Article and photography by Chris Swann

Before working at NCAA Photos, I had never set up a catwalk remote before. I had only made a handful of portraits, and I had never worked in a high-pressure environment as big as a Final Four.

It was a whole new world setting foot in Denver. I covered some of the biggest events and moments that sports has to offer. Accomplishing the many demands of this job forced me out of my comfort zone, requiring high attention to detail, a strong work ethic, and, most importantly, confidence.

In this world, confidence is everything. It dictates how you push through high-pressure situations, how you respond to setbacks, and how you handle trying new things.

From capturing moments like LeBron James' record-breaking field goal to become the NBA all-time leading scorer, I learned how to push through the anxiety and clear out the noise to focus on capturing the important moments where missing is not an option. Moments like this gave me the confidence to move forward, knowing I was capable of such a task, and served as a defining moment early in my internship that would help define the rest of my experience at NCAA Photos.

When March came around, it was time for travel season to begin. Traveling weekly, often solo, is something I had never done before. Booking flights, checking overweight bags, and navigating through busy train stations and terminals can be overwhelming. My Think Tank Airport International V3.0 roller gave me peace of mind and allowed me to focus on what was in front of me.

Before NCAA Photos, I had never set up a remote other than one on the floor. Coming in, I knew I wanted to learn more about setting remotes in new places such as catwalks, backboards, or other interesting places. Through working events for Denver University, the Mountain West Basketball Championship, and March Madness, I had many opportunities to watch, assist, and set up remote cameras in all kinds of places.

All of that experience culminated in accomplishing one of the more laborious remote setups in the discus cage at the NCAA DI Outdoor Track & Field Championships.

Track and field remotes can be tricky due to the strict time constraints of the events. Sometimes you only have minutes to set a remote before warmups begin. That was why my Think Tank Credential Holder was vital for staying on top of schedules and times for mounting remotes and keeping track of each day.

Aside from the time restrictions, the logistics of such a remote are heavy (literally).

Requiring a hefty 16-foot ladder, I got over the uneasiness behind setting high remotes early on, but still had the jitters standing atop the cage, unsupported, with the wind howling around me. Luckily, everything was set, focused, tightened, strapped, and secured with plenty of time to spare before the competition.

Moments like these remind me why it's important to step out of my comfort zone. I would not have been able to achieve something like this six months ago.

Walking out of this internship, I know that I am a stronger shooter with a much more diverse skillset than when I walked in. I was scared to take chances and bet on myself. Now I'm more confident in myself as a photographer than I've ever been. Opportunities like these don't come often, and I'm proud of the work I've made and the person I've become.

About the Author
Chris Swann

Chris Swann is a sports photographer who got his start photographing athletics at Texas A&M. As an NCAA Photos intern, he photographed championship events across basketball, gymnastics, track and field, and more. His work captures both the action and the moments that unfold around the competition.

Article and photography by Tanner Pearson

As my internship with NCAA Photos comes to an end, I’ve reflected on the trips, assignments, and work I’ve done over the past few months. Across 29 flights, over 21,000 miles, twelve airports, and six months of travel, I think back to my first assignment in early January.

Nervously, I packed my Think Tank Airport International V3.0. I checked, then double checked, to make sure I had everything I needed. Three camera bodies, a 100-300, 24-105, a 16-35, chargers, cords, card readers, and batteries. I think I got it all. Once at Ball Arena, I made my way in to cover the Denver Nuggets vs. the Atlanta Hawks. Through security, I secured my credential and displayed it in my Think Tank Credential Holder, an item soon to be filled with more. I found my way to the media room to begin setting up my gear for the game. It was a familiar feeling, filled with excitement and anticipation. The Hawks took the win, and I had completed my first assignment. Relieved, I was eager for the assignments ahead, ready to work hard and learn everything I could.

Growing up, I always associated spring with basketball. I looked forward to March Madness, filling out a bracket, thinking, "This is my year. I know exactly who will win it all!" always picking Duke. This year was no different. Early March was spent in Las Vegas, covering the Mountain West tournament for 10 days, followed by a trip to San Diego for the men’s first- and second-round regionals. Then, a solo trip to Sacramento covering the third and fourth rounds of the women’s tournament. Following that, I made the cross-country venture from Sacramento to Indianapolis for the men’s Final Four.

