By Hope Cruz for Think Tank

“For me the camera is a sketch book, an instrument of intuition and spontaneity. In order to give a ‘meaning’ to the world, one has to feel involved in what one frames through the viewfinder.”

— Henri Cartier-Bresson, The Decisive Moment (1952)

It isn’t every day that someone spends three months planning a single photograph.

For Think Tank Photo’s newest Product Specialist, Dave Rollans, that level of preparation is simply part of the process. If you’ve recently called or emailed Think Tank with a question about gear, there’s a good chance you’ve already spoken with him.

Dave is passionate about action sports photography. Since childhood, he has been captivated by images of people performing extraordinary, skillful feats, whether on BMX bikes, skateboards, or wheelchairs, suspended in moments between motion and gravity. Today, he photographs many of those same subjects himself, although his approach is anything but conventional.

One of Dave Rollans’ BMX images began that way. Three months before the rider ever attempted the trick, Dave and his friend were already discussing the image they hoped to make. During that time, Dave studied aerial photographs of the location, looking for the right vantage point and working through how the image might come together. Together, they determined the best time of day to shoot, while Dave planned where his lights would need to be placed. By the time they arrived at the location, the shot had already been carefully considered from nearly every angle. Even then, the light wasn’t quite right, so they waited another ninety minutes before the rider climbed into position to attempt the trick.

When everything finally aligned, Dave exposed a single sheet of film. Most photographers would have come home with hundreds of images to sort through. Dave left with a single exposure and the hope that months of planning had paid off.

That story says a lot about who Dave is as a photographer. In a world where cameras can shoot dozens of frames every second and memory cards can hold thousands of photographs, Dave has chosen a very different approach. Rather than trying to make more images, he’s interested in making fewer, approaching each image with a level of intention that begins long before the shutter is pressed.

“The point of being a photographer is being in tune with time, so to capture the moment is to pay attention,” he says.

The same intentionality that shapes Dave’s photographs can also be seen in the equipment he uses. He owns a collection of cameras that seem better suited to another era than the world of flying BMX bikes and skateboarders he photographs today.

Much of his work is created with a Graflex 4x5 Speed Graphic, a large format camera that few photographers would consider bringing to an action sports shoot. He also uses a 7-inch Aero Ektar lens originally designed for aerial reconnaissance during World War II, a piece of equipment that sounds far more at home in a museum than at a skatepark or BMX session.

Whether he’s photographing a BMX rider soaring through the air or a skateboarder balancing on the edge of a rail, he isn’t interested in capturing every fraction of the action. He’s waiting for the moment that best represents it.

That sounds simple enough until you hear what it sometimes takes to get there.

One photograph required a 1,160 mile drive, round trip. Another involved multiple trips to the same location for the rider to properly execute the trick. Some images even live in his mind for months before a camera is ever loaded, while others demand hours of waiting for the light, the rider, and the moment to align. Sometimes everything comes together exactly as envisioned, but sometimes it doesn’t, and sometimes he comes home without the intended photograph at all.

None of this frustrates him, though. If anything, it’s part of the appeal.

Large format photography demands a level of commitment that few photographers can afford to approach casually. Every sheet of film carries a cost, not only in money, but in time, effort, and attention. The exposure itself represents only a small fraction of the work.

Once the shutter is pressed, the film still has to be developed, scanned, and printed before the photograph can fully reveal itself. Unlike digital photography, where the image appears almost instantly on the back of the camera, film asks for patience and has a way of forcing photographers to consider whether an image is worth making before the shutter is ever pressed. Yet even after the exposure is made, its success remains unknown until the film is developed.

Even after years of working this way, the uncertainty never fully goes away. Dave still describes feeling a knot in his stomach while waiting to see the results during the development process. A shutter could have misfired, something could have shifted, or a mistake during development could alter or destroy the image entirely. After hours, days, and sometimes months of preparation, the success of an image can still depend on details so small that their consequences remain invisible until the film is developed.

Most people spend a great deal of their lives putting guardrails in place to reduce risk and create a greater sense of predictability. Dave has chosen a process that embraces uncertainty instead. The possibility of failure remains present from beginning to end, but it forces him to stay engaged at every step. There are no shortcuts to correct a missed detail, no burst mode capable of generating hundreds of alternatives, and no screen offering immediate feedback or reassurance.

For most people, this might sound stressful, but Dave talks about it as though it’s simply part of the price of working this way. The waiting can be uncomfortable, yet it also preserves an element of mystery that feels rewarding. When the film is finally developed, there’s still the possibility of surprise, along with the satisfaction of discovering whether all the planning, patience, and effort have paid off. In that sense, every photograph requires a degree of trust, and when everything finally comes together, the experience becomes meaningful for reasons that go beyond the image itself.

Dave’s photos may be the most visible expression of the qualities that shape his work, including patience, deliberateness, and a willingness to do things his own way. While most action photographers rely on speed, volume, and technology to improve their odds, Dave has chosen a process built around patience, commitment, and intention. Rather than increasing the number of images he makes, he invests more deeply in each one, often spending days, weeks, or even months pursuing a single image.

That approach reflects ideas that have influenced his thinking for years. He admires Ansel Adams for the concept of previsualization, the practice of seeing an image in the mind’s eye before it exists in the world. He also cites Henri Cartier-Bresson and his idea of the decisive moment, where timing and action come together in a meaningful way.

