HDR Photography
Trinity College’s gargantuan Neo-Gothic chapel is never more intimidating than at early dusk in the winter. The pale stone and the snow on the ground exert a pressure in the brain of everyone around them. In capturing an image of the chapel, perhaps I can bottle some of that intensity.
(And I had the opportunity to continue my recent trend of 1:1 aspect ratio photographs, to boot!)
Perhaps my last post in the cozy, wood-lined chambers of Timberline Lodge put me in mind of winter excursions. From the windy top of Lion’s Head in northwestern Connecticut, the view of three states is incredible. The snow clings to branches from a recent storm, and a few wisps of cloud mark the horizon in an otherwise azure sky. This snowsuit caught my eye, and I particularly liked the way only a single hand of human being is visible, poking out from the bundled layers.
When winter alights on the Northeast, there’s a quiet stillness that seeps through the land and makes the world feel underpopulated. That birds, so small and delicate, still fly in this stillness amazes me.
This hill in northwestern Connecticut is, tragically, not really named “Dragon Mountain.” That never kept my elementary-school-aged self from calling it that. The way it rises, green and different, from the surrounding winter landscape brought to mind Smaug, sleeping under the mountain. At age seven, I half-wished that it would awaken and soar above the miniature houses below.
During the blazing August heat, looking back to winter pictures leads to the oddest “time machine effect.” As you can see from the rapidly filling tire tracks in the driveway, we barely made it home ahead of what turned out to be a fierce storm. The comfort of “I don’t have to go out there” is so amplified when standing on a perfect porch, next to the door to a cozy house, and seeing the frozen, dark contrast in the graveyard across the way.
Waterfalls don’t necessarily have the same impressive drama from the top, but they present another kind of wonder: the calm, burbling stream that disappears to infinity, replaced by the view of a sylvan landscape beyond. The pebbles and the trees contrast in lengthscale dramatically, but they all “belong” here.
I cooked up a bonus Sunday post: from the same waterfall on Mt. Riga where I took last week’s picture,another shot of the lovely swimming hole (and perhaps a broader perspective on what makes it such an incredibly lovely place to relax on a muggy summer afternoon.)
Here is your intrepid photographer (a.k.a. me), standing at the foot of a lovely waterfall on Mt. Riga. Near the summer solstice, on the perfect warm and breezy day, we paused here just long enough to take a few shots before we dove into the natural pool beneath the falls.
In the dead of winter, the rocks and trees and streams of northwestern Connecticut are a textured but monotone canvas. In this photograph, I’ve only exaggerated the stark difference between the dormant surroundings and the bright red of the small barn-like structure perched at the creekside.
The heart of the High Victorian Gothic beauty of Northam Hall is supported by this gorgeous archway. The Harry-Potter-esque tower springs up several stories above it, but nothing quite grabs my eye like the last golden strings of sunlight peaking out. This was my home for a year during my time at Trinity College, and this time of day was always my favorite.
In the hills of northwestern Connecticut, little compounds dot the landscape–the remnants of centuries-old manufacturing or artists’ collectives. The dusk-laced sky and the craggy-tree skyline combine to produce a lovely picture of New England Americana.
My brother stands on the bridge over the creek behind our childhood home. Inside all of those prepositions is the feeling that it used to be so much larger, grander, and more exciting when we were kids. Though we used to make whole forts under the bridge, we now barely fit.
Out for a hike on freshly fallen snow, it was a shame to see the day coming to an end. (And the views on that hike were spectacular.) Still, there’s something very satisfying to heading back home to the comfort of a roaring fire and a glass of hot chocolate. (It’s a cliché for a reason!)
From Lion’s Head in Salisbury, Connecticut, views of three states stretch out to the horizon. Rolling, pine-encrusted hills mix with lakes and farms to produce the perfect mélange of New England scenery. On the day of this particular hike (just before New Year’s), the whole world was napping in the sunlight.
As the last days of 2012 fell away, I went hiking with the family to Lion’s Head in northwestern Connecticut. We tromped through the recent snow, dodging bits of falling ice and hidden stones. On our way back from the the summit, we passed under the bent bow of this enormous birch. Though the forest is dormant, the tree is still very much alive. Its smooth, horizontal curve was in fascinating contrast with the stark verticality of the rest of the forest.