What should have been an easy flight to Chicago, then to Indianapolis, turned into a delay and reroute to Houston, where I managed to make my connecting flight with ten minutes to spare. Though travel days can be unpredictable and stressful, I learned to let go of control and enjoy the process.

It was an impactful and developmental month for me. I met and worked with some amazing folks, improved my skills in setting up remote cameras, live editing, cross-country travel, and learned how to precisely pack for a trip. I could see the growth in my work and how I was able to become comfortable and confident in different environments.

The excitement and long days of March prepared me well for the months to follow. For the winter championships, we utilize remotes in the venues to add another perspective that we normally couldn’t capture. To keep the equipment safe and organized, we use the Logistics Manager 30 V2.0. From magic arms to clamps, triggers, cables, cameras, and lights, and everything in between, I know that I can fit everything I need securely into ThinkTank products.

We utilized these rollers heavily during the Frozen Four tournament in Las Vegas. Three remotes overhead on the catwalk, two remotes on each end of the rink on poles pointing at the goals, and one in the net. This allowed us complete coverage for every goal and celebration.

We rely on our gear to do our job so we can be reliable for our clients. I never have to worry about the reliability of my ThinkTank gear because I know from one assignment to the next, it will hold everything I need and allow me to stay organized.

As I finish my internship, I’ve reflected on the skills I have developed as a sports photographer. This internship has allowed me to understand the logistics of travel, the importance of preparation and planning, reliability, and organization to do the best job I can. Lessons all sports photographers learn. I am extremely grateful for this opportunity to develop these skills and to learn and work alongside some of the best in the world.

About the Author
Tanner Pearson

Tanner Pearson is a Denver-based photographer specializing in sports, documentary photography, and visual storytelling. A graduate of Ohio University, his work has appeared in The Boston Globe, and most recently, he spent six months traveling the country as an intern with NCAA Photos, documenting collegiate sports and championship events.

— Death Cab for Cutie, “Soul Meets Body” (2005)

These opening lines from a Death Cab for Cutie song tap into something many of us feel deeply, something that speaks to our shared humanity. It’s the longing to feel something real, to know we’re grounded in something true, and to be changed by the experience. In a world increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence (AI), that longing feels more urgent, as the line between authenticity and artifice grows increasingly blurry.

In photography, AI plays a growing role in shaping how images are made. Many photographers now integrate AI into their workflows for tasks like color correction, culling, tagging, and focus tracking. It also supports creative planning through mockups and mood boards. One area that has been gaining increasing attention is generative AI, where entire photorealistic images are created from text prompts. The results can be impressive, though they raise important questions about truth, authenticity, and intention.

To understand the dilemma, we have to remember that photography has never been immune to manipulation. From early techniques like hand-tinting and composite printing to digital editing and filters, photographers have long used tools to shape not just how an image looks, but how it feels. Does this make a photo inauthentic? Not necessarily. The question of what makes a photograph real or truthful has always been part of the medium. No matter how raw or unedited, a photo is never pure reality because it’s always filtered through a photographer’s perspective.

Some of the most iconic images in history reflect this tension between truth and interpretation. Dorothea Lange, who documented the Great Depression, and Frank Hurley, a World War I photographer, didn’t just record events. They crafted emotional realities meant to be felt as much as seen.

Hurley understood this over a century ago. He believed a single exposure couldn’t capture the magnitude of war, so he created composite images from multiple negatives. One of his most famous, An Episode After the Battle of Zonnebeke (1918), combined bomb blasts, soldiers, biplanes, and a devastated landscape into one single dramatic frame. It didn’t show events exactly as they happened, but it was believable and emotionally charged, enough that it sparked debate about whether it was ethical. Hurley’s work was an early example of the questions we are trying to reconcile with AI today. He blurred the line between fact and feeling, just as AI-generated images now challenge our sense of what’s real.