Taken together, those influences help explain why Dave is willing to spend so much time preparing for photos that may never fully materialize. The image often begins long before the camera is loaded. The challenge is not simply making the image, but waiting for reality to align with what he has already envisioned.

Those ideas also form the foundation of a book project he’s currently working on called Makes and Misses, which explores what happens when the moment in mind never fully materializes. Over the years, Dave has accumulated images that remained unpublished because the rider crashed, the trick wasn’t landed, or the action simply didn’t unfold as intended. Some of the images are among his favorites, yet presenting them as successful action shots would misrepresent what actually happened. Within the context of Makes and Misses, those images can finally be shown honestly. The rider came close, the photograph may be beautiful, but the moment never fully came together.

The idea behind Makes and Misses isn’t merely theoretical for Dave. When asked whether there was still a photograph he was chasing, he immediately described a BMX image that has occupied his thoughts for years.

The photograph shows his friend Bob grinding down a rail while attempting a can-can, a trick that requires the rider to extend one foot away from the bike. The image exists, but the trick never fully came together. Looking at the photo, Dave pointed to the detail that still bothers him years later.

“His foot’s, like, snagged on the frame,” he said.

The photograph was made, but Bob never fully kicked his foot outward into the position Dave had envisioned. It was a small detail, yet it was enough to separate the image he imagined from the one he got. Even years later, the image still haunts Dave. Not because it was a failure, but because it came so close.

For someone who believes that photography is about being in tune with time, perhaps that isn’t surprising. Some photographs are finished when the shutter is pressed, but others take a little more patience, a little more preparation, and another chance.

by Hope Cruz for Think Tank

For five years, photographer and contributing editor Paul Papanek and his co-writer / wife Joan kept pitching the same idea to the editors of Cabo Living Magazine. It was a story centered on Lucha Libre—Mexican free wrestling—one that sat well outside the kinds of features the publication typically approves.

Still, they returned to it again and again, even as it failed to gain traction. Each time, the answer was no. Then, in the summer of 2025, Paul came across a Facebook announcement for a large Lucha Libre event in La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico, scheduled for late summer. He decided to try once more. This time, the answer changed.

When the assignment got the greenlight, Paul and Joan still didn’t know what the story would become. They hadn’t met the wrestlers, didn’t know what kind of access they’d have, or where the most meaningful moments might surface. Paul and Joan only knew the story would need room to reveal itself. That understanding shaped how they approached the assignment from the start, beginning with how Paul packed his gear. He wanted to arrive ready, but not weighed down.

That idea lingered as Paul started thinking through what the assignment might demand. He knew he wanted to work out of a single bag, but committing to that meant making choices. Unfamiliar spaces, shifting conditions, and the pressure to return with something meaningful often prompt photographers to pack more gear than they need.

Around that same time, we reached out to Paul and sent him the new Shape Shifter 37L to use in the field.

As a long-time Think Tank ambassador and customer, he was already deeply familiar with the Shape Shifter lineage, having owned the original version introduced in 2009. That bag has traveled around the world with him for more than a decade and remains in great condition, a testament to the durability built into Think Tank gear.

While the original Shape Shifter earned its reputation through its unique and innovative approach of using pouches to secure camera gear, the new Shape Shifter 37L reflects a more refined approach to organization. The updated interior offers greater structure, additional pockets, and modular neoprene pouches that attach to the back panel using hook-and-loop fasteners. Paired with adjustable tie-down straps, the system allows photographers to configure the bag around their specific camera kit rather than working within a fixed layout. For Paul, that flexibility made it easier to commit to a single bag with confidence.

Rather than packing defensively, he treated the Shape Shifter 37L as a boundary and worked within it, laying out only what he knew he’d need before packing it. He fit two camera bodies, two lenses, adapters, and batteries, then, almost as a stress test, added an Elinchrom ONE Off Camera Flash, a piece of gear he’d never been able to carry in a backpack before. It fit easily, and that was the moment he realized one bag might actually be enough.

“I was just amazed,” Paul said. “One bag, and that was it. It opened my mind to a lot of possibilities. I didn’t have to travel so heavy anymore.”

The first proof came in transit. Airports have a way of revealing excess quickly. Long corridors, security lines, and the fatigue of managing too much gear tend to compound. With everything on his back, Paul moved through it all smoothly. The bag stayed balanced and comfortable, and once it was on, it rarely demanded attention.

He arrived early in Mexico, giving himself time to observe before the arena filled. By the time the Lucha Libre event got underway, it was clear it was as much about the crowd as the action in the ring. Families filled the arena, kids ran through the aisles, and parents and grandparents cheered loudly for their favorites. The space was tight, loud, and constantly in motion.

Once the matches began, the pace never slowed. Paul moved continuously, shifting between ringside and the stands, watching for moments that could pull a reader into the experience. It wasn’t a pace he typically works in.

“I’m not a sports photographer,” Paul said. “This was very different from how I usually shoot.”

The constant motion pushed him to stay responsive, adjusting quickly as the action unfolded around him. He wasn’t wearing the backpack while shooting, but it stayed close. Shooting in continuous mode meant frequent battery changes, and speed mattered.

When he needed something, everything was exactly where he expected it to be in the bag. There was no digging or hesitation.

“That was huge for me,” he explained. “I didn’t have to think about my gear. I could just focus on what was happening.”

The Shape Shifter 37L supported the rhythm of the night without interrupting it, allowing him to stay present in an environment defined by noise, movement, and momentum. In a setting like that, reliability wasn’t a convenience. It was essential.

