Exploring the wonders of creation through a 50mm lens...and other lenses too.

This is kind of a companion piece to a photo I shared two weeks ago–that of a lone windmill set against a deep blue sky in the middle of a field of grass in central Kansas. In the earlier post I went on at length about my choice to zoom out to 70mm and show the windmill as a relatively small portion of the image, leaving the rest of the frame to be filled by the deep blue sky and rich gold field in the foreground. This shot has some obvious similarities, sure, but also plenty of notable differences that make it well worth its own entry here on Weekly Fifty.

Something took place before I shot this photo that has happened many times to me over the years, and will probably continue long into the future. When I saw this scene out the east side of my car as I was driving down Highway 77, I just…kept on going. I thought to myself “Hey, I bet that would be a cool photo!” But was it really worth the trouble of pulling over, getting out my camera, framing the shot, and everything else? Could I really spare the five minutes it would take, when I still had several hours left on my drive? Would I even get a good photo?

Yes, yes, and yes.

One lesson I keep learning (or perhaps not learning!) as I continue with Weekly Fifty is that the answer to questions like these isn’t always going to be yes, but it usually doesn’t hurt to at least try. A mile later I stopped my car, turned around, drove back to the windmill, and decided that whether I was able to get a good photo or not, it wouldn’t be so bad to to take a few minutes of my time to see what I could capture. I shot this at f/8, 1/1500 second, zoomed in all the way to 200mm which is a pretty big contrast from the windmill picture I shared a few weeks ago that showed far more sky and grass than structure. I took about two dozen shots with the windmill positioned in the center at various focal length but, almost as as afterthought, I figured I might as well take one where it was positioned off to the side. Surely it wouldn’t look all that great, but as long as I was there…why not give it a chance?

As my wife and I were looking through the results in Lightroom a few days later, she kept coming back to this one–a shot that I initially ignored, but rapidly came to appreciate the more we compared it to the rest. It has a fun sense of playfulness that I’m not able to capture, almost as though the windmill and the brick-and-mortar structure (cellar? Tornado shelter? Drainage ditch?) are in the midst of a conversation, with the tree listening and waiting for a chance to interject its own thoughts. Other small details such as the metal water trough and weathered fence posts round out the rural setting quite nicely, without being too on-the-nose. The cloudless sky add to the expansive feeling of the image, and all in all I’m very happy not just with this photo but with my decision to delay my trip just a bit in order to take advantage of a picture opportunity. I’m going to try to remember this more on future drives, which I know I have said other times but maybe this time it’ll finally stick :)

This is one of those photos that I think works well on a couple of different levels. There’s the surface layer, which is the image presented exactly as-is for the viewer to see and take in as they see fit. A snowy scene in the middle of a city (which you can sort of tell thanks to the brick building in the background) with a stone arch bridge crossing a small stream deep in a valley below. What you see, essentially, is what you get, though what you get out of it is another matter entirely.

On another level, which you can’t see just by looking at the picture, is the personal connection I have to this scene and the memories it brings back as I look at it. My wife and I lived in St. Paul for five years when she was in graduate school, long before our kids were born in a time that almost feels like another life. We enjoyed exploring the Twin Cities on foot, bike, or automobile, and often ended up at Minnehaha Falls–a 50-foot waterfall surrounded by gardens, green spaces, and hiking trails that lead all the way to the Mississippi River. Though in all the years we lived in the area, we never went to Minnehaha Falls in winter. That all changed on a recent visit to Minnesota for my cousin’s wedding.

My family and I decided to head up a few days prior to the event in order to spend time with friends and family, and one chilly afternoon we, along with our friend, bundled up in our winter gear, hopped in the car, and trekked down to Minnehaha Falls from the northern suburbs where we were staying. The biting, bitter cold was a far cry from what we are used to down in Oklahoma, but the view, and the experience of being there together, more than made up for it. The walkway down to the base of the waterfall was closed (which did not deter many intrepid visitors who treated the sign and its accompanying padlock on the gate as little more than a minor inconvenience or, perhaps, a dare) so instead we walked around at street level taking in the view while our kids threw rocks and ice chunks into the stream below.

