One of the windiest nights I’ve ever taken pictures turned into perhaps the single most rewarding — and frightening — landscape photography experience of my life. I was on the Mesquite Sand Dunes in Death Valley, a place I had visited twice in the past, though under much tamer conditions. This night, the gusts of wind were far greater than I had seen before, and they kicked up a layer of sand that made for amazing sunset photos. But as the day came to a close, it was clear I had entered uncharted waters.
Even before sunset, the wind was fairly heavy. Sand stung at my feet, but it wasn’t any worse than a breezy day at the beach. I had a scarf over my nose and mouth to avoid inhaling too much dust, and I wore sunglasses to protect my eyes.
It was a beautiful sunset. The clouds were something special — patchy, orange, blue, and dark. The atmosphere was perfect for photography. Over the course of an hour, I made a series of mad dashes from dune to dune in search of the best composition, and I captured a handful of shots I liked along the way. The whole time, in the distance, one dark cloud was lower than the rest. Although it stood out somewhat, I filed it away in the back of my mind as I focused on capturing other parts of the landscape.
Soon, the day had ended. The sun dipped out of view, and the light began to fade even further. I saw, then, how far I had traveled. I was already at the tallest dune, which rose next to me in a gentle slope. The best colors in the sky had ended, but I decided to climb this last peak to see the view before turning back for the night.
That was when the air began to change. The low, dark cloud I noticed earlier had grown much closer, and the reality of my situation became obvious: This was not a typical low-hanging cloud, but, instead, a sandstorm. The wind picked up, and I took a photo.
For half a second, everything was completely still. The sky dimmed and turned dirty. I started to hear sifting noises, and a thin layer of dust fell on my shoulders and backpack.
When the wind picked up again, much faster than before, it was a completely different world. I stood looking ahead, unable to see the next dune in any direction. As the atmosphere thickened, darkness fell rapidly. I pulled out my flashlight, which illuminated swirls of sand racing through the air.
After bracing myself into the ground, I went through the inevitable safety checks. Was my GPS still working? Check. Did I have enough water to last the night, in case of a true emergency? Check. But even then, it’s hard to feel completely safe at a time like this.
The storm didn’t seem natural. Or, instead, it seemed too natural. The power of the wind and sand was overwhelming. If you want to feel completely helpless in the face of the world’s chaos, get lost in a sandstorm.
Of course, I wasn’t truly lost. The GPS had found a path back, pointing to where my car sat in the distance (though I no longer saw it, or the road). I started moving in that direction.
It soon became apparent that my progress was slow. Indeed, I thought I was walking in circles, despite following the GPS’s recommended route. To be clear, it didn’t just seem like I might be walking in circles. I truly believed I was going around the same sand dune over and over, retracing my own footprints as the wind blew them away.
Especially in a situation like this, I am inclined to trust technology. I know that a GPS is far more likely than a clueless photographer to pinpoint its location in a sandstorm. But I was thankful to have packed along a backup GPS, which I pulled out now to calculate the same route — sending another signal to perfectly-placed satellites flying thousands of kilometers overhead. When that, too, confirmed the same path, I knew to stifle my intuition and follow the light back home.
To describe the rest of the hike, the best comparison I can make is to say that it felt like walking on an ocean. I would climb up a dune, shine my flashlight ahead, and then step down into darkness. And this repeated itself for an hour — up, down, up — on waves of sand.
Then, suddenly, I was at the car. I threw my backpack on the back seat, climbed in, and closed the door.
And that moment was absolutely eerie.
The constant push of wind and sand suddenly stopped; even as the car shook in the breeze, it felt like everything was absolute silence. The dim glow of the reading light overhead seemed like the only island in the entire world.
I was back — back to a refuge from the relentless wind and sand. I was also back to civilization, where, surreally, the nearest town was a five minute drive away.
The fact that I could order a burger moments after I had been inside of new sand dunes forming was amazing, and deeply unsettling.
Writing this, I’m on the third floor of a huge building with glowing lights, and, a few hundred feet away, tall waves are crashing ashore. It’s nighttime, and there is a light drizzle. Heavy winds are whipping around. A car just drove past.
We’re living in shelters that we created at the doorstep of a storm, and it’s so incredibly difficult to remember that. It shouldn’t take an otherworldly night of photography to put things like this into perspective; it should be at the core of who we are.
Landscape photography is a strange art. I’ve realized that my true motivation for taking pictures is not to create beautiful images. Instead, it’s to be out there — walking into a sandstorm, surrounding by waves of dunes — to watch the planet change so spectacularly.
Great story. I believe many travelers has one…
My personal story is about hiking around the Fujiyoshida village (north of Fuji area) – I was there for the company training and decided to spend one of the weekends walking around the village in the mountains. The original plan was to go for a Fuji but I clearly understood that:
1) I have no equipment – just a city boots, jeans and jacket. No proper backpack, tent and sleeping bag. No map (only a tourist scheme). It was end of March and the night temperature was about -10°C. If I lost and need to stay overnight – it’s a good chance to get cold at least.
2) I have no mountain experience – the only real travel I’ve had till that time was kayaking once in Karelia (north of Russia) for a couple of weeks.
3) A lot of snow – it was a snowstorm for a couple of days before weekend and snow thickness was around half a meter.