Once the matches were over, the assignment shifted.

In the days that followed, Paul and Joan spent time with three wrestlers who lived locally. They formed real and intimate connections and realised these were the moments the assignment had been moving toward, even if they hadn’t known it from the outset.

Photographing people in their own spaces demands restraint. Walking into a home with too much gear can shift the energy immediately. What begins as a conversation can quickly feel like a production, and Paul wanted the opposite.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm anyone,” he said. “I just wanted to be there, to let things unfold naturally.”

Working out of the Shape Shifter 37L made that approach possible. By keeping his footprint small, Paul could move easily within each space, setting the bag down, opening it just enough to pull what he needed, and getting to work without breaking the rhythm of the room. The setup was quick and unobtrusive, allowing conversations to continue as if the camera had barely entered at all.

That simplicity mattered. “When you’re not fussing with gear,” Paul explained, “people stay relaxed. You’re not breaking the moment. You’re just part of it.”

The gear stayed present but quiet, and the focus remained on the people in front of him.

By the end of the assignment, Paul found himself thinking differently, not only about how he packed, but about how he approached future work. Carrying less changed the pace of his days in subtle but meaningful ways, making movement easier, decisions simpler, and allowing his attention to stay focused on what was unfolding in front of him rather than on the logistics surrounding it. Working lighter became a form of clarity, not about having the right tools, but about recognizing when nothing essential was left behind.

In the end, the most effective tools are the ones that don’t compete with the story. They follow it. This assignment was about finally stepping into a story that had taken years to reach the starting line and letting it unfold on its own terms. By staying out of the way and supporting the work quietly, the Shape Shifter 37L played its role in making that possible.

For anyone who loves the outdoors, it's hard to imagine a better place for laid-back adventures in nature than Sonoma County, the place I've always called home. The Pacific Ocean, oak-covered rolling hills, redwood forests, gentle mountains, and countless hiking trails are all within easy reach.

Even so, I often find myself with a bit of landscape photographer’s FOMO. As beautiful as the landscapes are, the sky doesn’t always live up to what’s on the ground. Much of the country seems to experience dramatic weather more frequently and predictably than we do, and those conditions can transform an ordinary scene into something extraordinary. Here, it’s often a matter of waiting for the landscape and the sky to finally come together.

We get fog, but it's rarely the wispy, cotton candy kind that seems more common farther north, like what I experienced along the southern Oregon coast a few years ago. More often, it's a solid wall of cloud hugging the ground, making it surprisingly difficult to incorporate into a compelling composition. Summer is largely dominated by the marine layer. It ebbs and flows for months, and while I'm grateful for the natural air conditioning, it's easy to understand why locals call it "June Gloom." Most mornings begin beneath a thick, uninterrupted blanket of gray that lingers until mid-afternoon, only to roll back in again by early evening.

Every now and then, though, something special happens. A monsoonal system brushes the coast, bringing fiery desert sunsets, long rain bands, and clouds sculpted into every imaginable shape. Rarer still is the occasional supercell, massive UFO-like structures that sweep through as quickly as they arrive.

Winter has its own personality. Some storms are little more than flat gray skies, while others layer together rain, mist, shifting clouds, and pockets of light into something far more compelling.

One of the frustrations of working a traditional day job is watching those moments unfold from the office. My desk sits beside floor-to-ceiling windows facing west, and I’ve lost count of how many promising weather systems I’ve watched drift by, only to disappear before I can get out with a camera. By the end of the workday, I’m often low on energy or motivation anyway, and sometimes all I can do is admire the show from my backyard. That’s okay, too.

The photographs below are moments when the timing happened to work in my favor. A collection of fleeting conditions across Sonoma County, and a reminder that not everything worth chasing lies over the next horizon. Sometimes it simply requires the patience to wait for home to reveal its self fully.

I'd love to hear from you. Is there a place you find yourself returning to again and again, waiting for the right light or weather? What keeps drawing you back?

PROLOGUE

The Eastern Sierra, Death Valley, and a handful of remote desert destinations are all within a half day’s drive, making them the perfect proving ground for my new Fujifilm GFX system. I was eager to see how it might change the way I approached landscape and environmental photography.

Finding restraint in how much gear to pack is always a challenge, especially when desert hiking is involved. I pulled out my Think Tank BackLight 26L and managed to fit the GFX100S, GF 32-64mm f/4, GF 110mm f/2, Mitakon 65mm f/1.4, and, since I didn’t yet own a telephoto lens for the Fujifilm system, my trusty Nikon D810 with a Sigma 150-600mm attached.

It just fit.

It was heavy, even before adding a water bottle and tripod.

But I knew I could leave the Nikon behind for the longer hikes, so there was that.

DAY 1 - DEPARTURE

The original plan had been to leave Sonoma County, drive south through the San Joaquin Valley to Bakersfield, then head east to Tehachapi for the night before continuing on to Death Valley. Efficient, but not exactly inspiring.

A few days before departure, I happened to see a Facebook post announcing that Sonora Pass (Highway 108) had just reopened for the season.

Bingo.

I cancelled our hotel in Tehachapi, booked a night in Mammoth Lakes instead, and suddenly the first day of our trip transformed into one of California’s most scenic drives.

That’s how we roll.

Below are a few snapshots from Donnell Lake and Sonora Pass, California’s second-highest highway pass at 9,600 feet (2,926 m).

