to get editing, which usually leads to more enthusiasm and the discovery of more images worth working on.

But not this time. This trip had pushed me to the limit, which meant the photography in the field was compromised and, even with a few weeks’ separation, the intensity of the experience still colours my opinion of the photographs.

I had been thinking about this walk for a couple of years. Last year I bush bashed across from an overgrown management track to a section of creek that flows off the Baw Baw plateau. That time I returned the same way (more or less, there is no way to follow the same route in thick scrub), realising that further exploration would require more than one day.

So the plan was in place for an overnight walk, with plenty of time to explore. I would complete a loop – up the management track, traverse across to the creek and then follow the creek back down to the road.

The Walk In

The first day, about 4 hours of walking, went as planned.

Walking off track requires thousands of little decisions. Do I veer uphill or downhill around a tree? Do I push through some tight scrub or do I look for a way around? Where best to climb down and then out of a creek gully?

The vegetation and topography were familiar. I passed through a jumble of massive boulders making their slow geological way down a gully. The boulders towered over me as I struggled to push through tree ferns jammed tight between the rocks and fallen timber. I remember the exhilaration of first discovering them on that first trip. But like last time, there was no time to search for compositions, so I kept moving.

I ended up slightly more upstream than previously – precise navigation is nearly impossible – at the top of a very steep river valley. So steep, the hillside seemed to bulge outwards and I couldn’t see the valley floor far below. I had to continue walking upstream, parallel to the creek, until finding an intermittent watercourse that had created a safe way down.

By the time I reached the creek I needed to find a site for my hammock and dinner was eaten in the dark. A long drive, a difficult walk, and no photography. But I was in place, expecting better conditions for forest photography (cloud and rain) and looking forward to tomorrow.

The Descent

I slept well that night despite the heavy rain – the hammock (its second outing) was performing well. I was keen to get some images so I spent about an hour working my way upstream before breakfast.

The image below was taken at the high point (about 1000 metres elevation), at the base of a huge boulder fall that filled the river valley. It shows nicely the nature of the terrain – the creek dropping rapidly between towering valley sides. From here, the creek falls about 200 metres each kilometre.

I packed up and headed downstream. The going was very slow. Ideally, I would be walking down at creek level, among the moss-covered boulders and the more open tree ferns and myrtle beech, below the wet eucalypt forest with its thick scrub and water ferns that grow densely together up to waist high.

But here, the creek itself is not very wide, with steep sides and full of large boulders, the water a continuous cascade. The vegetation, steep terrain and fallen trees conspire to make travel difficult.

Typical of this ancient continent, the landscape seems fixed. But there are signs of very old movement.

In places there had been a landslip in some distant past, which had scooped out a section of hillside. Now fully covered in vegetation, the steepness at the edges required that I climb high up the hill to go around if the creek was impassable.

And there were sections where massive boulders had fallen creating a rock jam with significant drops (and some nice waterfalls, if only I could get to them). More impassable barriers.

My photography is about exploration of natural places. Sometimes it is about human engagement with nature but mostly it’s about wild, untouched country. As a result, I have done a lot of off-track walking, and I know patience is the key. But this was slow, hard work.

Look closely at these photos and search for the path you would take downstream.

In this country you are forever peering through the trees to see if the creek below you might be doing something interesting. If so, you slip and slide down to explore a scene. The cost is the steep climb back out to terrain that can be traversed.

I reached the point where a small creek came in from the south. This was the exit point I had taken last time back to the management track. I thought long and hard about taking that route.

It would still be a couple of hours back to the car but it was known. I had no idea how long following the creek would take, certainly several hours longer. The temptation to go with the known, to avoid the work and discomfort, was strong.

I had some trail mix and decided to continue down.

Over the next couple of kilometres, I climbed up and down the valley side four or five times. It is these locations that produced what I felt were disappointing images. Technically they are fine. The location was spectacular. I just feel the compositions are off amongst the complexity of boulder falls.

As I descended, the nature of the creek subtly changed. Rather than cascading straight down the hill, the creek had more curves between the mountain spurs. This created some deeper pools but also meant the outside of the bends were very steep.

By now I had crossed the creek numerous times up to my thighs in places to avoid the steepest sections (mercifully I was spared the discomfort of wet underwear!). But I was getting tired. Travelling solo I am very conscious of risk. Steep country, thick vegetation where you can’t see where you’re placing your feet, slippery fallen timber and large boulders in fast flowing water is high risk terrain. Risk escalates quickly when getting tired or rushing.

My hamstrings and hip flexors were beginning to cramp as I crawled under tree trunks or climbed over obstacles with a heavy pack. I was dropping down to the creek less frequently. This became about getting there, not photography. I was conscious of trade-offs – stop and have a break, or keep moving and stay warm?

I was consulting my map on my phone with increasing frequency, hoping the distance to the road would magically close. I kept looking for a large waterfall I had previously photographed but I completely missed it, such is the thickness of the bush.

Finally, a glimpse of the bridge, a few signs that other people had walked here and then I stumbled into some blackberries, a sure sign the road was only metres away. I was out.

I enjoyed the last kilometre of road, able to stride out. The 8 kilometres of off-track walking had taken 6 hours 20 minutes (about 47 min/km), with 769 metres of climbing and 962 metres of decent. Not an unreasonable pace.

If I am honest, the walk was tougher than it should have been, even with a 15 kilogram pack. I have some big plans for the end of the year and will need to get fitter and stronger. But this is as much about mental approach as fitness.

With a high cognitive load focusing on the journey, it was difficult to get into that ideal photography flow. There have been times when the conditions or time pressures have meant I haven’t taken the time to get the photograph. I try not to second guess myself in the comfort of home. But this was perhaps the first time my emotional state affected how I see the landscape (and the resulting photographs).

One thing I do know – repeat visits provide familiarity with the terrain, make the journey easier, and reveal new understandings of the landscape. I will be back.

Postscript

Now, as I complete my final draft of this newsletter some 8 weeks after the walk, I feel I am coming to terms with these images. I still think they could be improved upon, but in the struggle to write this newsletter and time sitting with the images, I have come to understand better what they represent.

Not my experience, although that still colours how I perceive them. Instead, they illustrate the absolute wildness of this country. Every image shows the difficulty of travel; every metre hard fought. There is no path, no umbilical cord back to civilisation, no concession made to man.

I want to explore locations I care about, to make discoveries, and find ways to share those discoveries. I entered this valley not knowing what I hoped to learn or observe, let alone what images I might make.

This is not the kind of country to make postcards; the absence of man is palpable. As a result, building a relationship with this place is difficult, it is too uncompromisingly indifferent. But now I have better sense of the story I want to tell and the images I need.

The ability to make a technically sound image is important (although there are many great photos that are less than technically perfect). Modern cameras and editing software mean that getting right the exposure, focus, contrast and so on is easier than ever. Strong technical skills are critical to making the most of the conditions and subject. And certainly, a photographer needs to understand the subject and light in front of them to make an intentional image. But a technical correct image of an interesting subject in nice light can still feel lacking.

The key to filling this gap is how the objects in the frame are arranged relative to each other. Composition – the design of the image – can make all the difference in turning a two-dimensional photograph into an aesthetically pleasing and engaging image.

There is no easy way to learn composition. It takes time and experimentation, gradually learning what works and what doesn’t.

One idea that I learnt during an online course with Les Walkling1 is to think about three different forms of composition – drawing, colour and tonal.

As part of some courses, Les provides a Photoshop action that creates three layers separating these different compositions. For the image above, below is the RAW file, and a distillation of these three compositions. Understanding these compositions can be very helpful in making editing decisions.

The drawing composition removes colour and highlights only the edges in the image. This is useful when thinking about what to include in the frame and what to exclude. It is well known that photography is a game of subtraction. What is the subject? What objects do I want in the frame? What do I want to exclude? Once these decisions are made, the question is how to arrange the objects in the frame.

It is the drawing composition – defining the relationship between objects – that are at the centre of many of the “rules” of composition such as the rule of thirds, the use of leading lines or the placement of foreground elements to create a sense of depth.

Note that some of these relationships between objects are actual – the road leading to the horizon for example. But some relationships are perceived or imaginary. For example, the space between trees creates space that leads the eye into the image.

Colour composition shows hue and saturation without tonal graduation. It is useful for thinking about using colour to create colour contrast and mood and how to create a perception of depth – warmer, brighter colours come forward, while cooler, darker colours recede.

Tonal composition highlights what is brighter or darker, sharper or softer. Of all the types of composition, I find the tones in a scene to be the hardest to visualise.

In Practice

You don’t need this Photoshop Action to think about these compositions. With a bit of practice they become easier to visualise. While creating compositions is largely instinctive, if I were to try and break down my thinking, it would go as follows.

• In the field, I start by visualising the drawing composition. What objects do I want in the frame and how should they be placed relative to each other? How do I want the eye to travel through the image? At this point I will also check the edges for unwanted distractions and make sure the corners anchor the frame.

• I think about colour. What is the white balance? Are there specific areas I might want to warm up or cool down?

• I find the tonal values are the hardest to visualise. This is why I set my Manual mode to show the preview on the EVF and back screen in black and white2.

• By this point, I usually I have a good sense of what my edit will be, at least my initial attempt (although there are plenty of times when I might take the edit in a different direction once I see the image on the screen).

Bringing all these elements together in the field and then in editing software is difficult. Sometimes there is a magic that just happens, where it comes together through instinct and luck and the image becomes much more than the sum of its parts.

After 7 kilometres and a long sustained climb, the first peak, Mt Tywnam (2196m), was only a few hundred metres of open grassland from the track. Nothing more than a gentle rise afforded views to the south towards Mt Kosciuszko (above, far left) and north towards Mt Jagungal.

The second peak, Tenison Woods Knoll (2136m), was also off-track but out on a spur, each side dropping precipitously away. While the high plains are benign on a fine day, there is no avoiding the treachery of the steep sides. Famous are the stories of people disorientated and desperate to escape a blizzard, in their confusion entering the wrong gully, looking for escape and never returning from the steepness and the impassable vegetation.

After two more peaks, camp on the first night was at the headwaters of the Wilkinson’s Creek. The creek meandered through a lovely broad valley; a few other hikers widely dispersed. The air chilled rapidly as the sun was lost so it was hot food and early to bed.

The sunrise from the summit of Muellers Peak (2120m) had no gentle transition; the horizon’s shadow rapidly retreated as the harsh light glared across the rugged terrain.