But the area was so beautiful and I was so dumb and young that I finally started. The sky was clear and the sun was melting everything around – I had to climb up the slope in my sneakers an a jeans sinking in half-a-meter snow. The view was magnificent and I was happy to start the adventure… Can’t describe here all the details of the journey but it was really amazing and could be a good photo trip (if I had a camera other than old Zenith 12XS). And finally it was about 18:00 when I climbed up to 1632m. point (highest in my route plan) and the sun has gone behind Fuji mountain… It was freezing and windy and dark. I was so tired I thought dreadfully how to maintain myself moving till the village begins… That village I could clearly see right under my point a just couple of kilometers away was inaccessible directly other than running wild through the forest, deep snow and the steep slope which was impossible. It took me about 3 more hours of desperate running and walking down to get to the village. My legs were extremely tired, I was frightened with idea of staying here overnight without any equipment. My leg suffered severe cramps several times so I had to lay down in the snow to massage it. At the very end I found out that the trail is going around and I couldn’t stop myself from running through a deep snow at the foot oh the hill toward the nearest lamp post I’d seen… The fence and the lamp post get me back to reality and my panic stopped… It took me some time and efforts to find any local (better be speaking English) to ask for a way to my guest house and it was a separate story how I got back there – it was late evening about 21:00 and nobody’s at the street. My tourists’s scheme has no details about the village itself and I wanted to get to my warm room as soon as possible because I was wet through, my jeans were frozen like a pair of downpipes. I was lucky to get some friendly local guys who helped me and in and hour I got home…
The story is typical and doesn’t seems dangerous for any who hasn’t tried the same once… But I’m sure it’s a key to understand the panic situations and manage them for anyone making travels alone. Anything can happen and one better be ready to control himself as well as know that extreme situations doesn’t only happen far away in the wilderness – it often occurs right around the corner, very close to a civilized places and it can be as dangerous and deadly as real extreme.
Great photographs and a salutary lesson, be prepared. Without your gps the outcome could have been different. Most of my photography is done in subtropical rainforests, I carry a satphone as well as a gps but have never had to use it. I also take coloured ribbons to mark my track if I am not sure, ( I remove them on the way back).
Another fantastic post Spencer. You are not only a fantastic photographer but a wonderful writer.
Thanks for a great post and I look forward to the next.
Absolutely enjoyed reading this! You have a new fan! Loved the details in your writing! The star here is obviously the photos but the reading was a delight!
Alex, I am quite happy to hear that you enjoyed the article and photo so much! Thanks for the feedback.
Thanks for a great article.
I live within half a mile of a canyon so inaccessible that I often have to climb the cliffs to reach its many amazing waterfalls with my camera. If it was easier the experience would not be so rewarding.
Wow, that sounds like an awesome place to photograph, and I’m sure your images from that location stand out from some of the “icon” images that are popular today. And I feel the same way — hiking and exploring locations is an inseparable part of why I enjoy landscape photography so much.
Spencer, you are definitely developing both as a photographer and as a story teller. This article in particular is a wonderful tale, beautifully written. As a lifelong photographer, backpacker and nature enthusiast, thank-you for putting into words some of what I so much appreciate about being outside of our shelters.
Rudiger, much appreciated! It is not in the typical style of my articles for Photography Life, so I needed to write and re-write it a few times before I felt ready to publish it. I’m glad that the result connected with the sort of things you experience and appreciate about nature as well.
Spencer,
Just to add another note of acknowledgement and appreciation. Thanks for helping all of we readers get that sense of reconnection to nature’s raw, indifferent beauty and fury.
Craig, thank you, I’m glad you enjoyed the article. “Indifferent beauty and fury” — that is quite an accurate description indeed.
I have a small GPS unit that I haven’t used since I got my smart phone. I am thinking I should slip it in my camera bag and make use of it when I am out and about. I have not had the terrifying experience that you did, but I have gotten quite lost while out on a trail alone, and was foolishly without GPS or water on the hottest day of the year. I realized that I had needlessly placed myself in real peril and have been much more careful since. Last year in Milwaukee, a woman was dropped off in front of her home by a taxi during a blinding snowstorm. The driver, out of concern, even offered to walk her to her door but she declined. She somehow became disoriented in the storm and was unable to find the entrance of her home. She unfortunately, succumbed to the wrath of the storm, and was found deceased just a few feet from her door the next morning. We can never take Mother Nature for granted.
Patricia, that is an awful story, but I’m glad you shared it here. It just goes to show how even mundane situations can turn dangerous if you aren’t aware of Mother Nature. I don’t mean to say that landscape photography is inherently dangerous, of course, assuming you’re prepared — just that preparation is essential. If I hadn’t brought along a GPS to the Mesquite Dunes, finding the route back probably would not have been life-or-death, but it very likely would have required me to wait through the sandstorm until morning.
Hi Spencer,
Always a fan of your work and this set is no different. Fantastic images.
Then again, your post brought serious issues to the fore.
Among them would be: is it worth plunging into a precarious/dire situation
to get an awesome image? I guess the answer would vary from photographer
to photographer. Food for thought/points to ponder before losing ourselves
in the moment and failing to take note of the signs around us.
Oggie R.
Oggie, happy that you enjoyed it! I think you bring up an important point. I always try to lean toward safety, and recommend the same for others, but the most important thing is just to be prepared (and know your limits). In such a digital, connected age, there isn’t an excuse to go to a remote or dangerous location without telling others when/where you’ll be back, and bringing along a GPS or other relevant equipment if it’s a tough route.
A beautiful story and cautionary tale. Thank you. Glad you kept your head. It isn’t easy remaining rational when you become disoriented. I had a similar experience in a totally different environment years ago when I got caught in a blizzard while skiing off trail. Got lucky that time.
I have never thought about carrying a GPS receiver with me when I am out alone. Your story has motivated me to get one and use it. I hope others who read your story reach the same conclusion.
Thank you, Jack. Glad that the article inspired you to carry along a GPS — they’re great for peace of mind (and for marking locations to revisit)!