The crisp, clear mountain air and snow capped peaks were all I needed to feel as though the trip had truly begun.

Once over the pass, the alpine landscape gradually gave way to high desert, and before long we found ourselves settling into our room for the night in Mammoth Lakes.

DAY 2 - MAMMOTH LAKES TO DEATH VALLEY

I wish I could say I woke up feeling refreshed, but I really didn’t want to move that morning. Mild altitude sickness is something I’ve come to expect whenever I jump from sea level to Mammoth’s 8,000-foot elevation. There wasn’t much time to acclimate, though. Breakfast was waiting, and so was the long drive toward Death Valley. At least by late afternoon we’d be below sea level again.

Instead of simply plugging our destination into the GPS, I researched an alternate route that would take us through a few ghost towns along some wonderfully remote Nevada highways. We’d be returning to Mammoth in a few days via Highway 395, completing one large loop, and I’ve always preferred routes that keep us discovering new places rather than retracing our steps.

We headed out on Highway 6 through sleepy Benton before crossing Montgomery Pass just over the California-Nevada border, skirting the northern edge of the White Mountains. It’s the same range that’s home to the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest, where some of the trees are more than 5,000 years old.

Montgomery Pass enjoyed its heyday during the 1950s and ‘60s, when hotels and casinos dotted the area. Today, nearly all of them sit abandoned. It made for a perfect excuse to stretch our legs while keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes, broken glass, and rusty nails.

We continued south on Nevada Highway 264 along the eastern flank of the White Mountains, briefly crossing back into California before returning to Nevada once again. The scenery shifted between rolling sagebrush-covered hills and scattered Joshua tree outcroppings.

Hours later, after joining the busier Highway 95, we topped off the tank in Beatty before turning west toward Death Valley.

But first, one more detour.

We couldn’t pass up the chance to spend half an hour wandering through the ghost town of Rhyolite. Another welcome opportunity to stretch our legs among the remnants of what had once been a thriving mining settlement.

The old train depot, pictured below, was later converted into a casino after the railroad disappeared. It’s a shame a protective fence now surrounds it to discourage vandals, but I did my best to work around it.

Death Valley

Twelve years had passed since our last visit. Much too long, considering it’s one of my favorite national parks and only about ten hours from our front door.

The drive toward Badwater feels almost otherworldly. Signs warn of desert tortoises crossing the road, and every bend reveals another impossible landscape.

My heart sank a little as we crested the final mountain range and caught our first view into the valley. Looking south toward Badwater Basin, I was greeted by a wall of haze.

Midday haze isn’t unusual, and it doesn’t always ruin the evening, but this was...a lot of haze.

There wasn’t much I could do except adjust my expectations and see what the desert had planned for us.

We checked into our not-so-clean room at The Ranch at Death Valley. It was 106°F (41°C).

Crikey.

After a quick rest and a bite to eat, we headed up to Zabriskie Point, where we’d encounter what would become our only real crowd of tourists during the trip. It’s close to the main accommodations and easy to reach, so sunset always brings a steady stream of visitors.

Us included.

The sun had slipped behind Telescope Peak, but I had one more idea if Logan was willing to make one last push.

We stood there quietly for a moment.

Were we really up for the hour-long round-trip drive to Dante’s View after already spending the entire day on the road?

With only a short time in Death Valley, it felt like now or never.

Off we went.

I’m lucky to have such a supportive partner who’s always willing to lean into one more adventure. Left to my own devices, the comfortable hotel room probably would have won that debate

Now this was what we’d been searching for.

Temperatures had dropped into the mid-60s, the wind howled across the overlook, and nearly everyone else had already left. We passed a long line of cars heading back down the mountain, leaving the parking lot almost empty by the time we arrived.

Just the way we like it.

It would also become the norm for the rest of our time in the park.

Dante’s View sits roughly 5,800 feet above Badwater Basin, which lies 282 feet below sea level directly beneath it. It’s also a spectacular sunrise location, though that’ll have to wait for another trip.

DAY 3 - HIKING | VOLCANOS | CANYONS

PT. 1 - GOLDEN CANYON to GOWER GULCH LOOP

The wretched alarm was buzzing at 5:30 a.m., we rolled out of bed, threw on the clothes we’d laid out the night before, grabbed our packs and water, and headed for the Golden Canyon to Gower Gulch Loop. The goal was simple: finish the hike before the desert heat really settled in.

When we pulled into the trailhead, I was both surprised and delighted to find we had the place entirely to ourselves. Apparently, most people appreciate the heat a little more than we do.

6:00 a.m., and we were on the move.

We rounded the first bend, and there it was. Golden morning light spilling across the canyon walls.

This also happened to be the backside of Zabriskie Point, and I loved the completely different perspective.

The stretch of trail above appeared in the original Star Wars, where R2-D2 rolled through the canyon while being chased by Jawas.

Neat.

Soon we reached our first clear view of the trail climbing the face of Manly Beacon. If you enlarge the photo, you'll spot a few hikers descending toward us. They must have started from the Zabriskie Point trailhead.

Photographs never seem to convey just how steep a trail really is.

It was also warming up quickly.

Thankfully, Manly Beacon offered a bit of shade as we climbed. Looking back, the valley below glowed brighter by the minute while the surrounding peaks began catching the morning sun, becoming beacons themselves.

The light and shadow play on the desertscape was a delight to capture, and made this outing feel much more of a dream than a chore.