Lange’s Migrant Mother (1936) reveals the same tension in a different way. Though rooted in a real moment, the image was carefully composed. Lange chose the framing, guided the subjects’ poses, and cropped the background to heighten the emotional impact, capturing the hardship many Americans faced during the Great Depression. The result was truthful, but undeniably shaped with intention. Ultimately, her photography struck a national nerve, which stirred empathy and helped mobilize government aid.

These historical examples remind us that photos are built from choices. The camera records light, but the photographer shapes meaning. What’s new is how AI amplifies the scale, speed, and subtlety of creating images. It can generate scenes that feel real, complete with lighting, composition, and a sense of atmosphere, even though the moment never existed outside the output of an algorithm.

So how are photographers navigating this shift? There isn’t a single answer when the technology is evolving this fast. That’s why I turned to our Think Tank Pro Team to ask for their insights. Their responses don’t offer a final verdict, but they do open a thoughtful dialogue about staying grounded in truth while embracing innovation.

For Lisbon-based photographer, João Carlos, this tension is personal and present. With roots in fashion, fine art, and advertising, João works with a distinct visual language and a strong sense of narrative. His recent series, Stages of Isolation and Stages of Depression, uses large sculptural props and emotionally charged self-portraits to explore the quiet weight of internal struggle, emotional depth and human fragility.

When I first saw the images, I assumed they were hybrids of AI and photography. They looked surreal. João clarified that every element was real. The domes, which appear rendered by AI, were actually large physical studio props. He also highlighted, “I’m actually the model myself. That made the process even more emotionally demanding and personal, and definitely not something that could be generated or recreated artificially.”

João isn’t against AI. He experimented with it early in his process, using it to generate low-res mockups, as a kind of sketchbook to explore mood and composition. “The results were nowhere near what I envisioned,” he said, “but they helped shape the direction I wanted to take with real photography.” For João, AI can be a useful tool, but it has limits. “You can replicate aesthetics,” he explained, “but you can’t replicate presence.” His work suggests that while AI can mimic form, it’s the photographer’s conscious intent that gives an image its lasting impression.

That perspective is shared by Melbourne-based travel portrait photographer Glynn Lavender. For Glynn, the value of an image lies in the journey it takes to get there. His work is rooted in the joy of chasing moments when light, subject, and emotion come together in a way that can’t be planned or staged.

Whether photographing a young novice Buddhist monk in Bagan or a child caught in the kinetic color of Holi—the Hindu festival of color—Glynn finds meaning in the process itself. AI, he notes, can produce a flawless image with a few prompts, but that kind of perfection strips away the very thing that makes photography satisfying. “Would a golfer keep playing if every hole was a hole in one?” he asked. The joy comes from the pursuit, the waiting, the effort, the uncertainty, not the shortcut.

Other photographers feel the weight of truth in times of crisis. Lt. Volodymyr Petrov, a Ukrainian military officer and documentary photographer, is currently serving during Russia’s war against Ukraine. When we spoke, his outlook on the future of photojournalism was marked by exhaustion and disillusionment. Volodymyr is deeply committed to photography, yet he questioned whether the truth captured through a lens still holds weight in a world where images can be manipulated or replaced.

“Photojournalism is on a slippery slope with artificial intelligence,” he said. “We live in a world that doesn’t necessarily want the truth.” He recalled a recent World Press Photo contest where several entries were disqualified for alterations that undermined their authenticity. “What is too much? What is enough?” he asked. Even respected institutions are struggling to define those lines. The boundary between authenticity and artifice is becoming harder to defend even in places designed to uphold it.

So if photography can be so easily altered, can we still trust it to tell the truth? For Pulitzer Prize–winning photojournalist and Think Tank Photo co-founder Deanne Fitzmaurice, the answer lies in the emotional power of human connection. She believes photography’s credibility depends not just on what we see, but on who made it and why. “The question we need to ask is, what is the source of the photograph? Can it be trusted?” she explained.

Her ethical roots are grounded in traditional photojournalism, where editing follows strict standards. Even as digital tools became widespread, only basic adjustments were permitted: density, contrast, color balance, cropping. Deanne continues to honor those ethical boundaries. At the core of her conviction is a simple truth: no matter how advanced it becomes, AI can’t replicate the emotional depth of a human behind the lens. “There will always be a place,” she said, “for photography that moves people with empathy and compassion.”