From here, a loop extends out to Alice Rawson Peak (below), then Mt Townsend, Abbott Peak and Mount Du Faur and back to camp. There is no trail and the air was cold (the puddles were frozen) but the walking was easy on a blue sky day. Off the Main Range Walk, the country feels remote, the senses more alive. The only navigation required was weaving through the granite outcrops and finding the best way to the summits. Mt Townsend (2209m, Australia’s second highest) required some rock scrambling and took a couple of backtracks to find the way up. It felt like a mountain summit.

With camp packed up, it was onwards to Australia’s highest mountain. The walk to the summit of Mt Kosciuszko (2208m) is an unnecessarily long spiral despoiling the slopes with a highly engineered road. I am uninspired, my camera packed away.

The broad, rounded summit on this beautiful day was filled with people. At midday, people of all kinds were enjoying their picnics. Like a scene from Where’s Wally, there was even a couple getting married. I made my way past the long queue waiting to stand on the summit cairn and take a selfie, just touching it was enough for me. I had a snack and was on my way as quickly as possible.

Some of the Main Range Walk is raised, metal boardwalk. Perhaps it slightly vibrates, I find my legs ache more than they should. So I am pleased to leave the marked trail and head steeply up to a saddle below Mt Ramshead North (above). The other side reveals another broad valley filled with granite tors. There is a lake I recognise from Instagram. I spend too long looking for just the right tent site but am soon exploring the rugged valley with my camera, in the zone.

After 2 hours exploring the valley in dawn light, I am again climbing a mountain. It’s a long steady ascent to the top of Mt Ramshead but the views are worth it, particularly of Mt Kosciuszko - it’s rounded bulk ever present on this walk. The loop is quite long heading out a spur to Mt Ramshead South. This peak was a jumble of outcrops that required careful navigation, a natural maze. The final summit was an exposed scramble.

From the tent site, I had less distance and more time to explore the tors and scramble up the twelfth summit. Camp on day 3 was at the headwaters of the mighty Snowy River amongst a series of granite outcrops, no-one for miles.

The last day started with a spectacular sunrise and some frantic running around to find foregrounds and align outcrops. Then it was a final pack up for the short walk back to the car (7 km) and the long (7 hour) drive home.

From the main visitor centre, there is a beautiful 8.4 km circuit that traverses a range of forest types as it connects the three main waterfalls. Being the end of summer, the volume of water was low, but the waterfalls exceeded my expectations.

Even mid-week, the visitor centre and section to the first waterfall (above) are busy. Beyond the first falls, the track climbs steeply and the number of people quickly drops off. It’s not quite the South Coast Track, but there is plenty of opportunity to take your time and enjoy the quiet serenity of the bush.

The vegetation is a mix of rainforest in the gullies through to dry eucalypt forest on the higher sections. Near the start of the walk the track passes through a very impressive patch of tree ferns. The main photography challenge was dealing with shooting up towards the bright sky and trying to eliminate the bitumen path and stone walls on this very accessible section.

There is plenty of trail infrastructure, especially around the waterfalls. Fences are a necessity in popular locations to protect the environment, but they do limit opportunities for different compositions. I much prefer locations where there are fewer people and more opportunities to explore.

When placement of the camera is limited, the final images are much more dependent on flow and atmospheric conditions. I am sure my photos are the same as thousands taken before me. No matter; they were fun to make and nice reminders of a beautiful location. If I get the chance, I would definitely come back to photograph these waterfalls under different conditions.

The drive up to the car park at Lake Dobson takes about 30-40 minutes on a narrow, dirt road. From here, a number of walks start across the alpine environment. By the afternoon, when I went up to do an initial walk around and get a sense of the higher terrain, the weather was not good and getting worse.

It’s a beautiful location, even with wind and rain, and I had a great walk for a couple of hours. I spent quite a bit of time trying different compositions of a pencil pine leaning over Lake Dobson.

I wanted to capture the drama of the scene and the strength of the tree. This photo is two images blended. The main image was taken at 1/125th of a second that gave me sharp vegetation in the wind (just) and 1/8th to slightly blur the water. I found the water too busy and distracting in the sharp version.

I drove back to the car park before dawn the next morning and did a similar walk as the previous evening. Despite the poor forecast my optimism was rewarded with about 20 minutes of nice light through a gap in the clouds as the sun rose above the horizon.

The image below of the western shoreline of Lake Dobson demonstrates those moments of light that we photographers cherish.

There is an amazing grove of pandani, only about 20 minutes from the car park, that is well worth the walk. Pandani are the world’s tallest heath plant (growing up to 12 metres in height) and found only in Tasmania’s alpine areas and wet forest mountains. They have long strap like leaves that remain on the plant as they die, creating a wonderful range of colours.

The image below was taken from the shoreline during the burst of light that make the colours really pop. I took more images of the tallest pandani I had ever seen - it is remarkable how big some of these plants can grow in the right conditions - but the clouds had moved in and the light was flat.

With the weather worsening, I walked back to the car to have breakfast in the shelter shed and decide what to do. I got back just in time as the weather hit. There was really no choice; the temperature was dropping and gale force winds and heavy rain do not make for fun (or safe) walking over exposed high country. Photography would be impossible. Instead, I decided to explore some other locations from the warmth of my car and search out some good food before flying home the next day.

In my last newsletter, I described how I returned to a very special valley to test my recently purchased hammock and tarp. The aim is to be able to spend more time deep in the Central Highlands of Victoria – there are few places to pitch a tent, but plenty of trees to hang a hammock – searching for those conditions that will best represent what I feel to be the essence of a place.

While the last newsletter was about fieldcraft and place, this newsletter focuses on cameracraft and how I work a scene to capture options for processing in edit.

I.

Overnight I decided not to head further down the valley as I had not made enough distance on the first day. Instead, I left the hammock and went exploring with just camera bag and tripod. Freed of the weight of a pack, I could easily climb down to the bottom of the deep valley, searching for possible images.

In this location, the sense of atmosphere is so vivid and tangible. This strong connection with the landscape always inspires me to seek images that will capture a timeless moment.

To get safely into these locations (fieldcraft) and be open to the place’s atmosphere is one thing. A photographer also needs the camera craft to be able to capture something of value.

II.

The first scene I came across was okay; there was only one view point at the bottom of a jumble of boulders with a nice flow of water. This is a good example to show how I capture a single scene and then blend versions.

I took three 3-bracketed exposures as shown below. Dynamic range was not an issue; rather I find it an efficient way to capture multiple shutter speeds with their different effects on the texture of the water. With 3 presses of the shutter button, I had 9 images from 0.25 second to 1.6 seconds (I can’t remember why I changed the aperture).

At home, I decided I liked the ¼ second image for the texture of the cascade and the 0.8 second image for the water in the pool at the bottom. As it happened, the longer exposures also had a little lens flare in the top left corner, which I couldn’t see at the time on the back of camera.

I processed the ¼ second image in Lightroom and then synched settings with the slower image and then adjusted exposure, as can be seen below. I then imported as layers into Photoshop, aligned the layers and hand masked the slower image on top of the quicker image. I also did some minor edits to manage the highlights and shadows, added contrast through a little dodging and burning (for example, the ferns on the back wall), and did some minor colour correction (for example, to the colour of the pool) to complete the image.

III.

I moved on to another location, the scene I found on my very first trip to this valley. The image below shows the places I put my tripod as I worked this scene.

I came in from the left and had to cross on the log, hugging the two logs angled down to not fall in and started where the red numbers are. The contact sheet below shows the images I took here (I have only included one exposure, although each was bracketed +/- 1 stop, and applied a simple Lightroom adjustment in the Basic panel).

I started at point 1 to capture the big moss-covered boulder. This image below used 3 of the first 4 images on the contact sheet below to both focus stack and bring back some of the glare from the non-polarised image (the first two images used a circular polariser). I was keen in the edit to emphasis the distinct zigzag of lighter elements (bottom right - centre left - top right) which helps draw the eye through the scene.

Then I tried a smaller scene (2) which didn’t really worked. At point 3, being much closer to the cascade, I tried a pano which I thought would work but turned out to be a bit distorted and unbalanced. Fortunately, I also moved a little further back (point 4) for another pano, shown below after further editing in Lightroom and Photoshop.

I also climbed up the boulders to point 5, thinking those smaller falls might be nice, but they weren’t. I didn’t take an image but you never know till you go. I then moved back to point 6 where the photo with the numbers was taken. Here’s another image incorporating more foreground.

I then went back across the creek to the orange numbers and tried a couple of other views further up the valley (7 and 8) and then looking across the creek (9 and 10). Nothing great, but the point is to fully explore options. Sometimes it is an unexpected perspective that is the best.

IV.

Soon enough I decided to head back to camp. I climbed up the valley side, in many places requiring some tricky scrambling. There was no way to exactly backtrack my route so I was very pleased that I was able to navigate directly back to the hammock.

I packed up and headed out. I reached the old bridge after about an hour and had a choice. I could cross the bridge and walk out on the management track. It would take half an hour. Or I could head further upstream and exit at another track much closer to the trailhead.

I decided to do the latter and explore further upstream. So started an epic 3 hour slog to cover a couple of kilometres through thick bush and waist deep water.

But that’s another story.

Postscript.

Although the light by now was very bright and contrasty, it is always worth experimenting. Mostly it doesn’t work out but occasionally you get something interesting. The unedited RAW file below, taken as I walked up the river, is a hot mess. But with some heavy editing, I am very happy with the final black and white image – a nice bookend to the black and white images of previous newsletter.

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I.

Life can take unexpected turns I thought, disengaging cruise control as I hit the heavy rain and the traffic on the freeway slowed. The rain was not forecast and I was running behind time, but it didn’t matter – I was heading towards one of my favourite river valleys and had nowhere in particular to be by nightfall.

Freeway, main road, narrow mountain road, finally dirt road and then I was parked and on foot, heavy pack on my back. The forest was shrouded in misty rain; management track, dilapidated bridge and into the forest. I was heading back to where, although I didn’t know it at the time, my journey to understand the idea of place had begun.

II.

My first experience of this short section of river, enclosed by its deep valley, transformed how I think about place, especially where nature dominates.

I first found this valley on a map. There was a waterfall I had never heard of, and some online research suggested there were more falls further downstream. The contours looked promising.

On that first visit in May 2022 I realised the named waterfall was not very photogenic, but I found some very old tape that looked like it may mark a way down to the lower falls. I tried following it but there were so many missing sections that I gave up and made my own way, picking gaps through the bush rapidly losing height to follow the river.

What I discovered, in those couple of kilometres below the bridge, is an extremely steep sided valley surrounding a decent sized river. The sunnier, north facing side is impenetrable with its very steep slope and thick scrub. But the more shaded south facing side, unlike many river valleys in the Central Highlands, is more open, full of tree ferns and Myrtle Beech. While some sections are too steep to walk, with care a route downstream can be found.