The climb was also over and now the trail descended into Gower Gulch, eventually leading us back toward the valley floor and the trailhead where we'd started a couple of hours earlier.

I stopped and wondered what it must have been like for the early explorers and miners who found themselves in such an inhospitable place long before the comforts and safety nets of modern life.

What a fantastic hike.

I’d happily do it again, although next time I’d love to start closer to sunset just to experience these landscapes under completely different light.

We continued on, and the gulch turned into a narrow canyon.

The canyon eventually opened onto the valley floor, and before long we found ourselves back where we’d started two hours and 4.1 miles earlier.

Time for showers and a hearty breakfast.

PT. 2 - UBEHEBE CRATER

Fed, showered, and ready for more, we climbed back into our rental Mazda CX-50 and headed roughly an hour north toward Ubehebe Crater.

Thanks to the 2,400-foot elevation, the temperatures were noticeably cooler.

Ubehebe was every bit as impressive as I remembered.

We decided to hike nearly the entire two-mile crater rim, along with a few surrounding features. The elevation gain isn’t especially difficult, but the loose volcanic gravel and complete lack of shade certainly keep you honest.

Two memorable hikes in the same day felt like a luxury.

Once again, we had much of the trail to ourselves. Most visitors seemed content to stop at the overlook, snap a few photos, and continue on.

The midday light wasn't doing us any favors, and the haze had returned, but a polarizer helped cut through some of it.

A subtle breeze helped push us along.

It wasn’t even 3:30 yet, and a nap sounded heavenly.

Then again...

...so did an ice cream cone.

It was far too hot to nap in the car, though, so both would have to wait. Our energy levels were fading fast, but somehow we kept convincing ourselves there was time for one more stop.

PT. 3 - TITUS CANYON

I’ve always liked the phrase, “There’s no rest for the weary,” and I found myself repeating it like a mantra that afternoon.

Just one more stop.

Titus Canyon.

I’ll stop short of saying this stop was a mistake, but it was probably the point where we realized we’d packed a little too much into a single day.

The three-mile dirt road into the canyon was fun to drive, and despite the heat it offered yet another completely different side of Death Valley.

However by this point, Logan had reached her limit. She found a welcome patch of shade while I wandered another ten minutes into the canyon before deciding it was time to call it.

After some of my own soul searching, I decided that ice cream was sounding better than another composition.

Cooled down, sugared up, and feeling human again, we decided there was only one thing left to do.

One last sunset drive.

We pointed the car back toward Badwater Basin and made our way onto Artist Drive.

PT. 4 - ARTIST DRIVE

We were greeted by blissfully cooler temperatures, a gentle breeze, a rising moon, and far fewer tourists than expected, likely thanks to it being a Monday evening.

Our day started pre-dawn, and fatigue was expected and unavoidable. We lacked the oomph to explore much beyond the road itself.

A modest crowd had gathered at the Artist Palette overlook, which meant it was time to initiate Operation: Stay Away, with waypoint BedPointZero serving as our final destination of the day.

Tomorrow we’d leave Death Valley and make our way back to Mammoth Lakes.

DAY 4: DEATH VALLEY TO MAMMOTH LAKES

After the pace of the previous three days, we welcomed a more relaxed travel day.

One of our favorite YouTube channels is Ghost Town Living, where Brant Underwood and his business partner have been restoring the historic Cerro Gordo mining town, high above Owens Valley. Their long-term goal is to reopen the old American Hotel, and we’ve been following the project for years.

Needless to say, we got a little excited when the road leading up to Cerro Gordo finally came into view.

We’ll be back.

The climb from nearly 100 feet below sea level back to Mammoth’s 8,000-foot elevation hit me even harder than it had a few days earlier.

Rather than push through it, we settled into our Airbnb, enjoyed a good dinner, drank far more water than we thought possible, and called it an early night.

Sometimes the smartest pivot is simply knowing when to rest.

DAY 5: HOT CREEK | BODIE | VIRGINA LAKES | MONO LAKE

Another early alarm.

This one was set for 5:10 a.m. so we could catch first light at Hot Creek Geological Site.

PT. 1 - HOT CREEK

I’ve learned that when an alarm goes off before sunrise, hesitation is dangerous.

Every extra minute I lie there questioning my life choices makes it exponentially more likely that I’ll roll back over and convince myself the photographs can wait until tomorrow.

After all...

...it’s only photography.

Right?

Truthfully, if I could have snapped my fingers, I would have changed almost everything about the conditions.

A little more snow on the peaks.

Some actual clouds.

Maybe even a touch of autumn color.

Still, despite none of those things showing up, we had a wonderful morning bundled together in 26°F (-3°C) air while steam drifted across the creek.

This definitely wasn’t Death Valley anymore.

Afterward, we stopped at the market to stock up on supplies for the remainder of the trip before heading back to the Airbnb for breakfast and that nap.

PT. 2 - BODIE

My parents’ idea of a family vacation usually involved loading my brother and me into the back of our old 1960s Ford pickup, pointing it toward the mountains or desert, and staying put for the better part of a week.

Every once in a while we’d venture out on day trips, and I vaguely remember one of them being to Bodie. I couldn’t tell you exactly when, but I know I was younger than ten because the memories are little more than fragments.

I’ve returned several times since then with both family and friends, but Bodie never seems to lose its ability to transport me somewhere else.

Being late May, the park closed at 4:00 p.m., which ruled out any chance of photographing it in golden light.

No clouds.

Very little snow remaining.

