Landscape Photography by A. Jackson Frishman
One of the great scenic pleasures of living in Deep Springs is the view. Every clear day, when I step outside I look towards the Palisades, a particularly tall and scenic group of Sierra Nevada peaks, looming above the ridges to the west, their alpine heights soaring 9,000 feet above our mile-high valley. A little below are a set of convoluted granite ridges that extend southward into the valley like fingers reaching down from the White Mountains. For almost four years now, I’ve been trying to capture the appeal and scale of this view in a photograph. It seems like it should be easy, but something in the arrangement of the peaks and ridges keeps defeating me, giving me disappointingly unbalanced compositions. But after January’s massive snowstorm, I tried a new viewpoint, chosen mainly because it was somewhere feasible to drive and hike at sunrise with mostly impassible roads and deep snow on the ground. Wide-angle compositions here were lackluster, which is why I’d neglected the place, but through a long lens the peaks and ridges at last lined up satisfactorily. These two images are now my favorite illustrations I’ve managed of the relationship between Deep Springs Valley and the High Sierra.
The fantastic winter of 2017 brought such photographic riches that I’m still digging out. While our morning of mists was probably the most beautiful hour I’ve spent in Deep Springs Valley, the headline event of the year was undoubtedly the big snow of January 22-23. As the Sierras were being buried in enough feet of snow to make the record books (Mammoth Mountains got over 20 feet in January alone, at the base!), even at our place deep in the rain shadow, I measured a solid 18 inches overnight. Both of our passes out of the valley were closed for a week. And then it got cold, with morning temps below zero even after the sun was up, plus lots of freezing fog and rime ice.
Photo opportunities were everywhere, but the downside was that driving anywhere ranged from problematic to impossible, and moving at all in the valley’s rougher terrain was very challenging. But I took advantage as I was able, both around the ranch and in the accessible parts of the Valley.
Deep Springs gets colder than most people expect and snow happens here, but that week was a wonderful taste of the Northern Rockies winters of my childhood here in the California desert.
At Ash Meadows it is possible to understand something of isolation and evolution, islands and sanctuaries, the harmful press of exotic species, habitat destruction and restoration, the ebb and flow of Pleistocene waters, extinction and resilience, the misguided use of the desert’s water, and how a few dedicated people can put things right.
-Christopher Norment, Relicts of a Beautiful Sea: Survival, Extinction, and Conservation in a Desert World, pg. 153.
Today is the 114th birthday of the National Wildlife Refuge System. In all our American array of protected public lands, the Refuges always strike me as a bit of an odd category. Some are heavily modified by humans while others are pristine wilderness. Some are enormous while others are tiny. Many protect marshes and wetlands while a few preserve deserts. A few are famous and iconic for photographers and wildlife watchers while many are obscure locals’ secrets. Many are a short drive from population centers while some are remote enough to require expeditionary logistics. Most are publicly accessible while a few are strictly off-limits. But in my experience they are very worthwhile and capable of broadening one’s perspective on time, landscape and life on earth.
The two closest refuges to my home are especially poignant in their evocation of fragile life in a changing world, of living creatures’ place perched on the thin skin of the present atop an incomprehensible depth of deep time and geologic change. Ash Meadows National Wildlife Refuge in southern Nevada is a jewel box of turquoise pools, wildflowers and endemic species set amidst some of the continent’s harshest desert, a giant washboard of sharp-edged limestone mountains and dusty basins east of Death Valley. Its aquatic animals, particularly its three pupfish species, are gloriously improbable, surviving and diversifying on 10,000-year-old rain and snowmelt that has slowly percolated through 500-million-year-old stone. Driving by on the highway, this parched landscape is the last place one would expect to find a menagerie of unique water-dependent life, but Ash Meadows has (or in three sad cases, had) 29 unique endemics in its 30 or so square miles, a density of biodiversity “replicated nowhere else in Canada or the United States, one matched by few places in the world” [Norment, pg. 151]. The small, watery Edens of the refuge’s springs, pools and meadows, enjoying their brief moment in time surrounded by inhospitable vastness, feel like a miniature reproduction of our watery world spinning its lonely way through the immense void of the universe.