I was immediately engrossed in exploration, the senses overloaded. Route finding, pushing through vegetation, soon dirty with rich rainforest soil and fern fronds falling down my back. The constant din of tumbling water in the background.

On that first trip, I remember vividly climbing down to the river and finding the most amazing scene. As the morning sun shone directly down the valley into this green cathedral, the feeling was of the divine, a connection to the trees and ferns, the water, the moss-covered rocks, even the empty space of the valley itself. I remember whooping in joy, knowing there was no one in the valley, or the next, to hear me.

I was most definitely in wonderland, and since then, every time I return I feel I am entering a different domain, a place separated from its physical reality. It was this experience that took me down the rabbit-hole of exploration of these rivers and the meaning of place.

III.

There was a practical reason why I was making this trip in the unexpected rain. Over the past 4 years, I have found that day trips are too limiting when exploring these rivers in the Central Highlands of Victoria. With the time it takes to traverse this rugged, untracked terrain, an exhausting day trip means only a couple of hours of photography.

The challenge for longer trips has been to find a suitable campsite – in the past year, I have not found a single place to pitch a tent given the slope and vegetation. So recently I purchased a hammock and tarp.

I was keen to test the hammock – there was never any question that my first overnight trip would be to spend a night in this special valley. Perhaps I would get more than a couple of kilometres downstream!

Having made a later start than planned, I had not covered much ground when I started looking for a spot to hang my hammock. I wanted plenty of time before night fell.

I needed to find two convenient trees the right distance apart. It quickly became clear that most sites would either have the hammock a long way above ground or over such steep ground that any failure in my knots would be disastrous. Perhaps I should have gone somewhere less extreme?

Eventually I found a place. It was still steep – sitting in the hammock facing downhill, my feet couldn’t touch the ground, on the uphill side I was about a foot above the ground. There was no where I could have pitched a tent. The hammock went up fine and only took a couple of adjustments to make comfortable. The tarp was a bit rough given the uneven ground, but rain overnight was unlikely.

IV.

That afternoon, I only had time to find one nice section of river and make the most of the misty rain. The image below was a two shot panorama at 16mm. The two images overlapped by about 75% - I just needed a little more width to give space for the tree branch at the top and room for the water flow at the bottom. Even so, at 16mm, there was a little distortion in the corners that I corrected using the warp tool in Photoshop.

It’s a nice image, although I would have loved some morning light coming down the valley to provide some stronger backlight. This would have provided a more ethereal sense of other worldliness.

I cooked dinner in the dark and went to bed looking forward to testing the hammock and dreaming of more exploration in this valley. But I slept too well and could not recall any dreams.

The adventure continues…..

In my last post, I described the first 4 days of my South Coast Track walk as I flew into Melaleuca and then crossed the Ironbound Range (here). I left the story (Day 4) having camped two nights at Little Deadman’s Bay to spend a wonderful day backtracking a few kilometres up the Ironbound Range with my camera.

I had expected to see the next day’s walkers come through, but no one did. Perhaps low cloud had prevented planes from landing. Or the walkers had decided to wait a day for the weather to improve before crossing the Ironbound Range. I never found out why.

This meant I was not just walking solo; I was alone.

Day 5 started with a short walk along a stone beach and then turned inland through a thick, coastal forest before emerging onto extensive button grass plains. The walking was easy on new duckboards, but the rain and wind was constant, and low cloud provided moody conditions. I couldn’t resist capturing this atmosphere in black and white.

I love exploring a landscape in bad weather; the photography becomes about capturing the feeling invoked by the conditions and terrain. Although it was wet, I was overjoyed with the simple experience of walking across the open plains and then into a beautiful beech forest. The first major obstacle was crossing a large unnamed creek, which took some care and demanded an image be made.

It was in this forest that I met 1 of the 3 people I would see over the next 4 days, all heading the opposite direction. It felt surreal coming across someone in the pouring rain, in the middle of nowhere.

The woman was walking alone after her friend had decided (sensibly) that the track was too tough and turned back. She asked about campsites on the ascent of the Ironbound – she was planning to do 4 days walking in 2 or 3. I hoped I looked half as capable as she looked.

For some people, this much time alone in the wilderness would be a challenge. For me, it was a privilege to be fully immersed without the distraction of other people.

While I usually explore with my camera alone, I was surprised by how fundamental the change was to how I experienced the landscape. For the first 3 days I was walking solo but with 13 other people. They were all experienced hikers, very nice and interesting, but much of my memory of those days is dominated by the interactions with people, even though nearly all the walking was alone. It was the conversations at lunch spots or around the campsite that dominate my memory.

In the 4 days alone, my interactions with people were brief and literally passing as we traversed the track in opposite directions. My memory of this time is dominated by nature and my reaction to it. It is moments of wonder or a deep sense of contentment that stand out; the quiet noises of the river and surf, the birds, the wind all come to the fore. These non-human interactions feel more subtle than the interaction with people, more easily missed, less about events and more about sensations. There were many moments when this sensitivity to country brought a profound sense of joy that could have so easily been missed.

The second half of Day 5 was along Prion Beach, 5 km of magnificent, sweeping wonder. I stopped for lunch at the start of the beach, where Grotto Creek tumbled out of the forest. It was here I had problems with condensation. This has happened before, especially when the camera bag and everything in it gets damp and enclosed in rain covers.

Fortunately, the condensation was only on the back of the lens (not inside the weatherproof lens), and I was able to leave the camera without a lens on to dry out. The problem was solved by the time I had finished lunch.

At the far end of that beach was the New River which required rowing 200 metres or so to get across (and then twice more to ensure there was at least 1 of the 3 boats on each side).

It was at this campsite I made my biggest planning mistake. It hadn’t registered that water at this campsite was unreliable – I should have filled up back at the stream. The New River water was probably fine, but I thought it was slightly brackish. I decided to commit the last of my water to walking the 2.5 kilometres to what I hoped was a better water source. It was and a timely reminder that things can quickly go wrong out here with no easy solutions.

It was tough getting out of bed at the start of day 6 after yesterday’s big day. But it was well worth it – the morning was glorious with 30 minutes of light peaking under a gap in the clouds on the horizon, lighting up the opposite side of the New River lagoon. This was the start of blue skies for the rest of the trip. It meant optimal shooting times were very brief before and as the sun appeared on the horizon.

I was becoming familiar with the pattern of walking along this coast. Initially, the track would be through coastal forest along the beachfront and over headlands. Behind this line of forest there would be rolling plains filled with buttongrass and patches of trees on high points and along creek lines.

These open plains consisting of buttongrass and emergent scrub provided a riot of wildflowers and colour. At one point, I stopped to drink (after filtering) at a creek. Unlike the pure, icy cold water that emerged from moss on the Ironbound, this water was cool and sweet, filtered through the button grass plains.

As the track began to climb, typically the vegetation would change as elevation rose. Sometimes, in the protected lee of the hill, grasses and reeds would grow thick and tall, obscuring the track and catching my body and pack making forward progress slow.

Finally, I would break into the forest, immediately encompassed by cool relief after the heat of the plain. The forests could be made up of dense tea-tree, old-growth Myrtle Beech or eucalypts. There would be gullies filled with mud and tree ferns. Or dry ridge lines filled with scrubby undergrowth and huge messmate stringybark.

Inevitably, the track would drop steeply down back into coastal forest until reaching once more the coast, often where a river emerges from the mountain with a welcome campsite on the other side.

The last three days were perfect conditions for walking – blue skies and light winds. I enjoyed a succession of amazing beaches – Surprise Bay with its curving river just below the campsite, Granite Beach made up of granite boulders and a natural shower as the creek drops onto the beach, the deep and dark South Cape Rivulet and views towards South Cape.

The last major obstacle (on Day 7) was crossing the South Cape Range. The climb started immediately through a variety of forests until reaching the open hilltops filled with wildflowers.

From the highpoint, the descent on the eastern side was much wetter than the ascent. It was not as steep or long as the Ironbound but much muddier, with patches at least knee deep, but – being the end of summer and relatively dry – solid footholds on rocks or fallen branches were easily visible.

It was here I meet the two other people, older women, well equipped but asking how far to go and how muddy the track was (they hadn’t seen anything yet). Given it was 2.30 pm and I had been walking for over 4 and half hours, they were in for a long day.

Day 8, with a light pack and easy walk, started with a leisurely breakfast in the warmth of the sun. I felt conflicted about the end of the walk. While my body was tired, I didn’t want the experience to end.

After only 2 hours, I reached Lion Rock, the end of a popular day walk from Cockle Creek. It was a shock to see other people. The first people I met were a young bloke in shorts and bare chested, and a woman in sports top and bike shorts – a lot different to the gaiters (snakes), hat and long sleeves (sun) most hikers wore. I had to remind myself not to stop and chat with everyone I met along the way – a nod and a G’day was enough.

As the last kilometres clicked over, I reflected on the past 8 days. The experience of walking alone has its risks (far more manageable these days with improved equipment and satellite communication) but also amazing rewards. In the absence of human interactions, the mind becomes far more open and aware of the more than human environment.

Southwest Tasmania is exposed to highly changeable weather coming up from the Southern Ocean. It can be wet and cold even at sea level. To have 3 days of blue skies was great for walking and camping, even if not ideal for photography. To get to walk such a large section alone made the experience even more special.

I can see myself returning, perhaps hiking in and out from Cockle Creek in the cooler months. It would be cold and wet and muddy – generally miserable – but provide some different conditions in which to create images of this amazing landscape.

It is early February 2026 and the Britten Norman Islander was late leaving as we waited for low cloud to clear above Melaleuca, a now abandoned tin mine that is one of the few access points into the Southwest National Park, Tasmania’s largest and most remote national park.

In my plane were 5 other passengers, with another smaller plane leaving at the same time with 3 passengers. Due to poor conditions over the previous few days, there would be another plane with 6 passengers in the afternoon.

We were all headed deep into Tasmania’s Wilderness World Heritage Area to walk the South Coast Track, a 6-8 day, 88 kilometre walk east from Melaleuca to the nearest road at Cockle Creek.

We landed safely on a disconcertingly short and bumpy dirt runway, got gas for the stove and filled up with water. Before starting out, I checked out the small museum and bird hide where they have a feeding station. To my delight, there were four Orange-bellied Parrots feeding. These birds are critically endangered, with fewer than 100 individuals in the wild. They spend their summer breeding around Melaleuca and migrate to the mainland for winter. Hopefully, with the intensive conservation measures in place including predator control and captive breeding, these numbers can increase. What a way to start the walk!