It really was an impressive sight, to see everything around us draped in a blanket of snow with the semi-frozen stream bubbling and gurgling as it flowed over the rocks and dirt before tumbling five stories into the valley. I took this shot of the scene with my Fuji X100F set to f/8, 1/400 second, ISO 400 and though we probably won’t have the opportunity to return to Minnehaha Falls for many years, I hope this helps me capture the time we spent there and remember it for the rest of my life.

Whenever I have the opportunity to take a prolonged solo drive, like going back to see friends and family in Nebraska, I enjoy, as often as I’m able to, taking the long and winding route rather than something faster, and more direct, such as the interstate. I like to stop, stretch my legs, look around, and take a photo or two along the way. It helps pass the time while also giving me the chance to see swaths of natural beauty that might otherwise go flying by at 75 miles an hour.

One such route involves Highway 77 which winds through Kansas and, despite being built up over the years to the point where many long sections are now four-lane divided roads, still has a distinctly rural midwestern feel to it. While massive, modern wind turbines now tend to dominate the landscape it’s not uncommon to come across their wood-and-steel forebears such as the one you see here and, when such occasions arise, I enjoy attempting to capture them with my camera. I’ve shared some of these pictures here on Weekly Fifty before and I hope to continue doing so for years to come, as I do quite enjoy seeing these old windmills. My wife does too, and we even have a few windmill photos we have taken along Highway 77 printed and hung on our wall at home.

For this shot, which was somewhere south of Junction City, I used my Nikon D750 and 70-200 f/2.8 lens zoomed out to 70mm with an exposure of f/8, 1/1500 second, ISO 100. I initially took several photos at a much longer focal length such that the windmill filled more of the frame, but then backed off a bit to try something a bit different. In nearly all of the windmill photos I have taken over the years, I have tried to fill the vertical dimension with as much of the windmills as possible. It just kind of made sense to me: when taking a picture of a windmill, one ought to emphasize the windmill. And while that line of thinking isn’t necessarily flawed, it does leave out the possibility that there might be other equally compelling ways to compose such a shot. And so, I figured, might as well try something new and see what happened.

As my wife and I looked through the windmill photos she kept on returning to this one, and for good reason. The windmill piercing the sky like a church steeple is clearly the standout feature in the shot, but the picture is about so much more than that single structure. The huge sky, field in the foreground, fence receding into the background, and clouds in the distance all work together to showcase the sheer size of the midwestern prairie. It’s a photo of a windmill, yes, but it’s a complete composition containing so much more than just that one single subject.

I don’t know if this will end up getting printed and hung on our wall, but the more I look at it the more I appreciate how different it is from other windmill photos I have taken. I like that I took a minute to try something new, and I hope you enjoy it also.

Here we are, the final photo in my series of images shot at Holmes Lake in Lincoln, Nebraska, when my family and I spent a few days visiting friends and family back in our old stomping grounds. We spent about an hour and a half circumnavigating the lake on a crushed limestone path with my brother, his wife, and their two friendly, furry Huskies named Tank and Radley. At this point we were almost done with the walk, and though I had taken several shots that tried to capture the scene in a way that emphasized the oppressive, haunting nature of the fog, and how different the entire experience was from anything I had come across in my life, I don’t think I quite nailed what I was going for.

And then, as we rounded a bend in the path, we were presented with the scene you see here. I had my Nikon D750 and 50mm f/1.8 lens, the same one I purchased well over a decade ago, the lens that ignited my passion for photography, and thought that if any visual representation could convey what were seeing to someone who was not present (i.e. most of you looking at today’s image online) it would be this: a small cluster of benches among bare trees thrust out into the lake on a thin peninsula, with a distant shoreline shrouded in mist.