250 air miles to the northwest is another oasis still dreaming of the Pleistocene. Stillwater National Wildlife Refuge in Churchill County, Nevada is a marshy lowland occupying a piece of the Carson Sink, where the melted snows of the Sierra Nevada find their final resting place as the Carson River reaches its terminus in this broad valley enclosed by arid mountains, far from the sea. Much of the Carson sink is a dusty white flat covered in minerals left by the evaporating waters; other parts are now irrigated farmland. The refuge itself is a series of ponds and dykes, arranged and maintained by bulldozer and lightly flooded when spare water is available for the benefit of migratory birds.
Despite the undeniable human modifications at Stillwater, my recent visit was a delight of solitude. On a beautiful Saturday evening, I seemed to be quite alone amidst the refuge’s 80,000 acres of water, grass, mountain views and quiet. Except for the birds, of which there were plenty: I easily found substantial numbers of swans, pelicans, snow geese, herons, various waterfowl, Red-winged blackbirds, even a Sandhill crane or two.
Humans have been enjoying the landscape around Stillwater for a long time. Prehistoric burials at nearby Spirit Cave are some of the oldest in the Americas, dating up to 9,400 years ago. Rock art in the immediate area is estimated up to 8,000 years old, and North America’s oldest petroglyphs are relatively nearby. Even today, this valley is a watery place by Nevada standards, and its current waters are a mere ghost of what once was. Wetter climates of the past meant that this area was excellent lakefront property (the surrounding hills are striped with easily visible beach terraces), and prehistoric peoples took full advantage of the abundance of water and bird life. Archaeologists have even found beautiful duck decoys dated around 2,000 years old in nearby Lovelock Cave. Nevada is a dryer place these days, but on my evening at Stillwater, with ponds flooded, birds calling in the twilight and the peaks of the eponymous Stillwater Range white with snow, it was easy to feel connected to that wetter world and its people who lived off these same waters and hunted the ancestors of these same birds.
It would be remiss to avoid mentioning here that National Wildlife Refuges are notably under threat today. For reasons I do not pretend to understand, the public does not regard refuges with the same reverence as National Parks or even wilderness areas, and politicians feel free to use them as political footballs and attempt to diminish their protections whenever they become inconvenient. It’s a small political miracle that Ash Meadows’ water sources have been preserved. Stillwater and Desert NWRs in Nevada are threatened by proposed military expansions. Arctic NWR in Alaska has been a source of contention for many years. Malheur NWR in Oregon was recently the epicenter of anti-government action in the West when it was taken over by armed protestors for 41 days. And the entire refuge system is facing massive cuts to budgets that have already been seriously reduced in recent years. Despite many good intentions, the idea that any areas should be managed first and foremost for animals seems difficult for many people to swallow. But these areas have enormous value to humans as well. Besides their simple beauty, their often substantial contributions to rural recreation economies, and the wonder of seeing large numbers of animals behaving naturally, they connect us in concrete and sensory ways to the history of our ancestors, our species, our biology and the stone and water of our planet itself.
….although I do not quite understand the psychology of it, phenomena like the Ash Meadows and Warm Springs naucorids [aquatic insects] offer up a reassurance to me, a sense that aloneness can be endured, maybe even transcended. Wherever I go in the Basin and Range Country, whenever I see a creature like the Warm Springs naucorid…. I feel as though I have encountered life’s insistent tenacity, and all the justification needed for Ash Meadows National Wildlife Refuge….
-Christopher Norment, Relicts of a Beautiful Sea: Survival, Extinction, and Conservation in a Desert World, pg. 163.
Moisture, winter chill, an inversion layer and a closed valley came together to bring an amazing morning to our high desert.