By the time I got going, there were four small groups of walkers somewhere ahead of me and I quickly relaxed into the rhythm of walking and absorbing the landscape. The first few kilometres were down a broad valley, the rolling terrain covered in button grass and heath, with the occasional outcrop of trees. On either side, bare ridgelines looked down with sparkling quartzite outcrops.

During the flight I caught only glimpses of the rugged southwest Tasmanian landscape through gaps in the clouds. While impressive, now I was on the ground the true scale of the wilderness became visceral. I was in the middle of this huge National Park, over 600,000 hectares in size, that is largely untracked. From where I stood, there are only 3 tracks, each one at least 4-5 days of hard walking to the nearest road. This was thrilling.

Ahead of me, to the east, the rugged Ironbound Range reached down into the Southern Ocean, effectively splitting the South Coast Track in two. I would be climbing this range in 2 days, and then another 4 days walking before meeting another track or road.

Carrying 9 days food, tent and sleep gear and enough protective clothing to deal with the southwest’s notorious weather in a 55L pack meant I had carefully refined my gear to a safe minimum. In the end, the pack weighed only 16.5kg plus water and about 4 kg camera gear. Having done enough walking over the past months, I was feeling very comfortable with the weight and my ability to deal with the adventure ahead.

The trail edged higher above Freney Lagoon before dropping down to my first beach and creek crossing. This was the first of many beaches I would walk on this trip, and it was a joy walking the beautiful white sand sweeping in a broad arc to a forest covered headland (Point Eric) and the first night’s camp.

After dinner I had my first encounter with the wildlife. Returning from collecting water I found my new spoon, a birthday present, was gone, snaffled by some marauder and a bite taken out of my collapsable cup. I had to resort to using my (clean) trowel as a spoon for the rest of the trip!

Dawn of the second day revealed blue skies and light winds. The day’s walk involved two more beautiful beaches separated by the Black Cliffs. By good luck, low tide was in the middle of the day so getting around the headland was not a problem.

With easy walking, I soon reached Bouy Creek and turned inland. As the track approached the first big climb, the topography became more complex, traversing small spurs with creeks running in between. The track was in good condition, with new duckboards in place across some small creeks and muddy sections.

While there are some new sections of track, along the length of the Track there is limited trail infrastructure, and much of that not well maintained. This made for some difficult walking – the track is notoriously muddy – and slow travel times. This is not a criticism. My view is that just enough maintenance and trail infrastructure should be in place to avoid worsening environmental impacts, rather than aim to make the walking easier (as in New Zealand’s Great Walks).

There was a steep but relatively short climb over the Red Point Hills and then another 9 kilometres through a large open valley, crossing Faraway Creek, Louisa Creek and finally Louisa River (below). Any of these could have been insurmountable obstacles after rain, but this time they were no deeper than thigh deep.

At the Louisa River camp I soon made a new friend, a very inquisitive Spotted Quoll.

I only had a problem the next morning when I came back from collecting water (again) and saw my new friend scarpering off with my pot cosy. I am not sure why it choose this of all things, but I gave chase and he couldn’t get far in the under-growth and had to relinquish his prize.

Day 3 over the Ironbound Range is rated as the most difficult day of the walk. Only 12-13km in length, guidebooks advise 6-9 hours of walking because of the 1000 metres climb and then even more descending.

After an hour or so doing my usual early morning exploring with my camera, I was the last to leave. Most groups had left early with the threat of a cold front hitting early afternoon.

Almost immediately the track headed straight up. There really is no easy way to do a tough climb but grind it out section by section. At least there was plenty of good reasons to stop as the views behind me were great.

My favourite image looking back (a four image pano below) was taken only 250 metres into the climb, where you feel more in the landscape rather than looking down from higher elevation. This could be the land that time forgot and, fortunately, in many ways it is.

Towards the top, the button grass gave way to much thicker, woody heath plants amongst some spectacular rocky outcrops. I did not spend much time to appreciate the escarpment though; behind me I could see the rain rapidly approaching. I climbed with an urgency to get over the exposed mountain tops before the weather hit.

To no avail, by the time I was close to the high point, the views had gone and the wind and rain hit. I had put on my wet weather gear just in time, so I was well protected, but the wind was vicious. Despite the stinging rain and gusts of wind pushing me off the track, I was having a grand time.

Onward marching, the track soon turned southward and headed down a spur and into the protection of the forest. The descent was as tough as the climb.

As seems to be the pattern, the east side of mountains along this coast tends to have the thicker forest, while the west side has drier, more open vegetation.

This decent was through extremely thick forest. At first, the trees were more like scrub, barely head height, pruned by the incessant winds off the Southern Ocean.

But as the trail dropped, the forest got taller and thicker; enclosing the wet, dark trail, often no more than a deep gully eroded down to the bedrock full of tree roots and branches. Many parts of the trail required climbing down backwards and crawling under fallen timber. A caught foot or slip on mud or rock could result in disaster.

Traversing this section was a green blur of thick, impenetrable forest, my entire focus on careful walking. It was hard work - although descending, there was a kilometre that took well over an hour to cover. At one point, realising how thirsty I had got, I found a stream emerging from a large patch of moss – I filled my cup with the freshest, most beautiful water I have ever tasted.

The rain continued unabated; at least there was protection from the wind.

Looking back, I wish I had slowed down and taken more time looking for photos. The few I took did not adequately convey the beauty, nor the difficulty, of the terrain. But at the time, once the bad weather hit, I was focused on keeping my gear protected from the elements and getting to camp without a big fall.

Finally, the steep descent ended and the last kilometres to the coast were difficult walking as the track dropped steeply into numerous rock-strewn creeks (like above) and then a slippery climb up around the next spur.

Reaching the camp at Little Deadman’s Bay, the weather had not improved and pitching the tent was a struggle in the wind and rain. But before long I was out of the wet gear and cooking dinner. It had been a tough day, taking well over 8 hours for only 15 kilometres (including photography).

I had decided to stay here two nights, so on Day 4 I would walk 5 kilometres or so back up the track, taking my time to enjoy the country. I had planned on taking 8 days to do this walk. Although a fit walker could do this walk in 5 days (my younger self would have been tempted), I wanted to take my time to appreciate the landscape and enjoy the solitude of the wilderness.

Early on Day 4 I said my goodbyes to my trail companions as they moved onto the next campsite, and I headed back the way I had come. The photo day was a welcome chance to explore some rocky parts of the coastline as bands of rain came through and make up for rushing in the bad weather yesterday.

It also came with another pleasant surprise. Stay tuned for the next post.

I consider the Central Highlands my “home” forest, and I cannot imagine not returning to them for as long as I am able. However, over summer the stream flow is very low and the vegetation is straggly and heat stressed. The higher mountain peaks in Victoria are cooler but many of them have no water over summer, so I end up carrying an unreasonable amount.

All good reasons to go elsewhere. Plus, time apart can make the heart grow fonder. So it was that two weekends ago, after a few days of solid rain, I decided to head up and explore off-track one of my favourite creeks.

I did not have any expectations for good photos; I was just keen to get back there. The day was warm and overcast, with heavy showers expected in the afternoon. Over the past few years, Melbourne’s weather has become more like Sydney’s (more humid, heavier rain), while Sydney has become more tropical.

As is always the case, I am captivated by the colours of the forest. The opposite of deciduous is evergreen but this far from the case with eucalypts; their year round colours are far from green with their blue-green foliage tinged with yellows and oranges and reds and the colours and textures of their trunks contrast nicely against the darker greens of the understory. Then there are the wattles, myrtle and sassafras, and a myriad of understory bushes all contributing to a riot of colours.

Ironically, I felt compelled to make a couple of black and white images. Although I have photographed these scenes before, the act of looking through the camera viewfinder quickly got me in that flow state where I start looking more closely and compositions start to emerge.

Before long I turned up a management track for about a kilometre of climbing. The ground became drier and the vegetation more eucalypt dominated.

I reached the end of the management track and there was nothing ahead except untracked forest. The task was to traverse around the hill and down into the valley to meet the creek at a nice steep section. The going was slow, with as much climbing through vegetation as walking. There was nothing for it except to be patient and grind it out.

The high humidity and lack of breeze in the dense forest meant I was soon drenched. The huge mountain ash spearing upwards were widely spaced, the ground around their trunks surrounded by long strips of bark piled high. The understory between these monoliths was more sprawling; branches of wattle and other undergrowth reaching out searching for light. Thick patches of cutting grass were near impossible to push through.

Decisions were required whether to veer up or down as I tried to maintain elevation; there was no option of walking in a straight line. After about an hour I stopped for a drink; I was getting close.

The forest and topography were familiar. Below me a minor creek disappeared into a muddy soak filled with magnificent tree ferns. Although represented on the map by just a tiny indent in a contour line, I knew that to drop down was to require a steep climb up the other side. So I maintained height and skirted around the top, soon cresting the spur and getting my first view down into the creek.

I slipped and slided down and found the creek had a reasonable amount of flow. Almost immediately I found a composition. Nothing special – I have definitely had better atmosphere and nicer looking vegetation – but that was not the point. It was great to be back and I was enjoying myself immensely.

Now it was just a matter of following the stream down for a couple of kilometres to the track. But this is not straightforward (literally) – there are fallen 80 metre tree trunks creating impassible barriers, sections of steep, rocky banks and thick scrub to be avoided. At least crossing the creek was easy.

I would stop at an interesting section of stream and perhaps have a drink and a rest, contemplating what had attracted me to the spot. Typically, I would end up taking bracketed exposures of 2 or 3 different compositions. Nearly always I would be tempted to take a panorama – telling me I either need a wider lens, or that I am unable (in the straggly vegetation) to decide on a worthwhile subject.

Before long a couple of hours had passed and the creek was flattening out. At this point I allowed myself to drift a little further away from the stream where the walking was easier and focus on getting to the track.

There were no portfolio-worthy images from this trip. But I didn’t expect any. This was about reacquainting myself with the forest after three months apart. It felt good to be back and I am excited for the cooler, wetter months ahead.

I have plans to explore deeper into untracked sections of the Central Highlands. These will require overnight trips given the time it will take to get in and to ensure I can take my time once I am there. But I will wait until conditions are better.

I hope you have been enjoying my posts on my summer exploration of some new places. This will continue for the next couple of posts as I reflect on my trip to a true wilderness, the South Coast Track in south west Tasmania.

I have expressed my reservations about the “tourist experience”, while acknowledging the necessity of managing demand and the benefits of increased accessibility.

Photographically, I felt at times I was in tourist mode, and struggled with the newness of the environment without a depth of knowledge and understanding about what I was looking at.

At the core of my landscape photography “process” is returning to the same locations, building knowledge, familiarity and connection. For the past two years, this has focussed on Victoria’s temperate rainforest and the tall tree forests of the Central Highlands and the alpine landscapes of the High Country.

