I've never spent much time hanging out with chickens outside the kitchen. These ones belong to my mother-in-law, and they've never liked me very much. But for some reason, on this evening they tolerated me mixing it up with them.

One thing's clear: when you get down to eye level with them, the fact that they're descended from dinosaurs becomes unnervingly apparent.

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I went up to Larrabee State Park last week after reading Alan Majchrowicz's blog post recommending Clayton Beach. And wouldn't you know it, I found him right there, shooting at the beach with BC photographer Michael Russell.

Alan's and Michael's work that evening was arguably better, but I enjoyed exploring the unusual sandstone formations at this pretty stretch of coastline.

Driving along North Shore Road east of Lake Quinalt last week, I was struck by the stark contrast of a rainforest in winter — bare, white birch trees standing silently in the detritus of the previous year's growth, dormant still for months to come, and yet draped in a lush, verdant moss displaying a stubborn ambivalence to the season. It was a juxtaposition of biological strategy manifesting itself with striking visuals.

Naturally, I stopped to take a closer look. As I wandered the scene searching for a composition, an elderly man in hip waders slowly made his way down the road towards me. As he neared, the man called out, "Where is he?"

"Who?" I asked.

"The elk," he replied, clearly puzzled at the need for clarification.

"There's elk nearby?" 

The man squinted. "You're taking a picture of one, aren't you?" he asked, suspicion deepening.

"Nope, haven't seen any elk here," I replied. 

I knew, of course, that the area has Roosevelt elk in abundance, and in fact had come across the consumed carcass of a female earlier in the day. But I leave wildlife photography to those who know it best.

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Well, then what the hell are you taking pictures of?"

"Trees," I replied.

He looked me up and down, looked at my car, looked at the trees, looked at me again, shook his head incredulously and continued on down the road without another word.

At this point, it had become clear to me that the crotchety old man in the hip waders had become part of the scene, and I fired off this shot just before he disappeared around the bend.

Some friends generously offered me the use of their vacation home in Hoquiam last weekend. With that as my base I wandered up and down Highway 101, returning with some new additions to my Olympic series.

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I made a couple of new images this month to add to the series. I'm enjoying the process, but trying to shoot in the dark when everything around you is covered in spikes can have its drawbacks.

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On my way back to camp for the night, I stopped at Inspiration Point to watch a storm begin to move in over the mountain. Traffic was coming down from the Paradise area towards the Nisqually entrance, and on the south side of the mountain I could see the lights from two groups of climbers making their ascent in the dark (visible here as two points of light on the mountain, at the upper right edge of the frame.)

When shooting at night, oftentimes the camera will see things very differently than the way my eyes do. As I stood here, all I saw above the mountain were the heavy clouds of the developing storm. With just the faintest ambient light left, I intended to capture the light trails from the headlights, with Rainier in silhouette against the seemingly flat gray cloud layer above.

But over the course of this forty second exposure, the camera appears to have picked up light pollution from the Seattle-Tacoma metro area off to the northwest, filtering through the clouds and combining with the last remnant of light from the sunset. None of that color in the sky was visible to my eyes. You can imagine my surprise when I saw the image pop up on my camera!

Leaving Tipsoo Lake, I intended to head straight to Cougar Rock, set up camp and catch a nap. But I soon discovered that the Stevens Canyon entrance was closed, and I had to take a meandering, two-hour detour to the Nisqually entrance on the west side of the park (it would have been faster had I not taken several wrong turns, of course.)

Along the way, I stopped for a while beside Skate Creek with my thermos of coffee. Down on the bank, I found this butterfly basking in the early morning sun.

The middle of the day was spent settling into camp and resting after the longer-than-expected morning. Clouds started developing in the early afternoon and I had high hopes for a dramatic sunset, so I gathered my gear and set off for the Reflection Lakes area. But within a couple hours a thick cloud cover had settled in, and I spent the golden hour wiping drizzle off my lens.

I got to Tipsoo Lake about an hour before sunrise. To my surprise, there were still wildflowers in fair abundance, though clearly in fast decline. As I entered the meadow, I could hear a bull elk bugling on the far side of the lake, and a group of females were grazing to my left.

Tipsoo Lake reflects Mount Rainier perfectly, and many iconic images have been made there. But as the sun came up, it bathed nearby Naches Peak in a wash of brilliant red, and for a few moments the towering volcano in the distance and its reflection were overshadowed.