The conditions weren’t exactly inspiring, but honestly, that sometimes frees me to experiment.

I mounted a 10-stop ND filter, added a polarizer, and paired them with my wonderfully quirky manual-focus Mitakon 65mm f/1.4.

Let’s see what happens.

The heavy ND filter enabled me shoot wide open in bright daylight while also stretching shutter speeds into several seconds. The GFX100S is limited to 1/4000th of a second.

Considering the rather boring conditions, I still came away happy with the results. It’s Bodie, so you’d better be having fun. This was one of those instances though where experimenting with gear did add icing to the cake.

PT 3. - VIRGINIA LAKES

It looked as though the road to Virginia Lakes had only recently been cleared of snow. The lake was still half frozen, and a bitter wind spilled down from the high peaks.

Then a bald eagle drifted overhead.

We stood there for a while, taking it all in.

PT. 4 - MONO LAKE

One challenge I’ve always had with photographing Mono Lake in the evening is that the Sierra rises immediately to the west, blocking the sun before the light really has a chance to come alive. If you’re patient, twilight can still be spectacular, so it’s worth sticking around.

If you have the choice, though, come for sunrise.

To better understand how I approach photographing Mono Lake, especially the tufa formations, think back to what I wrote earlier about Zabriskie Point.

It’s been photographed countless times, often under better conditions than you’re ever likely to experience yourself. Don’t fall into the trap of believing you need to create the definitive photograph.

Come anyway.

In person, Mono Lake is a wanderer’s playground. It’s wonderfully strange, endlessly fascinating, and rewards curiosity far more than careful planning. Pick a point on the horizon and simply start walking. You’ll discover all sorts of unexpected compositions along the way.

As before, avoiding the busiest viewpoints was key to keeping our spirits high. We parked east of Navy Beach, cooked dinner in the wind, then spotted a cluster of tufa in the distance and started walking.

The lake was whipped into whitecaps, so I reached for the ND filter and experimented with a few long exposures.

Then something unexpected happened.

Logan wandered into one of the frames by accident.

Instinctively, I nudged (tripped over) the tripod during the exposure instead of stopping it, and ended up creating one of my favorite photographs from the trip completely by mistake.

I’ll take happy accidents whenever I can get them.

As we made our way back to the car, a full moon climbed above the desert hills, giving the entire walk an almost dreamlike atmosphere.

It also gave me the perfect excuse to dust off the heavyweight Sigma telephoto one last time.

As much as I love the old Nikon D810, the colors feel noticeably more subdued next to the Fujifilm GFX files and require a bit more massaging in Lightroom to get similar results.

DAY 6 - MAMMOTH LAKES TO BERLIN NEVADA

Our last destination took us back to another wonderfully odd place my family used to camp when I was a kid.

Picture two brothers packed into the back of an old pickup beneath a hot camper shell for hours at a time.

It wasn’t always paradise.

Still, I have to give my dad credit. He had an incredible knack for finding remote places, and Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park remains near the top of that list.

Logan had been here once before, more than twenty-five years earlier, when we camped with a group of close friends.

Neither of us knew where life would eventually lead, but it’s fun looking back and realizing we were quietly building the foundation for something much bigger.

Nevada has done a wonderful job preserving this park.

The roads are excellent, the campground is immaculate, the rangers are welcoming, and there’s a surprising amount of infrastructure considering just how remote it is.

If you enjoy the desert, put this place on your list.

It’s only about six and a half hours from the San Francisco Bay Area, making it an easy day’s drive. There’s enough to fill a couple of days between the ghost town, fossil house, hiking trails, dark skies, and a handful of nearby attractions.

But the real attraction isn’t any one destination.

It’s the remoteness.

That’s the magic.

We arrived around midday, set up camp, and headed straight out on the park’s two-mile hiking trail, which conveniently begins right in the campground.

Millions of years ago, ichthyosaurs swam through the ancient inland sea that once covered this region. Today, the park protects an incredible collection of their fossilized skeletons beneath a specially constructed building.

Dinner disappeared quickly, and while packing up my camera gear we struck up a conversation with a couple camping nearby who had once lived in Sonoma County.

As golden hour approached, we wandered down into the old mining camp.

Clouds had finally arrived.

Nature had saved one last light show for the end of the trip.

We took a few minutes to explore the petite but interesting mine site at the park.

On the short drive back to camp, the retreating sunlight began glowing beneath the clouds, washing the landscape in soft color.

Not a bad way to wrap up the day.

Or the trip.

Before leaving the next morning, I stopped for one last photograph looking back toward Berlin as it sat quietly on its lonely hillside. Until next time.

Some places are memorable because of what there is to do.

Others stay with you simply because of how they make you feel.

Berlin is one of those places.

Thanks for coming along.

If you’ve made it this far, you have my warmest regards.

Randy

by Hope Cruz for Think Tank

In 2010, after days of working in the aftermath of Haiti’s earthquake, he caught sight of it in an instant, the lifeless body of a toddler in a red dress being lifted into the air as a dog mauled her body in the streets of Port-au-Prince. It was the kind of moment that hits all at once, disorienting before the mind can make sense of it.

He didn’t take the photo.

Sitting in the back seat of the car, he gasped, his reaction coming before thought, sharp enough that the reporter in the front seat turned and asked what was wrong. For a second he couldn’t answer, couldn’t fully process what he had just seen, only managing to say to keep going.