In the longer term, however, I want to expand my photography into other forest types, particularly temperate rainforests around the world. With this ambition in mind, I travelled for two weeks to New Zealand to explore the forests of Fiordland in the South Island.

As I was travelling around the South Island, covering a lot of ground and seeing a lot of sights, I was reading a book that emphasised the exact opposite; that showed the value of repeated visits to the one location, in this case a lifetime of walking in the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland.

The book was The Living Mountain by Nan Shepherd, written in 1938 but not published until 1977. I read the Kindle Edition published by Canongate with a fantastic introduction by Robert Macfarlane1. I would highly recommend it.

Exploration

Although written in 1938, Nan addresses some of my concerns around nature tourism and the trend of the Great Walks and similar guided experiences to focus on accessibility (and an ability to pay). She talks of how park policy could prioritise what she calls “loneliness” or a connection with nature.

Nan also talks about the attraction of chasing peaks, of challenging oneself with new routes, being fully absorbed in the physical effort. In the high mountain air “Place and a mind may interpenetrate till the nature of both is altered.” And yet she ultimately found most value looking inward – into the landscape itself, the plateau and its recesses, through her exploration of the mountains. How different is this to a walk demanding travel each day from A to B?

The Senses

Nan describes the elements of the landscape – the geology, the water, frost and snow, air and light, the plants and animals – in wonderful detail. This clarity of observation came over time as “the senses [are] trained and disciplined, the eye to look, the ear to listen, the body must be trained to move with the right harmonies”.

Where Thoreau was overwhelmed by the existential contact with the wildness of Mount Ktaadn, Nan embraces the wildness in an almost Zen like way2. There are few passages that better describe where, in Taoist terms, awareness moves past that illusory separation between consciousness (words and concepts) and the Cosmos, where there “is no distinction between empty awareness and the expansive presence of existence”3.

Ways of Knowing

Nan goes beyond the sharpening of the senses to fully experience the mountains. She also describes the challenge of knowing, how the mind can be tricked, revealing something new about the landscape.

She talks of illusions – those moments of seeing something that was thought to be familiar but suddenly is not. “Such illusions, depending on how the eye is placed and used, drive home the truth that our habitual vision of things is not necessarily right: it is only one of an infinite number, and to glimpse an unfamiliar one, even for a moment, unmakes us, but steadies us again.”

In New Zealand, everything was new, so the challenge was understanding the unfamiliar landscape. But in my home Mountain Ash forests I have had moments when I glimpse something I have never seen before. It can be a revelation.

Nan is well aware of the multiple viewpoints in the landscape, where she is not the centre. Indeed, how the earth must see itself through multiple perspectives simultaneously. As a photographer whose whole job is to find a pleasing or interesting composition, I found this idea fascinating.

Conclusion

My photography has brought me to places such as New Zealand, which is full of jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring scenery. The scenery, and its newness, has been a sensory overload. At times I felt I was back as a beginner photographer, pointing my camera in all directions looking for the aesthetically pleasing.

This is contrast to my familiar, home forests, where my knowledge is deeper and the connection stronger. As I explore these familiar forests, I see so much more as I observe the subtle changes in vegetation, the unexpected folds in the topography, the signs of past human endeavours. It is here, on the foundations of familiarity, that occasionally I will see something unexpected – a trick of light, an exceptional subject, an idea about our connection with the landscape. Inevitably these demand further exploration and result in an image that is, at the very least, interesting.

To me, this is what people mean when they talk about seeing rather than just looking. It is hard work – I am devouring books on everything from natural history through to philosophical ideas, nature writing through to fiction set in interesting landscapes. But it is more than book learning – I am sure Nan would agree, it is also time in the field, following the flow of water, sitting watching the trees grow, open to all the perspectives around me.

Does this make for better photographs? Or would I be better focusing on an aesthetic appreciation of the landscape? I don’t know but I have no choice; I am simply following my curiosity.

This process of knowing a landscape, critical I think to the development of all landscape photographers, was the most important theme in Nan Shepherd’s exploration of her living mountains.

I tip-toed down the stairs, trying not to wake others in the hut, and out the door into the pre-dawn light.

I was heading up a short track to the Iris Burn Falls and was quickly engrossed in the cool, green light of the forest, scanning for interesting features that might be the basis of a composition.

Deeply engaged, I lost all track of time and suddenly realised that the direct sunlight was rapidly moving down the side of the valley and would soon hit the waterfall. With no time to lose, I jogged to the end of the trail but had not left myself enough time. I rushed a couple of compositions before the light became too harsh.

A basic mistake (one I am destined to repeat many times), but I didn’t mind. I had the walk back through the forest with beautiful side light to explore.

For the first time, I began feeling more at ease in the landscape. Over the past 10 days, I had seen spectacular scenery, enjoyed mountainous walks over rugged terrain, driven through magnificent mountain passes and cruised Milford Sound. But this was the first time I was feeling a connection that could translate into my photography.

I am not sure why this was the case. Perhaps the challenge of the inclement weather of the past two days enabled a connection with nature in a way that blue sky days couldn’t.

Perhaps it was the forest, which was filled with particularly old and majestic trees. Or perhaps I just had the time and the mindset to really see what was there.

Either way I felt connected. In that first light, I felt compelled to capture portraits of these trees. I spent a long time circling the trees in the image below. Trees in a thick forest are hard to capture, especially in direct sunlight. But the character of these trees stood out. I am particularly pleased that I was able to capture the waterfall in the background.

There were many things about this landscape that I was still learning. I have talked in past posts about the different types of knowledge that contribute to being able to see the landscape. I was feeling my lack of understanding about the key plant species – the many different ferns or the differences between Silver, Mountain and Red Beech, for example. (As a practical issue, I normally just use Auto White Balance and adjust in post, but I struggled with greens the whole trip.)

I also knew little of the history. I knew, for example, that the Routeburn Track was a historical Maori crossing and that the Kepler Track was made specifically to be a Great Walk. While I didn’t expect any of this land to be “pristine”, I didn’t know what was a result of human intervention and what had evolved from Nature.

I got back to the hut and decided to continue walking back up the steep incline of yesterday’s track. At a switchback, there was a bit of a trail and, stepping off only 2-3 metres, was treated to a spectacular view down onto a creek.

Deciding to climb down, I realised that where I had been standing was undercut by the creek. At the bottom of this crumbling cliff was a mass of trees that had fallen as the creek slowly devoured the forest. This is a dynamic landscape.

Most of the creeks I had explored were very different to the creeks in temperate rainforest at home, which are filled with moss covered boulders. Here the creek beds tend to full of bald boulders, stripped by their constant movement due to high seasonal flows. But in this little ravine, the vegetation crowded in creating a lovely green space.

After breakfast, I finally started the day’s walk; again, I was one of the last to leave. For the next two days, the Kepler Track made its way down the Iris Burn River and then along the shores of Lake Manapouri and the Waiau River through some beautiful forest.

Most remarkable was a number of areas where the only understory was a vast expanse of ferns. The area below felt like a park except that, instead of manicured lawn, there was a sea of ferns as far as the eye could see.

On my last day, I walked back along the lake shore before breakfast. The track itself was a joy to explore.

I found a faint path heading inland, marked with red tape. I have no idea its purpose, it just looped around and came back to the track a little further on. But it was a kilometre or so of easy exploration, most notable for the large areas where the ground cover was only moss and fallen debris.

I have no idea why the track was there, or why the plant mix changes in different locations. While a sense of mystery can help a photograph, I discovered in New Zealand that the more I understand the landscape, in scientific, historical and cultural terms, the better I see the landscape. As I learn more, I see more, and this informs my photography.

And sometimes, knowledge is not required at all. On my last night in the bush, standing on the beach of Lake Manapouri, we were treated to the most spectacular sunset. No explanation needed.

It was nearly midday and I was getting itchy feet. The next four days would be on the Kepler Track, a four day, 60 kilometre loop Great Walk near Te Anau in New Zealand’s Fiordland.

The weather was nasty – with the high pass sections closed – and, while the wind was forecast to moderate early afternoon, the heavy rain would continue for most of the day.

I was cosily ensconced in a nice café but, finally, I could wait no longer. I finished my second latte and somewhat reluctantly dragged myself out into the rain and headed to the trailhead.

The Climb

The first section of the walk is along Lake Te Anau before heading 850 metres up to Luxmore Hut just on the treeline. The forest was spectacular.

I will talk more about the forest on this walk in my next post. This newsletter is about the sections of the walk above the treeline. Suffice to say that I was really pleased to experience temperate rainforest how it should be experienced – in heavy rain, muddy tracks, water everywhere, overwhelming green.

After several hours enclosed in the forest, I reached the treeline. It was not a surprise as the trees had been getting more stunted and weathered, but it was a shock as I moved from the protected calm of the forest to a swirling landscape of wind-driven cloud and rain. A few moments allowed views of the lake below and then the weather closed in. There was nothing to do but zip up to keep out the wind and trudge on to Luxmore Hut.

The Weather

The low cloud continued into the next day. My dawn walk with camera had a few moments of early light and, although I wasn’t quite in the right position, I enjoyed the momentary view of fresh snow on the Murchison Range across South Fiord. It was on this range that the Takahē, one of New Zealand’s flightless birds, was rediscovered in 1948 after being declared extinct in 1898.

I spent a little longer exploring the terrain but could see the rain heading my way from the west. I hurried back to the hut and by breakfast we were enclosed in cloud and rain that was trying hard to be snow. Much of the hut discussion was whether to leave early or wait and hope it would clear. I decided just to go.

I was looking forward to walking in some adverse conditions – there is nothing like being on an exposed ridgeline to feel the full force of Nature. This was not going to be a day for expansive views of receding mountain ranges disappearing over the horizon. These conditions were made for introspection.

The walk started with a solid climb, and with it the conditions worsened. The rain became snow and, although not heavy, was driven by a fierce wind. Before long, the turnoff for the short climb to Mt Luxmore, the high point of the walk, was reached but there was no point summiting in the thick cloud. I didn’t mind; I have no interest in conquering summits for the sake of it.

Mountains have long been proving grounds for those wanting to challenge themselves. They are so adverse to human life (like the sea or polar regions) that you feel simultaneously small and insignificant while also incredibly alive. It is my body and mind against the elements of nature.

While I am no longer driven to go further, higher or faster, I will admit I like to go places that most people don’t go; to head into country that is difficult to traverse, ideally at those challenging times when the light is changing. Far better than easy walking and blue skies. I was very pleased to see the track heading up a ridge line that was increasingly steep and rocky.