That belief is reflected in the work of veteran photojournalist Al Diaz. With four decades at the Miami Herald, Diaz has spent his career navigating the line between witnessing and helping. One defining moment came on a Florida highway, where he saw Pamela Rauseo administering CPR to her infant nephew who had suddenly stopped breathing. Before lifting his camera, Diaz flagged down help and returned only when others were assisting. He paused, aware of the emotional weight of what was unfolding. “My heart did not want to inflict more stress on this traumatized woman,” he recalled.

His image of Rauseo performing CPR went viral, sparking a public push to learn the lifesaving technique. “I captured the breath of life,” he said. Diaz knew a photograph could do more than inform. It could save lives. “A still photograph can alter the course of history, influence policy, raise awareness, and prompt leaders to take action,” he said.

Yet as images become easier to fabricate, Diaz admits he no longer fully trusts photographs at first glance, which he finds deeply unfortunate. That loss of trust is part of the dilemma we now face: if an AI image looks like a real photo and still moves us, does it matter how or who made it? It does, because while emotion can be mimicked, lived experience cannot.

A painting carries the trace of the artist’s hand. A photograph reflects the eye and timing of the photographer. These forms are marked by presence, time, risk, memory, and meaning. AI feels and risks nothing. It doesn’t witness or wait. It merely generates, and while the result may look convincing, it’s missing the heart of what gives a photo its soul.

As Glynn Lavender put it, “The human condition wants real.” When he leads clients through temples during Holi, no one asks, “What prompt do I need to fake this?” They ask, “How do I immerse myself in this moment and capture what it means to me?” That’s what photography gives us. Not perfection, but presence. Not replication, but reflection. Not just how it looks, but how it felt to be there.

AI is just a tool. Like any tool since the dawn of humanity, it carries no meaning on its own. A chisel can carve a masterpiece or deface a monument. The same is true of photography. It can reveal or deceive. What matters is not the tool itself, but the hands that wield it and the heart that guides it.

Navigating AI today is complex. Photo manipulation isn’t new, but AI’s scale and speed raise the stakes. What once required presence and patience can now be generated in seconds. We’re being asked to discern more quickly, to question more deeply, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. As our discernment sharpens, so do our values. In a world filled with simulations, real things don’t fade. They become more meaningful. An authentic photograph becomes a rare treasure we can truly feel.

So we return to that quiet craving at the heart of it all: the longing to feel something real, to be changed by a moment, to live, as Death Cab for Cutie puts it, “where soul meets body.” Despite the rise of AI, human presence remains essential, and the power of authentic photography has always lived there and always will.

What about you? What’s a photo you lived through? One that asked for your presence, your patience, your heart? Maybe it reminded you: I was there. I felt that. It mattered. We’d love to hear your story.

About the Author
Hope Cruz

Hope collaborates with photographers and creators to uncover the stories behind their work, transforming conversations into photo essays that reveal the person behind the camera.

Bella Zandoná is used to cold water. Antarctica is different.

For a brief moment, everything feels exactly right. Bella looks out across the vast Antarctic landscape, ice and deep blue water stretching in every direction. The bright pink accents of her dry suit stand out against the deep blues and whites around her. Then she rolls backward off the zodiac and into the water, her Canon R6 sealed inside a Marelux underwater housing, Marelux Apollo III strobes extending from either side of the rig while a wide-angle lens waits to capture the vast world beneath the ice.

Bella knows something is wrong the moment she enters.

A sudden sharp cold rushes around her right hand. The shock is immediate. Freezing water is flooding into her glove, and the cold hits hard, like plunging her hand straight into a bowl of ice water.

For a moment she considers ending the dive, but instead she keeps going.

Around her stretches a dive site no one has explored before. The guides had deliberately brought the team to an uncharted stretch of Antarctic water where, as far as anyone knew, no diver had ever descended. The thought had been buzzing in Bella’s mind since she woke that morning, adrenaline building with every piece of gear she checked and every strap she tightened on the zodiac ride to the site.