The car rolled forward, carrying them past the scene. For a few blocks, there was only stunned silence, as his mind tried to catch up to something it didn’t yet understand. Then clarity struck. He insisted they go back, already sensing that the moment had slipped past where it could be photographed, leaving behind only the potential of an image that would never be framed or explained, but would remain unresolved.

For photojournalist Al Diaz, that moment didn’t fade. It stayed with him, returning across assignments, shaping how he sees, responds, and decides. The question it left behind is simple in structure, but rarely simple in practice.

When do you press the shutter, and when do you hold back?

For Diaz, the question doesn’t come with a single answer, but it does begin with boundaries.

“My hard line is that I do not step onto private property without permission,” Diaz says. Even when a news event unfolds on private property, he doesn’t cross that line. He works within that boundary from public space, adjusting his position to tell a story.

That kind of boundary offers a place to begin, but it doesn’t go far enough to account for what actually unfolds in front of a lens. It can seem like photography simply captures what’s there, but every image is shaped by decisions made in real time about what to show, what to focus on, and what to leave out. To photograph something is to pull it out of the flow of experience and mark it as something that matters. That act carries a responsibility that can’t be separated from the image itself.

“If a frame gives the victims a voice, shows their strength, their struggle, and the forces acting on them, then the image helps move their story forward in the world,” Diaz says.

That intention introduces its own tension. Giving someone a voice isn’t always clearly distinct from exposing them, and the difference often reveals itself later, once the moment has already been captured and shared.

Early in his career, Diaz encountered a young girl trapped behind burglar bars outside her home, crying after losing her keys and unable to get back into her own house. She was stuck at the window, trying to get inside, with no way through. He rushed to help, calling for assistance, telling her someone was on the way. Then, in the same moment, he asked if he could photograph her. She agreed, and the image ran the next day.

Diaz’s regret came later.

Not because he broke any rules, but because the question shifted. It was no longer about whether he could take the photograph, but what the photograph had actually done.

“What good did it serve? How does this photograph help change anything? Will they make burglar bars safer?” Diaz asked himself.

Over time, those questions began to surface sooner.

“I now ask myself, does publishing this photograph serve the public interest, or does it risk causing unnecessary harm?”

Looking back, Diaz recognized a pattern. He has consistently documented traumatic moments, and situations marked by physical, emotional, or psychological harm, where people are often overwhelmed, and caught in circumstances they can’t fully process in real time.

“As a photojournalist, my work continually places me in ethical gray areas,” he says.

There are situations that don’t allow for distance, where the camera is no longer just a tool, but an intrusive presence that bears witness. Diaz encountered that tension while covering the aftermath of the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, where 17 people were killed and 17 more were wounded. In moments like that, the ethical tension is no longer abstract.

This is how Diaz frames the tension: “How do you balance the public’s right to know with the private pain of those affected? Will these images retraumatize families and survivors, or do they serve a greater public good?”

There’s no version of this work that’s neutral. Every frame makes a decision, and every decision carries weight.

In 2014, on a stretch of the Dolphin Expressway in Miami, that weight showed up in a different way. On that day, Diaz recalls the sound of desperate screaming cutting through traffic as he waited in his car. He looked up to see a woman leap out of her SUV, screaming, carrying a baby in her arms, his skin already turning blue. It was clear he wasn’t breathing. This woman’s urgency was immediate. The camera didn’t factor into the reaction. Movement, action, and the need to get help did. The gear stayed where it was, ready when it was needed, but irrelevant in that moment.

He jumped out of the car, trying to flag down help as the woman, frantic, held the baby in her arms. Only later, once others had stepped in to help, did the awareness surface that the moment worth capturing had already passed.

When he returned with his camera, he hesitated. He didn’t want to add more stress to an already traumatized woman, or for her to see him taking pictures. When she did, he felt the weight of it immediately. He understood how it might look, like someone capturing another person’s worst moment, but he also knew that images can reach people who weren’t there and show what would otherwise go unseen.

The photographs he eventually took were widely shared, sparking conversations about CPR training and preparedness. “A single image can change the course of history, influence policy, raise awareness, and inspire people to act,” Diaz says.

Photojournalism isn’t only about recording events. It’s about capturing what a moment feels like and carrying that to others. Even when a situation is overwhelming, the photographer has to stay present, control their emotions, and decide what matters enough to photograph.

That day on the Dolphin Expressway became one of those moments, not only because of what unfolded, but because of what it required of him. In the span of seconds, as a woman fought to save the life of a child in her arms, Diaz moved from witness to participant and back again, aware that what he was seeing carried weight beyond the immediate moment.

He captured it in a rapid sequence, eleven frames in two seconds. From it, one image would come to be known as The Breath of Life, carrying the urgency, emotion, and stakes of that moment to those who weren’t there.

That power gives the work its significance while also complicating it. The same image that informs or motivates can carry unintended consequences for the person in the frame.

Over time, Diaz has developed ways of navigating these moments, not as strict rules, but as guidelines. He pays attention to access, to consent when possible, and to how a story can be told without placing someone at the center if they don’t want to be, but even then the work doesn’t become predictable. Each situation is different, shaped by context and unknowns that can’t be fully understood in advance. There’s no formula to rely on, only the moment as it unfolds and the decisions that follow.

Some images are taken and released into the world, while others are never captured and exist only in memory, yet both remain with you. The weight doesn’t disappear once the camera is lowered. It lingers, shaping how you see what comes next and how you decide to act. Maybe the real question isn’t whether to press the shutter, but whether you’re willing to carry the weight of whatever you decide.