There are few better places than a mountain to invoke the sublime indifference of Nature and contemplate what it is to be human. Walking along an open alpine environment makes clear nature’s vast indifference, and as I delighted in the trail, I felt a sense of alignment with the universe.

Much as I could have continued contemplating Life, the Universe and Everything, there were moments that kept pulling me back to reality, such as a break in the clouds that allowed a glimpse of the valley far below.

Even when the views were limited, there was much to see on the ground beneath my feet. There was one amazing section of black, flinty soil upon which nothing was able to get a foothold. It was an extraterrestrial landscape.

Elsewhere, there was plenty of life thriving in this environment. I could only admire the diversity of the tough alpine vegetation. There were moments of joy when a Kea would fly in to check me out. These birds are known for their intelligence and curiosity and have a gleam in their eye that says mischief.

The ridgeline

The last kilometres above the treeline were along a very exposed ridge. The wind drove the snow hard up the valley and over the ridge, swirling in chaos on the lee side. It is these moments that force a focus on the moment. As Henry David Thoreau discovered during his failed attempt to climb Mt Ktaadn, well away from the civility of Walden Pond, experience takes precedence over the world of thought and abstract ideas when reality is hitting you in the face. Thoreau thought that the answers to the big questions lay in this contact with nature.

Certainly the answer will not be found in supercomputers. Readers of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy will know that the supercomputer Deep Thought’s answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe, and Everything was 42. It seems to me that Deep Thought never experienced a ridgeline in a snow storm.

It is this contact with the landscape that provides the basis for my favourite images. My aim is to document what it was like to be there, while also encouraging the viewer to reflect on their relationship with nature. The landscape is there, inviting exploration. Will you take up the invitation? In the image below, for example, would you be tempted to take the high trail towards the mountain peaks? Or perhaps head off-track to explore the valley below?

Abruptly the trail reached a rocky crest and dropped away to the valley and the Iris Burn River. In the distance, I could see the Iris Burn Falls and below them, a small clearing where the hut was located.

There was a long way to go – 99 switchbacks apparently – but with each step the exposure to the dramatic forces of wind and snow and rock receded as I was embraced in the comforting fold of the forest.

Day 2 started with just me and my camera at dawn. I had intended to head uphill to Routeburn Falls and views down the valley before they were exposed to the full sun, but the track above was still closed, so I walked back down the trail.

The weather was good, with clear skies and low wind, and I was confident the track would open today. It was lovely to savour the opportunity to take my time and explore the forest, without the stress of travel nor worry over whether the track would open.

At 8am we got the good news that the track was open.

The Track to Harris Saddle

Only 200 metres up the track is Routeburn Falls. With all the rain, there were multiple channels of water absolutely pumping as they rapidly drop and sweep past the hut and over the edge into the valley below. The scale of the falls, and the bright sunlight glaring off them, limited photographic opportunities. It would have been a nice problem to consider in the pre-dawn (or overcast) light but it was not one for today.

I climbed to the top of the falls and looked back at the hut complex, with both the public hut and the guided lodge, and the river running beside it (below).

As I continued the climb above the falls, a huge hanging valley was revealed. Before heading too far up the valley, I wanted to do one of the few side trips on the walk.

Initially, I missed the track up to Paddy’s Point thinking it was a stream, given the steady flow of ice-cold but crystal-clear water. Off the main track, the climb was much rougher and steeper1. After about 150 vertical metres, the trail reached the top, a rough plateau full of rocky outcrops and tarns. The air was cool but the sky blue.

It was magic walking along an indistinct track, exploring the terrain. Between the rocks and water, the vegetation was full of large expanses of mosses and stunted shrubs. After half an hour, I reached the far edge of the hilltop and enjoyed a view down the valley towards the start of the walk.

Reluctantly, I headed back down to the main track and continued the climb up the valley towards Harris Saddle. The valley was a huge bowl created by a glacier, the Routeburn River at times gently snaking its way gently along the valley floor and then tumbling over spectacular falls.

The climb was steady with many little highlights to enjoy – intimate views of the river or an unnamed creek tumbling down the valley side and beneath me as it joins the river. There were some spectacular rock formations that the track wound around and through. With the bright blue skies, I was more focused on enjoying the walk than trying to take interesting images.

I continued up the valley as the trail steepening significantly for the final climb to the saddle. On one side, the valley walk rose almost vertically to its snow topped peaks, on the other side the river dropped from Lake Harris down a huge waterfall. The view down the valley was memorable.

The traverse along the valley side above Lake Harris was one of the most spectacular sections of my two weeks in NZ. One more climb and I was having lunch, sitting in the sun beside the emergency shelter in Harris Saddle.

A common side trip up Conical Hill was closed due to avalanche danger, so the long walk along the Hollyford Valley commenced. For the next 8 kilometres, the track cut its way along the valley above the treeline, a treat of bubbling streams, spectacular views and snow-capped mountains.

Finally, the track zig zagged steeply down the hill to Lake MacKenzie and its hut for the night.

Into the Forest

Day 3 continued the trek up the Hollyford Valley, but this time nearly all below the treeline. As usual, the day started with steep climb out of the valley but the track was well maintained (there were a couple of landslips that required short detours) and the forest stunning.

There were numerous waterfalls running down the hillside – I could have spent hours wandering up any of them, but the pressure to keep moving limited these opportunities. I couldn’t resist the waterfall below, although exploring the back lit mist further upstream tempted.

A highlight of the day was Earland Falls – a total drop of 174 metres (571 feet). But, even better, the track goes directly below the falls, drenching walkers with misty spray. A lovely chance to cool off.

As I walked the last kilometres, I weighed up the pros and cons of huts in wild country. Many countries have a tradition of alpine huts, and public land across the South Island of New Zealand is full of them, in part due, I think, to the strong hunting culture. And I certainly appreciated being in a hut in the rugged conditions on the first night.

Huts make the walks much more accessible and bring in revenue for the parks service. There is a nightly ranger safety and weather briefing, and often interesting talks about the park and its management. There is plenty of camaraderie in the huts.

The walking itself is well designed to be relatively easy, but enough of a challenge for many. The booking system keeps numbers to a level that provides solitude while walking and protects the environment. From the booking system (these walks sell out almost immediately) through to the trail experience, the Department of Conservation does an amazing job. I would highly recommend a New Zealand Great Walk if you get the chance.

And yet, huts change the experience. A landscape with manmade structures such as these do not meet most definitions of wilderness2. Much of the day is spent indoors, away from nature and in the close proximity of others; huts trade immersion in the wild for convenience and comfort.

As is our modern way, nature is packaged and commodified into a tourist experience that can be sold to people wanting a walk on their terms. This is happening in parks around the world. For me, the first lesson of being in Nature is to accept what is – the weather is the weather (as I was reminded of on the first day), the trail is the trail, and I need to deal with what comes. It is the price of admission.

The obvious response is that if I wanted a wilderness experience, don’t do a Great Walk. True, and I will do other walks in the future. I choose these walks as my first multiday walks in New Zealand exactly because of their accessibility. But exploration and coming to terms with a landscape’s wildness is at the core of my most fulfilling photography.

Part of that exploration is giving myself over to the place. To be open to what it is. I think I struggled to do this on this first walk - perhaps it was the huts, or the people, or the newness of the landscape. It is wild, spectacular country, and it will take some time.

I ended the Routeburn Track committed to getting to know this landscape. I had the next 5 days car touring up to Mt Cook, the Haast Pass and Milford Sound. Then four days on another Great Walk, the Kepler Track, which will be the subject of my next post.

The email from the New Zealand Department of Conservation (DOC) came through two days before my scheduled start of the Routeburn Track walk -

Kia ora,

This email is a notification of severe weather forecasted for the Routeburn Track on Sunday 7th December. Heavy rain and high winds are forecasted throughout the day. Flooding could make sections of the track impassable.

The forecast and conditions are being monitored, and there is potential that the track may close on Sunday morning.

The eleven New Zealand Great Walks are extremely popular and fill quickly – I had booked over 6 months ago – so there is no room to move. You go on your day or you miss out.

As I landed in Queenstown on the Saturday, the forecast for my first day of walking was for heavy rain and gusts of wind over 115 kilometres per hour. I could only hope I didn’t receive another DOC email.

The Trail At Last

Sunday woke to rain and wind, but nothing too bad. As I was to find out, inland is somewhat protected from the westerly fronts as they hit the mountain range along the west coast, dumping much of their rain creating lush temperate rainforest conditions.

More importantly, no DOC email, so I walked into town, “discovered” a nice little bakery for breakfast (which turned out to be an Instagram sensation that was soon swarming with selfie takers), and waited for my transport.

It was midday by the time I reached the trailhead and was ready to go. The sun even peeked out from behind the fast moving clouds. I was not in a rush, as this first day of the Routeburn Track is a relatively short but uphill 9 kilometres to the Routeburn Falls hut at the treeline.

Within 200 metres, the track crosses the Routeburn River via a wire swing bridge and my camera was out.

The track makes its way gently up the river valley through beech forest. The track itself is extremely well maintained, as it is along all the Great Walk trails, with good drainage, steps, boardwalks and bridges where required to minimise the mud in such wet terrain.

With my camera bag hanging off the front of my pack, I can easily access my camera without taking off my pack (I find that having to stop and drop my pack to get the camera out means I just don’t do it often enough). I stopped along the way to take images but felt rusty. Looking back at my attempts at capturing this forest, I can see what I felt, slightly out of sorts, overwhelmed by a new landscape and the subtle differences in vegetation.

Although the day was windy and mostly overcast, there were some moments of light that certainly helped.

The track was easy going and I soon reached Sugarloaf Creek falls. From the cascades shown below, the water plunged into a deep gorge directly below the bridge, a seething mass of water surging through the ravine down a series of drops and out of sight through the mist filled air. The noise and power was both intimidating and a wonder – and I was not prepared to jump the fence to find different compositions.

From here the track skirts around a steep spur, offering some views down the valley, until it rejoins the Routeburn River. The track runs parallel to the river as it falls in continuous white water through a gorge, the water a magnificent blue colour contrasting against the dark green of the vegetation.

One of the most obvious differences in this landscape compared with Australia is how much water there is. I knew that the weather would be wet and unpredictable – in my two weeks, 3 major fronts come through with high winds and heavy rainfall – but I didn’t appreciate the impact of all this water on the landscape.

New Zealand might not have snakes, but they have river crossings, the second most dangerous part of tramping after falls1. But there are benefits - no New Zealander has ever said “I wonder if there will be any water in the tank?” (as someone who regularly carries 3-5L of water up bone dry Victorian mountains every summer). And flushing toilets at the huts!

Another swing bridge and another opportunity for a high wire balancing act with a tripod. By now we were much deeper in the river valley and the peaks were beginning to crowd in.