I’ve seen the “lake of fog” effect before at Deep Springs, but this January morning was absolutely astounding as fog banks danced and shifted through the entire valley, drifting through the granite ridges and shrouding the lake playa, with fresh snow on the peaks of the Inyos and Whites.
A little break from winter Deep Springs pictures – here are two images from the Bosque del Apache in New Mexico on New Year’s Day. My standard disclaimer on such things: I’m not a serious avian photographer, I’m just a landscape guy who also likes birds, so please be kind!
This winter has brought a lot of temperature inversions to the deep valleys of the Great Basin. One storm cycle in particular created an interesting effect in which most valleys in Nevada were buried in persistent low-lying cloud. This pattern came to its southwestern end just over the ridge from us, where mile-high Fishlake Valley’s cloud cover ended at the eastern edge of much lower Eureka Valley. The border is clearly visible to those familiar with the area in the satellite image below.
We had been sledding up in the mountains that afternoon and I had noticed the cloud edge from a hilltop. So I hiked up to the most accessible overlook into Eureka Valley for sunset. I was hoping to see the clouds cascading over the low divide into Eureka, but instead they sat like a stationary wall at the valley rim. As the sun sank, some interesting subtle iridescent effects showed up in the cloud, though alas they did not appear in a very photogenic spot.
I was kicking myself somewhat for not hiking up to a higher overlook on Chocolate Mountain, but cloud layer under twilight glow with snowy peaks in the Palmetto and Sylvania Ranges beyond still made for a lovely evening.
Winter sunrise light on Waucoba Mountain and the granite ridges of the Piper Mountain Wilderness, Inyo Range, California
This January has been a month of beautiful and dramatic weather in eastern California. I’ve shot almost 400 images this month, and conditions are still amazing! Were it not for life’s everday obligations, I could easily be shooting every sunrise and sunset productively for the last week or more. These four images are from our early round of weather at the beginning of the month, a fine prelude to much more.
Early light on storm-crowned Black Mountain above Deep Springs Valley:
Snow-laced slopes of the White Mountains:
The granite ridges and formations towards the west side of Deep Springs Valley are beautiful, fascinating and convoluted, but I generally find them very difficult to compose and photograph. The version I managed that morning is probably my favorite so far:
The annual collection for friends and well-wishers: The Best of 2016, Eli category. He’s getting less obliging about being photographed, alas, and our adventuring was not quite equal to some of what we’ve done in past years. But we did get out plenty, including for his first two overnight backpacking trips into the Sierra. He’s full of very optimistic notions about climbing mountains, so hopefully 2017 will bring some good outings!
Born in New Mexico, raised in Wyoming and Montana, the mountain west has always been my home. I come from mountaineering families on both sides: my maternal grandfather was a pioneering climber in the Sierra Nevada, while my father guided in the Tetons and climbed in China and Nepal. Both my parents guided for Outward Bound. I ran my first river at nine months old, and have been hiking and backpacking longer than I can remember. My other major influence has been my step-father, Stephen Bodio, a nature writer, falconer and traveler, and as fine a family member as I could hope to have.
I studied black and white photography in high school, under an excellent teacher, but failed to apply myself. After high school, I began guiding for ARTA River Trips, and my interest in photography gradually rekindled as I endeavored to share with friends and family my work in the finest landscapes of the American West. Meanwhile, I studied classical literature, philosophy and history of mathematics at St. John’s College in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I converted to Eastern Orthodox Christianity in 2005. I am currently living with my wife and son in Deep Springs Valley on the Nevada-California border.
Photographically, I travel light and prefer to shoot off pavement and explore unknown locations. My favorite landscapes include the unknown expanses and little-visited mountains of rural New Mexico, the canyons of Dinosaur National Monument, and the vast wilderness of Central Idaho. I have also been fortunate enough to travel in Turkey and Mongolia, and can’t wait to do more.