I dialed in an aperture of f/4, with auto-ISO choosing a shutter of 1/180 and ISO 200, focused on the tree farthest out on the breakwater, and took the shot you see here. Other than some minimal adjustments in Lightroom (shadows, highlights, etc.) what you see is exactly as it was in the moment. As I took a few more shots just for good measure, I noticed one tiny bit of movement that didn’t catch my initially, but whose presence initially…well…kind of bothered me: the headlights. The car was ever so slowly, but also quite safely, creeping down the road on the other side of the lake and I was impatiently hoping it would move along already so it wouldn’t ruin the shot. It finally did, at which point I was able to finally get some photos without it.

However, the more I looked at my images in Lightroom, the more I ended up appreciating, and finally embracing, the pair of vehicle lights far in the distance. They added a spark of brightness (two, to be precise) to an otherwise entirely dully, gray composition and also created a sense of restless foreboding not unlike the palpable unease that permeates Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining. I also like that the headlights are not immediately obvious, especially when viewed on a small screen like a mobile phone, but add an additional layer of the scene to take in and explore upon deeper inspection.

Finally, frequent reader might be familiar with how much I go on and on about the concept of context. That is, something within the frame to give the viewer a sense of time, place, or scale that they can latch on to and connect to the rest of the image. Or even themselves. Those headlights, I came to realize, served to add much-needed context to the image that elevates it above the rest that I took where the lights were simply not present. They give you, the viewer, an idea of how far away the shore is and the downward angle of the lights indicates a road winding up and down among the contours of the hillside. I was thoroughly, and quite pleasantly, surprised at how much those headlights added to the image and remain incredibly grateful to the nameless driver who had no idea how much they were contributing to the photo.

This was a fun way to cap off the walk, and a unique photography experience I likely will not soon forget–or be able to repeat. Thank you for coming along this journey with me, and don’t worry…if you’re tired of gray foggy photos, next week should be a familiar return to form.

I’m not sure if this third photo in my series of images taken on an extraordinarily foggy afternoon, while walking around Holmes Lake in Lincoln, Nebraska, with my family, my brother, his wife, and his two dogs, adequately conveys just how intense the ground-level cloud cover was, but if not, then, I’m not sure what actually could. This is on the west side of the lake, with the crushed limestone footpath on top of the dam literally disappearing into the distance under the sheer weight of the fog. There’s no AI image-generation here, no camera tricks, no special exposure techniques. It really did look just like you see here. (Well, with one slight exception: I did use the AI Removal tool in Lightroom to get rid of a few minor distractions like a stick on the path and a small metal pole on the left.)

I shot this with my Nikon D750 and 50mm f/1.8 lens, having switched back to the good ol’ Nifty Fifty after taking last week’s close-up shot of a cattail covered in condensation. The 50 isn’t exactly a wide-angle landscape lens, but it’s the only other lens I had with me and, when paired with a full-frame camera, it can work really well even outdoors. It certainly did here, anyway. I shot this at f/4, focused midway down the path, and auto-ISO chose a shutter of 1/180 and ISO 100. Not bad at all.

More than anything, I think this image really succeeds in capturing some more esoteric elements of photography: mood, feeling, emotion, perhaps even a sense of foreboding or uncertainty. It’s also a little unclear just what is going on here, with a path leading straight to the horizon, clouds on either side, and a haze off in the distance completely obscuring almost any recognizable objects. It might seem almost like a scene out of the Frank Darabont movie The Mist, but in real life. I’m not sure that was my goal when I took it initially, since mostly the six of us were too busy being stunned at the sight we were witnessing for me to think about capturing anything more than cool photos of the fog-covered lake, but the more I looked at it afterwards in Lightroom the more it kind of took on a life of its own.

Even as I write about this picture I’m kind of at a loss for words, because I’m not really sure what I can say that adequately expresses what I feel when I look at it. Hope? Trepidation? Uncertainty? A sense of standing on the edge of a precipice? If you were to visit this exact spot on pretty much any other day, I don’t think you would find it remarkable at all. It’s just a normal lake in the middle of a normal town in Nebraska. And yet, it’s something else entirely when wrapped completely in fog. So I’ll just leave it at that, and invite you to share your