All too soon the track emerged from the forest onto a broad river flat. From this point, travelling upstream, the Routeburn North branch heads off one way and the main river emerges from a series of falls in the far distance. The track itself starts its steep climb up the side of the valley towards the treeline and the night’s hut.

The Walk Gets Better With Climbing

From here, I felt the forest became much more interesting and photogenic. Helped by an increasingly overcast sky and some light showers, the terrain became more spectacular, the trees larger and more spread out on the steep ground.

There were a few sections of landslips and signs warning of rockfall and avalanche danger in the winter months.

This is the second obvious difference with Australia. In New Zealand, the landscape is actively transforming on a near daily basis. Australia has a very old, worn-down landscape with peaks eroded to high plains and deep valleys with little water and thin, poor soils. The only peaks are more like rocky outcrops; the weathered remnants of some more resilient material where the surrounding land has eroded away.

This New Zealand landscape only emerged 10,000 to 15,000 years ago as the coverage of glaciers began their retreat, carving the key features into the landscape. The steep sides of glacial valleys are inherently unstable and prone to slips. What might take 100 years of erosion in Australia, may happen in one in NZ.

As I continued the climb – nearly 1,000 vertical metres in total – the weather continued to close in and the rain increased. I started to speed up, not wanting to be caught in the rain just a kilometre or so from the hut. But the views were great.

Finally, I made it to the Routeburn Falls hut. It was at this point that I saw that the track above the treeline had been closed for the day.

The hut was well located – just in the treeline, far enough down that the mountain to be protected from the worst of the wind. The rain and wind picked up throughout the evening – the rain driven horizontal by the incessant wind just above us.

All I could do was enjoy my dinner and the view down the valley from the hut’s communal area, and wait for the track update at 8am tomorrow to know if the track above us would open.

Every year around this time I start to review the year past and make plans for the year coming. Like most people, I find I have fallen short on some plans, had some unexpected wins, and am generally pleased to have got through another one.

2025 is the halfway mark on my 10 year journey to get good at photography, and it has been a year that feels in some ways unsatisfying, of opportunities missed.

This has not been for want of trying – I have been getting out and exploring the world. And as I review my favourite images, some are okay. I think the issue is that I am unclear on what I want to achieve with my photography. Perhaps my unease is a result of lack of direction?

The unexpected win has been this Substack newsletter. I have had some heartening (and humbling) growth in subscribers this year. Thank you.

Substack has also provided a discipline to continue to put images out into the world. Instagram used to provide that discipline – three new images a week – but I rarely visit Instagram except to look up specific people that offer inspiration. I feel that a newsletter, creating a collection of images to tell a story, is a step up from posting single images.

CREATIVE JOURNEY

For those new to this newsletter, I have been a photographer on-and-off all my life, but 5 years ago decided to give myself 10 years to “get good”, whatever that means. Beyond wanting to give landscape photography a good go while physically able, there was no plan beyond a commitment to do the work and put images out there. It was about the journey, not the destination.

Halfway through this 10 year journey, I have two observations – one around technical proficiency and one around artistic inspiration.

I was already reasonably technically competent when I started 5 years ago (a benefit of working with film), but I have now been exposed to a level of technical excellence far beyond that previous experience. You don’t know, what you don’t know.

This is not about “pixel-peeping”, which can be about gear and specifications and a substitute for the hard work of making art. Rather, it is about bringing a level of technical expertise in service of my artistic intention.

In particular, the courses I have done with Les Walkling1 have exposed me to the depth of technical considerations required to produce great images. I now more critically assess my images’ (and sometimes others’) technical execution and approach to achieve artistic intention.

The second (and more important) observation is that I consume far more art of all kinds. Of course, I look at a lot of visual art, and there are lessons to be learnt that can be directly applied to photography. There is great work here on Substack, books, galleries, learning about art history and how other photographers go about their work.

I listen to music (almost) like a teenager, learning from the ability of music to directly impact the emotions. I wrote about Jacob Collier back in January (here) and how good he was at articulating what an emotion feels like and how he can create that feeling in his music. The craft may be different, but that ability to articulate an intention is critical to all artists.

“I think the process of trying to get inside them [emotions], not necessarily to control or explain them, but just to get inside them, is the most powerful thing I can do to be creative.”
- Jacob Collier

I read more literature, not just non-fiction. I am delving deeply into writers of nature, landscapes and place. All the better to describe my reaction to a place and how that may translate into an image.

I asked a friend how she would describe the most brilliant sunset. In a beautiful, succinct response, she said “red”. This is how I often articulate the scene in front of me. Then I read a description of a sunset by Henry Miller2.

“We sat on deck watching the sinking sun. It was one of those Biblical sunsets in which man is completely absent. Nature simply opens her bloody, insatiable maw and swallows everything in sight. Law, order, morality, justice, wisdom, any abstraction seems like a cruel joke perpetrated on a helpless world of idiots. Sunset at sea is for me a dread spectacle: it is hideous, murderous, soulless. The earth may be cruel but the sea is heartless. There is absolutely no place of refuge; there are only the elements and the elements are treacherous.”

Now that’s a sunset! The feeling of being witness to this sunset goes far beyond a beautiful moment as the day ends. This is the sublime at its most terrifying.

I have stronger emotional reactions to the world around me, whether it’s in nature or in the human world. I am more aware of my feelings. In the bush I am spending more time writing down key words that describe the scene to inform the composition and edit. I focus on place, what it means for me, those who have come before and those to come. How language and worldview affect how we see the world.

I am proactively searching other people’s art for ideas and meaning in the world around me. This is hugely enriching my life. It also means the bar is rising and I am feeling acutely the gap between my intention and my execution.

2025

Over the past 12 months, I have continued getting out and photographing regularly. In the 12 months to 31 October, I had 63 sessions where I took 20 images or more (compared with 64 in 2024).

The biggest change this year has been my increased focus on exploration and place. I feel I am reverting back to my childhood where I was driven by curiosity, especially of the natural world, and obsessed with exploration. Going back to my 10-year-old self may be an unexpected benefit!

This focus meant I have spent a lot of days off-track exploring an area. This has reduced the good photograph to effort ratio (honey pot locations would be so much easier). But the effort is worth it.

There are a number of truisms in landscape photography such as a photo is not better just because it took more effort to make. They also say that you should focus on the process and not worry about the image. For me, capturing an image in a difficult, rarely visited place is more valuable precisely because of the effort – both as a document of the landscape and as a memory of my journey into nature.

It is also true that with more time in the field, new images of even well-known places can emerge. Again, it’s about effort.

That said, I feel my temperate rainforest images have become too same-same. That, in part, is why I am doing more black and white - and with it, the licence to have more freedom with the edit, to bring the feeling of the forest to the fore.

So to mix it up, I have plans for new locations over the next 6 months - New Zealand and southwest Tasmania. Both involving extensive walking.

I feel more motivated than ever and have, if anything, too many ideas. Perhaps this year, which has felt like treading water, is part of the process of a direction becoming clearer to me. This is all part of the journey – nothing is linear, or even smooth.

I wanted to call this newsletter “Becoming an artist” but it felt too conceited. I think it may be true3.

This will be my last newsletter for the year - with travel to New Zealand in the weeks before Christmas, I have not been able to write newsletters ahead of time.

Instead, I will take a break while I hike up some mountains or head deep into a rainforest, going slow and intentional, observing closely this wonderful world.

To make sure you receive my upcoming newsletters of travels to the South Island of New Zealand and the wilderness of southwest Tasmania - please subscribe…..

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Photographers are observers of the world. Whether it’s the natural environment or the world of people and man-made objects, photography is most often about revealing something that is unseen, overlooked or ignored. Often it is about showing the subject in its best light. Or at its worst.

Whether it was a love for a landscape or a passion for photography that came first, it is through the trials and the tribulations, the glorious moments, the time in the field that strengthens the connection and love that landscape photographers feel for the landscapes they photograph, especially the ones they return to.

However it happens, this connection and deep affinity for the landscape is only natural – and we want to protect what we value, for ourselves and for the future. When asked, many landscape photographers will say they want to contribute to protection of the environment. I certainly do.

While this sentiment is often espoused, the discussion quickly becomes more vague on how. In this essay I will provide two famous examples of where landscape photography made a difference, and why they no longer provide a model for effective change.

As I search to find more meaning in my photography, I offer some thoughts on how landscape photographers can make a difference, and would love to hear your ideas in the comments.

RAISING AWARENESS

There have been examples of landscape photography being pivotal in successful campaigns to protect the environment. One of the earliest was the campaign to save the Big Trees in US.

The Big Trees around Yosemite were “discovered” in 1852. While George Gale skinned trees as trophies for the amusement of city folk, PT Barnum style, botanists were arguing over names, finally adopting Sequoia gigantea for these huge trees. The Grizzly Giant in the image above, for example, was estimated to be between 1,900 and 2,400 years old, 64 metres tall and 9 metres in diameter at its base.

Although tourism in the region grew rapidly, it was the images taken by photographer Carlton Watkins who brought back “heroic prints [that] shaped American sensibilities towards Yosemite and the Big Trees” by engaging a wider audience.1

In 1861, Watkins took thirty large plate (22 x 18 inches) and one hundred stereo views which were among the first photographs of the valley. These images were exhibited in New York in 1862 and tapped into a sense of American exceptionalism, frontierism and pride in the country’s natural wonders. So much so that on 30 June 1864, in the midst of the civil war, Abraham Lincoln signed an unprecedented bill granting the area to the State of California “for the benefit of the people, for their resort and recreation, to hold them unalienable for all time.” The Yosemite National Park was subsequently created in 1890.

This is perhaps the first time photography supported a social and political shift (or at least helped clarify an alignment of what the environment represented with society’s view of itself) to protect the environment.

My second example was the campaign to stop the damming of the Franklin River in Tasmania. It was this campaign in the early 1980s that was my political awakening – for the first time, although I was too young to vote, I desperately cared about who won the 1982 Federal election.

This was a time when few people, even Tasmanians, had visited the wilderness of south west Tasmania. One of the earliest Tasmanian wilderness photographers, Olegas Truchanas, said “What they call the empty quarter, I know to be filled with some of the world’s most spectacular scenery.”

A long campaign against the damming of the Upper Gordon river system ensued in the late 1960s, often involving townhall meetings with slide shows and music2. Despite a growing recognition of what was at stake, after a long campaign, Lake Pedder was flooded in 1972. Although Olegas drowned in the Gordon River that same year, the approach to campaigning to protect Tasmania’s wild rivers was established and attention turned to the risk of development on the Lower Gordon and Franklin Rivers.