The pain settles into a deep ache as the cold pushes through the glove. She flexes her fingers inside the thick insulation, testing camera controls. Her trigger finger still responds.

The cold burns through, but she pushes the thought aside and keeps diving. Adrenaline drives her, along with the quiet pressure to prove to herself that she belongs there.

Ten minutes into the dive, her hand goes numb, but she can still use it. She presses the shutter and the strobes fire. Bella keeps shooting into the vast blue water beneath the ice.

Determination pushes her forward as her mind begins quietly negotiating with the warning signals coming from her body.

You’re fine. Keep going. Don’t waste this moment.

Twenty minutes in, she can’t feel her hand at all.

It’s time to ascend.

She breaks the surface and climbs back onto the zodiac. At first, there’s only cold. Then circulation begins to return as her right hand warms. It has turned a deep purple, and waves of pins and needles surge through her fingers, so intense that she pulls it tight against her chest, trying not to panic as feeling slowly returns.

Later, Bella can only speculate about the cause. The extreme cold may have caused the glove seals to shrink, allowing Antarctic water to seep inside. Whatever the reason, the result is mild frostbite concentrated in her right trigger finger, the one she uses to press the camera shutter, and the pain lingers throughout the expedition.

Antarctica had made its point. Bella was no stranger to cold water, but conditions here were harsher and far less forgiving than anything she had experienced before. On her second dive, both gloves unexpectedly flooded. This time she didn’t push through it, and the dive lasted only a few minutes before she surfaced.

Antarctica has a way of humbling even experienced divers, and this lesson came early for Bella. The resilience that carried her into those icy waters was forged in the cold Pacific waters of the Pacific Northwest, where she still dives regularly.

Bella learned to dive in Seattle, where the Pacific can feel unforgiving enough. Temperatures hover in the low 50s, visibility can shrink to just a few feet, and divers move slowly through dark water searching for life hidden among kelp forests and rocky seafloor. For many divers, those conditions are already intimidating. For Bella, they eventually became routine.

She learned to layer into a dry suit, shoulder heavy tanks and camera gear, and descend into the cold Pacific again and again, building the experience and resilience that would eventually define her work as an underwater photographer. That experience prepared her well, but Antarctica takes cold to an entirely different level.

Even through the extra layers beneath her dry suit, Antarctic water pressed in with a severity she had never felt in Seattle or anywhere else she had dived. Temperatures hovered between –1 and –3°C, cold enough to freeze solid if not for the ocean’s salt holding it in liquid form.

At 24, Bella has already developed the skills that made the Antarctica expedition possible. As a marine biologist and underwater photographer, she has spent years working in cold Pacific waters and documenting marine life across dive sites around the world. Her work has taken her far beyond Seattle, from the kelp forests of the Pacific Northwest to tropical dive sites across the Caribbean, Mexico, Honduras, Hawaii, Bali, and beyond. Each trip brought new environments, new species, and new challenges, expanding the experience she carried into every dive.

That growing body of work helped her earn a $10,000 grant through Blue Green Expeditions, part of an $80,000 fund established by an anonymous donor supporting artists and researchers traveling to Antarctica.

The opportunity would take Bella thousands of miles south, and the journey there would test her long before she ever entered the water. To reach the continent, Bella crossed the Drake Passage, a 600-mile stretch of ocean between South America and the Antarctic Peninsula known for some of the roughest seas on Earth. During the crossing, the expedition ship Ortelius rolled and plunged through swells reaching 35 to 40 feet.

Inside the vessel, the motion never stopped. Bella gripped the railings as she moved down the narrow stairwells toward her cabin, the ship rolling hard beneath her feet. Seasickness bags lined the stairwells, a reminder of the Drake Passage’s notorious conditions. The stairwells had no windows, leaving her without a horizon to steady herself against as the ship continued to roll violently.

The cabins themselves did have windows, but when the largest swells were expected the crew hammered them shut, leaving Bella to endure the sea’s powerful, relentless motion in uneasy, nauseating, and claustrophobic conditions.

During one particularly rough stretch, the thought surfaced: her camera gear.