When do you press the shutter, and when do you hold back?

by Mike Carroll for Think Tank

The beauty of our universe is certainly something I look forward to, especially the Milky Way. In this article, I'm going to discuss my planning and techniques for the night sky.

Mike Carroll is a professional landscape and night sky photographer who has a passion for moon photography, astrophotography, concert photography, wildlife, long exposures and cityscapes.

Planning Your Adventure

The sound of nature, shooting stars, comets and the feeling of losing oneself beneath the night sky are priceless. Before heading out, the first task on my list is to check the Bortle scale for the area I plan to visit. There are numerous resources online to assess light pollution. Next, I check the weather, as it plays a crucial role in my upcoming adventure under the stars.

Weather

The weather is one of the most important factors for photographing the night sky. Keep your weather notifications enabled, as those alerts can prevent you from making a long drive.

Here are some key points that I consider for my next adventure.

• Very low cloud coverage

• Calm wind conditions

• High humidity can put a damper on your images

• Fog (keep an eye on the dew point and temperature. If they’re close together, there can be some potential fog!)

• Smoke (wildfires)

Capturing the Milky Way

For optimal results, it is advisable to use a full-frame camera, such as a mirrorless or DSLR model. Select a lens with a fast aperture of f/1.4 or f/2.8. My preferred lenses for photographing the night sky is the Sigma 28-45mm f/1.8 DG DN Art or a fast prime lens with an aperture of f/1.2 or f/1.4. Additionally, a wide-angle zoom lens with a constant f/2.8 aperture such as the Sigma 14-24mm f/2.8 DG DN Art can provide more options for compositions and a more suitable focal length. Regarding settings, I typically shoot at an aperture of around f/1.8 and keep the shutter speed between 5 to 10 seconds to prevent star trailing, while increasing the ISO to compensate for my exposure.

Shooting Locations/Apps

It is advisable to scout your vantage point during the day to see exactly what will be included in your image. Planit Pro is a great application for planning rare celestial events such as aligning comets in the night sky.

You can utilize the Night AR feature in PhotoPills to assist you with your desired Milky Way alignment.

Light Pollution

As I mentioned earlier, the light pollution is something to consider when you’re planning your next shot. In this image below, I had to battle with the light pollution in the area but the good news here is that the image still worked out!

Foreground Options

I always look for something in the foreground when setting up my composition. It can be anything from a bench, branches, or flowers. Look for something appealing and take a test shot by illuminating the foreground to see how it appears. I recommend not staying in one spot for too long, as you might miss other opportunities for different compositions. Please remember that your alignment will change as the Galactic Core moves.

Think Tank Gear

By Justin Tedford for Think Tank

Over the past few years, I’ve made it a habit to pick a word that sums up what I want to focus on creatively for the year ahead. In 2022, it was Adventure. Then came Authenticity in the following year. And now, for this year, I’ve landed on Journey.

Last year, I hit a wall creatively. I lost my mojo and ended up putting my personal projects on hold, just to get through the paid gigs. But I knew one thing: the longer I stayed stuck, the stronger I'd bounce back.

So, I tried to find inspiration anywhere I could – scrolling through Instagram, revisiting old favorites like Wes Anderson, Keith Carter and chatting with fellow creators. And somehow, the word “journey” felt right. This year was going to be about finding myself again as a creator and falling back in love with what I do.

Sometimes, you’ve just got to let things unfold on their own.

But what kind of journey did I need? It had to be something big, something that could either go amazingly well or completely belly flop. That's when I decided: it was time to tick off a big one from my bucket list. I settled on the classic American road trip – Route 66, cutting through eight states over 2400 miles. With barely a plan in place, I packed my bags and headed to Los Angeles to kickstart this adventure.

Now, gear is everything for us photographers. Over the years, I've learned that you need stuff that can take a beating and still come out on top, especially when you're flying all over the place. That's where my trusty Rotation 50L backpack comes in handy – it's tough as nails and fits everything from clothes to tripods to all the extra gear I need. And for my camera gear, the Backlight 26L is perfect – it's durable, holds all my essentials, and slips through crowded airports like a charm.

Our gear isn't just tools; it's part of our story, woven into every shot we take. So, armed with my gear, I set out to capture the spirit of Route 66 and remind myself why I fell in love with photography in the first place.

What started as a simple tick on my bucket list turned into a real eye-opener. Along Route 66, I rediscovered the heart of America – the kindness of strangers in small towns, the beauty of the open road, and yes, even the cost of a tow truck after getting stuck in the mud near Groom, Texas. But that's a story for another time.

Within each adventure, there resides a unique story, and within every story, an adventure awaits. It’s not just about the places we go or the things we see; it’s about the experiences we gather along the way and the memories we create. So, here’s to embracing the journey, wherever it may lead, and discovering the endless adventures that await us.

Justin Tedford, a Midwest-based photographer and author, captures the culture of rural America. He is a self-proclaimed road trip junkie and coffee connoisseur, embarking on countless road trips. Fueled by coffee and his curiosity for exploration. In a stroke of luck and charm, he convinced the powers-that-be to publish his book, “Iowa: Land Between Two Rivers,” showcasing the scenic beauty of the state’s landscapes. When he is not behind the camera, Justin can be found planning his next adventure while trying to unsuccessfully convince his wife and daughter it’s a good idea to live on the road and explore America.