With this in mind, emerging landscape photographer Peter Dombrovskis took several trips down the Franklin River to capture its wild beauty. It was one of these images, Morning Mist, that was immediately recognised by the campaign as a way to show what was at risk.

The campaign to protect the Franklin was long and hard fought. Governments at state and federal levels lost elections in large part over this issue. The blockade on the Franklin River reached its peak in late 1982 and the issue was finally resolved when the newly elected Hawke Government challenged the powers of the Tasmanian state government and the Australian High Court agreed. On 1 July 1983, the Court determined that the Commonwealth government had the power to stop the dam based on Australia’s international obligations under the World Heritage Convention.3

Both these examples, over 160 and 40 years ago respectively, demonstrated the value of showing the public the wonder and beauty of these wild places and the existential threat that progress (extraction, tourism, dams) represented.

I cannot overstate how important Dombrovskis’ Morning Mist image was in the campaign to save the Franklin. It became the iconic image of the campaign (along with the distinctive bright yellow No Dams stickers) and helped turn the tide of public opinion. However, in both cases, this awareness only translated into protection through activism. The letter writing, the marches, the blockade were the key to political action.

TODAY

Today there are no landscapes that remain unknown – everywhere has been photographed. While few people back in the day could make the images that Watkins and Dombrovskis captured, nowdays many people with modern cameras can take a more than serviceable image. Indeed, the popularity of “getting the image” for social media presents a risk that the crowds will descend, destroying rather than protecting what was beautiful.

Awareness is no longer the limiting factor. The challenge is getting attention in a world full of content and relentless calls for action.

In both the campaign to protect the Big Trees and the Franklin River, photography was critical in telling the story about the beauty and value (beyond economic) of the landscape. In these cases, the images could carry the story, they showed places not widely seen.

In today’s saturated, hyper-realistic market, Watkins and Dombrovskis’ images would not stand out on their own. But there are still opportunities to raise awareness - every year there are a few images that reveal something I hadn’t seen before, that stop the scroll, at least for a moment. These images are difficult to make and not obvious; the best photographers may produce a few in a lifetime. But the images of Watkins and Dombrovskis were difficult to make and not obvious at the time either.

Where might these opportunities exist today? Some suggestions:

• The different view – especially technology enabled including macro, low light, bio-luminescence. Drone photography was an example of technology that provided a new view of the world that is now commonplace.

• The unseen – this can be something local that people walk by everyday, the ordinary captured in a new way or at a decisive moment.

• The ignored – an issue that is not well known and hasn’t captured mainstream attention.

I continue to believe that photography can play an important role in protecting the environment and driving change, even beyond those few exceptional images. What is critical is that they feed into the infrastructure of activism. They need to contribute to a cause and support an agenda of change.

Activism is far more sophisticated than it once was – in addition to protesting (increasingly high stakes), letter writing and lobbying of politicians, there are calls on corporate responsibility, activism in the market, certification and standard setting, connecting the actions in one place with broader impacts on the public or consumer.

In all these cases, a single image is not enough. Rarely will a single landscape photograph tell a story, but stories are what is required. Telling stories is important – it can be about why people care, why they should do something. A call for action.

I can show the beauty of a landscape, but I need to show why I care, and why you should too.

POST-SCRIPT

While Peter Dombrovskis’ photograph of Morning Mist was iconic, and I love his classical landscape photography, there were other images critical to saving the Franklin.

We should also acknowledge the other photographers deep in the wilderness - those on the front line of the blockade, showing the broader public the protests and police action that raised the political mood for change, telling the story that people cared and were prepared to take action.

Share A Photography Journey

This is the season, however, to plan for the summer ahead. I have some big walks planned and hope for a few more. And this provided my motivation to get out – to make sure I’m trail fit and have my gear dialled in.

So it was that on Saturday night, a couple of weeks ago, I was going through the usual dilemma of consulting weather forecasts and wondering where to go, and I decided to throw on a pack and do a walk I had done long ago, the Myrtle Gully Track.1

My aim was not photography but to get some time in the bush and build my trail fitness. With my dodgy knees, I can no longer consistently run (by far the best training option), so my aim is to spend time on the trail to ensure I can comfortably walk 20 kilometres a day with a 15kg pack for multiple days.

Regular readers will know my mantra that I go to photograph the landscape, not walk it. But even a relatively short 10-15km day, and a couple of hours photography before and after the day’s walking with a full pack, can be exhausting, especially as multiple days accumulate. And being tired is not conducive to slowing down and being intentional about the images taken.

There have been times when I have walked past potentially great images because I am too tired / wet / dehydrated / cold / running behind time / etc. It is why fieldcraft is the first of my categories of skills a landscape photographer needs. And the wilder you go, the more skills required.

An ideal day for me would be about 10km of walking with a pack – which could be 4-6 hours on steep or rough tracks.2 But for my kind of trips, I feel I need the capability to do 20-25 km in a day (10 hours of rough walking) to efficiently get into an area or quickly get out in an emergency.

Despite my fully loaded pack and camera bag, I immediately felt a weight lift from my shoulders as I headed up the track. I needed this. I could feel myself slipping into that flow state resulting from mild exertion and constant scanning for compositions.

The track is rough and muddy as it follows Myrtle Creek up the hill. Only a couple of hundred metres in and I spot a grand old Myrtle Beech in flower. The flowers are small and provide a nice yellow contrast to the tiny dark green leaves. I have tried to photograph this tree before, but I haven’t been able to find a composition. Some things are not meant to be photographed.

Although I am not prioritising photography, I pause a few times to take photos. Getting smooth and efficient is important. I keep my camera and lenses in a Lowe Pro camera bag in front of me so I don’t need to take off my pack to access my camera. And I am practising using my trekking poles crossed over as a camera support, rather than getting out my tripod – I am consistently getting sharp images at ¼ second with image stabilisation compared with 1/20 second handheld.3

I spot a particularly nice Myrtle Beech, its moss covered trunk glowing in the backlit light. I head off track down the steep hillside, taking a variety of compositions. I worked the scene pretty hard but struggle to minimise the messiness of the ferns and deadfall. The image below is my favourite as it shows the terrain nicely. I will need to come back here and perhaps walk back down along the creek.

Back on the track, I focus on walking. The gradient is enough to get a sweat going and everything is feeling good. The trail leaves the creek behind and heads up into drier forest. Now dominated by eucalypts, the understory has more bushes (many covered in flowers at this time of year) with occasional patches of tree ferns.

I reach the high point (an extra out and back section to increase the distance) just as a misty rain comes through. It provides some nice light to provide some separation, even if I am not in the best location.

As I make my way back to the car, I drop off the track one more time to explore an expansive area of tree ferns. I love this wandering around, looking closely at the landscape, searching for a composition. Mostly they don’t really work of course, but that’s not the point. It is the engagement with country that is important. It is seeing things that others don’t notice, capturing a moment in what feels like a timeless landscape.

Another 5 or 6 walks like this and I will be ready for summer.

The landscape I am most passionate about however – the Mountain Ash and temperate rainforests of Victoria – take much more work to visit regularly. The drive is longer and access is much more difficult. I visit at least once a fortnight and in several locations I know the terrain, trees and rivers extremely well. But it’s hard work and everything takes longer – I am limited to the weekends and whatever conditions I get.

As the days get longer and hotter (authorities are expecting a hot summer, again), I know some of the places I had planned to visit and projects I wanted to progress over the cooler months will need to wait until next year. “Such is life” said Australia’s most famous bushranger on the gallows.

There is no denying the allure of new locations. But, as I outline below, there are pressures with visiting exotic locations. I have a trip planned for the South Island of New Zealand later in the year. Resisting the temptation to try and see too much in two weeks, it will be interesting to see how I deal with the pressure to come away with some good images, and how I approach their temperate rainforests. Stay tuned.

Returning to a Familiar Place

This morning, with clear skies forecast and not inspired to go far, I went for a walk down along the Yarra River at Yarra Bend Park.

This park is quite large (260 hectares), close to the centre of Melbourne, and full of native bush, steep embankments and rocky outcrops. Being less than 5 kilometres away of my home, it is where I kept my sanity during Melbourne’s COVID lockdowns.

Needless to say, I know pretty much every trail, view, nook and cranny.

And while there is not a tree I haven’t seen, I can’t say I’ve really seen each one. There are hundreds, probably thousands, of fully grown trees in the park – how can I know each one fully, explored every angle in every light, sat in silent companionship?

Building this relationship with a place, and with the inhabitants of that place takes time. It requires being present through wet and dry, hot and cold. To move beyond an understanding of me, located in a place, to a sense of the place beyond me.

The other benefit of returning to a place is the lack of pressure.

Last week I went on an epic mission – three hours by car and mountain bike before dawn, then over an hour bush bashing through steep and tangled terrain.

It was an amazing trip – not just a photography session but an adventure. I certainly came back dirty, bleeding and sore. And I am planning to go back later in the year when the sun is better aligned with the river valley.

But even knowing that there will be a next time, I felt the pressure to deliver. The location was amazing – could I do justice to the location? Would all that work pay off? (Update – yes, it was worth it. I have now visited sections of this river over a dozen times since this trip in late 2023 and it continues to be my favourite place.)

Whatever the outcome, it was a very different experience to this morning. Here I was not rushed, and it was easy to slow down and be deliberate.

It was an absolute joy to go to a familiar place to slowly explore, unrushed with time to spend with each tree (probably only 10-15 in total) – walking around to view from different angles, trying different compositions, storing ideas in the memory bank.

Of course, it is far beyond my capabilities to be able to capture the essence of a tree or place at any time. To be honest, the light was not great and while I quite like a couple of images such as the portrait of a tree above, this trip was not about the number of good images I came home with.

The joy of photography is in the seeing – and having the time to spend in a familiar place is the key to really seeing.

Postscript

Just a week after this visit, I looked out the window to see fog, a lot of fog. Quickly grabbing my camera bag I was parked and exploring within 15 minutes.

This was not a trip to enjoy the companionship of nature – this was a mission. By the time I had parked I had mapped out my route, which scenes were likely to be worth spending time on and how the sun was likely to interact with the fog as it lifted.

Over two hours I shot just over 100 images, about 16 scenes. There was just no way I could have done that without knowing the area intimately. This is the other side of landscape photography (or any photography), when conditions are good you need to be quick and instinctive.

This photo shoot, and others like it, have resulted in some of my favourite images that go beyond the obvious. These are two.

Bonus images

Just two weekends ago, I headed back to the park for a bit of experimentation – another advantage of having a familiar, nearby location. On this morning, I decided to use only my 100-400mm lens, in black and white, preferably wide open. Sometimes I enjoy limiting my options and see what I come up with.