Every piece of equipment she brought had to survive the journey south before she could even think about photographing the world waiting beneath Antarctic ice. Her camera bodies, lenses, underwater housing, and strobes represented years of work and investment.

Before leaving Seattle, Bella packed her kit carefully. Two Canon R6 bodies, the lenses she relied on for both topside and underwater work, her Marelux housing, and the strobes that would restore color beneath Antarctic water all had to travel safely to the bottom of the world.

Her gear was split between two Think Tank bags, an Airport Security V3 roller and a FocusPoint 30L RollTop backpack. The Airport Security V3 carried the heavier underwater equipment, including the housing body, dome port, strobes, and a collection of smaller accessories essential for working beneath the surface.

Her FocusPoint Rolltop stayed with her as a personal item on flights. Inside the camera compartment she packed both R6 bodies, her 15-30mm and 70-200mm lenses, along with batteries and memory cards. The top compartment carried travel essentials such as her laptop, chargers, and toiletries, while the front pocket held passports and documents.

Together, the two bags kept everything protected, organized, and within reach through flights, transfers, and the rough journey south. As the ship rolled through turbulent swells, Bella took comfort in knowing her gear was secure.

With every mile closer to Antarctica, the pressure grew. Reaching the continent is rare, and photographing it even rarer. For most photographers, Antarctica is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and Bella knew that. Expeditions are expensive, access is limited, and weather dictates everything. Even once you arrive, there is no guarantee a dive will happen or that the moment you imagined will ever appear.

One thought kept circling her mind: What if I never get to do this again?

That pressure followed Bella throughout the expedition, though years earlier a very different feeling had marked her first open-water certification dive in Seattle in 2018.

Bella remembers how nervous she felt. She trained in August, when conditions in the Pacific Northwest can be brutal. The water was cold, and visibility dropped to just two or three feet, so poor that divers could barely see one another and instructors seemed to suddenly materialize out of the murky water, startling students as they appeared inches from their masks.

Bella held onto the training line running down into the water, waiting her turn while instructors moved from diver to diver. Cold and nervous, she tried not to think about the dark water surrounding her.

Then something serendipitously drifted into view.

A small white jellyfish floated past her shoulder, about the size of her hand, pulsing gently through the green water. Mesmerized, Bella watched it drift beside her, and for a moment its quiet presence felt almost like a small angel moving through the darkness, quelling her fear.

“It brought me so much peace,” she said. “I felt a wave go through me. I realized I was supposed to be here.” In that moment, her nerves dissolved into a realization that would shape the career she would continue building underwater.

Becoming an underwater photographer, however, would take time.

In the years that followed, Bella returned to the water again and again, slowly building the skills that would shape her career. Cold-water diving in the Pacific Northwest demands patience and resilience. Gear is heavy, currents can push hard enough that divers sometimes kick furiously just to hold position, and visibility can collapse within a few feet.

Over time, that discomfort became part of the training. Bella learned that the only way to grow comfortable in cold, unpredictable water was simply to keep showing up.

“You have to be there,” she said.

Preparation became routine. Layering into a dry suit, assembling tanks and regulators, and preparing a camera system built to withstand the pressure of the ocean could take longer than the dive itself. Once underwater, conditions demanded constant adjustment.

Week after week, Bella returned to the water, sometimes diving three or four times in a single week, building the muscle memory that allowed her to move calmly through cold currents while managing the growing complexity of her camera system.

At the same time, Bella was studying marine biology in college, learning to observe the ocean not only as a photographer but as a scientist. Understanding animal behavior helped her anticipate moments underwater, recognizing when a creature might move, feed, or pause just long enough for a photograph.

In fields like marine biology and underwater photography, both still largely dominated by men, Bella shows up unapologetically as herself. Her dive gear carries bright pink accents, a cheerful streak of color moving through dark water and cold environments, reflecting the femininity and joy that define her presence underwater.

That same sense of curiosity and individuality shaped the direction of her photography. Bella became drawn to macro photography, focusing on the small and often overlooked creatures that inhabit the ocean floor. She learned to look closely at details many divers swim past, like a wolf eel curled around its nest of eggs, guarding them with unexpected care. Experiences like these deepened Bella’s fascination with the individuality of life beneath the surface.