Last month I spent a weekend at Mount Rainier. I got an absurdly early start on Saturday morning, with a plan to be at Tipsoo Lake with plenty of time before the sun came up.

Just below Cayuse Pass, I stopped for a while to take in the view. The Milky Way was suspended above the glow of the Seattle-Tacoma area to the northwest, and with my headlamp I was able to illuminate the surrounding trees to bag this shot. Technically, it's a blend of three consecutive exposures, but the result fairly approximates what I saw with my eyes.

The variety of Washington's ecosystems never ceases to amaze me — desert, prairie, mountain glaciers, alpine lakes, wetlands, temperate rainforests and more are all within half a day's drive of our home in Seattle.

Last weekend I went camping on the Olympic coast. On the peninsula itself, one can easily visit three of these distinct ecosystems in a single day, moving from the high alpine meadows of the Olympic mountains, to the lush mosses of the Elwha, Quinalt and Hoh rainforests, and on to the wind-swept sea stacks and cedar stands of the western coast.

I spent this day on the coast exploring the beaches in the vicinity of Kalaloch, where I was camped. Rain is the peninsula's default weather, and this weekend was no exception. Vainly hoping to witness one of those fiery sunsets that are so fleeting here, I drove up and down the coast, looking for an advantageous spot to spend the evening should the clouds break in time.

By late afternoon I had settled in at the spectacular Ruby Beach, in the company of a half-dozen other wandering photographers. Despite the stark beauty of this iconic location, the clouds persisted and we were denied the dramatic sunset we had hoped for. Empty-handed and frustrated by a day spent chasing light that never materialized (while shielding my camera and myself from the worst of the rain) I headed back to Kalaloch for the night.

Hope springs eternal and before pulling into camp, I decided to try my dwindling luck with the last of the light at Beach 4, which I had scouted in the morning.

Facing west with the tide at my feet, I stood at the edge of North America in near darkness and opened the shutter for a full minute. The long exposure picked up a beautiful deep blue where my own eyes saw only colorless night, and smoothed out the wave action below and the fast-moving clouds above.

As I stood there in the dark, with nothing but the vastness of the world's largest ocean in front of me, the day's frustrations faded into obscurity. As it so often does, nature quietly reminded me of my insignificance, which in a strange way offers comfort to this inveterate city dweller. Indeed, the rendering of perspective and the sense of participation in the immensity of the universe that can come from spending time in wild places are the driving forces behind my photography. The poignancy of the moment was unforgettable, and ended up yielding one of my all-time favorite images.

On our last day in Yosemite, I got up early and had Tunnel View, the classic Ansel Adams lookout normally overrun by photographers, all to myself in the rain and dark.

With just the faintest light, I experimented with long exposures to contrast the valley's famous granite with the fast-moving fog. The morning produced my favorite images of the trip.

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One thousand and one miles separate our home in Seattle and Bass Lake, California. Last week we drove it in approximately 17 hours, carrying the world's most patient eight month-old in the back seat.

With Bass Lake as our home base, we tromped all over Yosemite Valley with the little guy in tow, me frantically snapping away at the sweeping magnificence contained in that relatively small area. A couple days isn't enough to even begin to adequately capture the place — indeed, people can and do spend their entire careers shooting Yosemite, the valley handing out fresh inspiration every season.

One, of course, must try. Here are a few more humble contributions to the park's already abundant photographic record. More to come soon.

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Super honored to have won the first week of this contest. There are some outstanding photographs in the finalists gallery, and I urge you to check them all out.

Big thanks to Nature Photographer's Network, Outdoor Photo Gear, and especially Guy Tal, a photographer of great vision and ability. I scored one of his prints!

I'm happy to say that this photo, taken last month on a trip to Tucson, was chosen as a finalist in Outdoor Photographer's 2nd Annual Great Outdoors contest!

If you like the photo, please take a minute and go vote for it on OP's site by giving it a star rating under the photo. Voting ends on May 18th, so get over there and exercise your democratic right!

Technical details: Thirty-one two-minute exposures at f/3.5, blended using Lighten — the first 28 to create the star trails, the 29th and 30th to expose the saguaro using my headlamp, and the 31st with the cap on for dark frame subtraction. I took the sequence starting a little after 11pm on a beautiful, breezy night just south of the entrance to Pima Canyon.

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Dramatic weather in Tucson this week. The photo above was taken on a balmy 70 degree afternoon. Two days later, it was snowing.

Rain all day, a beautiful sunset, and heavy frost the following morning made for a really interesting trip to Capay Valley last month.

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