“It’s important to me that people know the ocean is full of personalities,” Bella said. “From the smallest little critters to the big ones. I want people to see them as individuals.”

Over time, the details many divers overlook became the center of her work. Years of cold-water dives and careful observation sharpened both her patience and her instincts underwater. By the time the opportunity to photograph Antarctica appeared, the discipline behind her images had already been built.

Then Antarctica changed the equation.

While much of Bella’s experience had centered on macro subjects that reward patience and stillness, Antarctica operates on a completely different scale. Icebergs descend far below the surface, divers move through open blue water rather than along reefs, and the environment stretches outward in every direction.

Bella understood the landscape would require wide-angle compositions and a different set of instincts. Instead of studying the ocean floor for small subjects, she had to mentally zoom out, anticipating larger, rapidly changing moments. The transition demanded adjustments that had not yet become muscle memory, and thick gloves made it harder to feel the housing’s buttons and dials, and the extreme cold shortened every dive.

“Antarctica humbled me,” she said.

Yet when timing aligned, the scale of the environment produced images unlike anything she had captured before.

Among her favorite images is a photograph of three Adélie penguins standing on a small iceberg. The frame slices through the waterline, separating the snowy Antarctic landscape above from the dark blue ocean below.

Yet one of Bella’s most memorable moments in Antarctica did not involve taking a photograph at all. During one dive she lowered her camera and reached out, her gloved hand touching the surface of an iceberg beneath the water. The ice had formed long before she was born, she thought, and for a moment she simply remained present.

Later in the expedition, participants were invited to take part in something the guides called Antarctic Silence. The zodiacs drifted away from the ship before the engines were shut off completely, and for ten or fifteen minutes the boats simply floated.

No engines.

No voices.

Only Antarctica.

The ship sat far in the distance while the surrounding landscape settled into a rare and complete stillness. For Bella, the moment felt almost meditative, a pause in the middle of an expedition defined by movement, weather, and the constant awareness that every opportunity here was fleeting.

In that quiet, something became very clear to her.

Bella believes part of her role as a photographer is to share places like Antarctica with people who may never have the chance to see them for themselves.

“I want it to be a huge part of my life,” she said. “I have the means to capture amazing photos and bring them back to people who might never be able to go there. I want to show everyone what’s there, because it’s so remote.”

Still, the same question kept returning.

What if I never get to do this again?

Bella admits it was a thought she wrestled with constantly during the expedition.

“It’s hard to let go and just be there,” she said. “You feel that pressure not to miss anything.”

She didn’t miss anything. What Antarctica ultimately taught her was that the moments she was searching for were already there. She simply had to be present enough to recognize them.

Camera or no camera, she met those moments with the patience she built through years of cold-water diving, the curiosity that first anchored her beneath the Pacific, and the presence Antarctica itself demanded.

Even the small details that mark her presence underwater moved steadily through the vast blue. The pink accents along her dive gear moved through Antarctica’s deep blue water just as they do in the cold Pacific waters of Seattle, a quiet reflection of the individuality and determination she brings into environments where few women work.

What Bella carried home was more than a collection of photographs. She returned with sharper instincts, renewed confidence, and a stronger sense of purpose. Antarctica may have humbled her, but it also confirmed something she had already begun to understand.

Wherever the ocean takes her next, Bella will meet it prepared, patient, and fully present when the moment arrives.

Just like years earlier in the cold waters of Seattle, Bella had already put it simply.

“You have to be there.”

About the author

Hope collaborates with photographers and creators to uncover the stories behind their work, transforming conversations into photo essays that reveal the person behind the camera.

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.

About the Author
Hope Cruz

Hope collaborates with photographers and creators to uncover the stories behind their work, transforming conversations into photo essays that reveal the person behind the camera.

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.

About the Author
Hope Cruz

Hope collaborates with photographers and creators to uncover the stories behind their work, transforming conversations into photo essays that reveal the person behind the camera.

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?

About the Author
Hope Cruz

Hope collaborates with photographers and creators to uncover the stories behind their work, transforming conversations into photo essays that reveal the person behind the camera.

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.