HDR Photography
Heavy traffic isn’t restricted to city centers! This summer, Canton’s bridge over the Grasse river is being repaired, cutting it from four lanes to two. Around 8:00, 12:00, and 4:00, traffic backs up for half a mile down Main Street. (But I’d rather the traffic than skipping the bridge repairs…)
Huge population growth in the American West led to a lot of new construction; I see the same thing in my remote area of Northern New York. Unlike up here, where storms and seasonal temperature cycles destroyed many of those structures after they were no longer useful, this partially inhabited area in Utah remains well-preserved.
Soft evening light scattering through the trees of town brings out a dreamlike quality in Canton. Though it may be filled with humans, my imagination adds in a few nymphs, wood elves, pixies, and miscellaneous spirits.
The ancient lake bed that became the Bonneville Salt Flats refloods with water each winter—but just a few inches. As a result, raising these tracks even slightly above the bed is all that’s needed to protect them.
The Bonneville Salt Flats are the perfect location to spot a fast car with a big wing—though it’s perhaps a bit diminished when the car is on the Interstate, rather than the crumbly old lakebed surface proper.
The rolling limestone hillsides of eastern Kentucky make for lots of stone walls. I’ve also been told that it makes for hard water, good whiskey, and strong bones in horses. I have no data to back up the latter two claims.
This quad isn’t very much of a quardrangle, from a geometric standpoint, but that doesn’t stop students and visiting campers from having an absolutely delightful afternoon there.
A curvature-of-the-Earth-matching flatness in across the Bonneville Salt Flats of Utah makes the repeating geometry of human-made structures hypnotically visible.
It’s always interesting to see what old municipal buildings become.
At the edge of the Bonneville Salt Flats, rolling hills and dramatic cloud banks made for an interesting afternoon along the Interstate. Off in the distance, there might be rain rolling in—though I don’t remember any rain falling on this particular day.
I scared a pretty good sized trout to get this shot.
I’ve often commented to curious colleagues that the benefit of drone photography is the ability to get images from that “impossible” space: lower than a helicopter or other light aircraft might dare fly, but higher than a photographer could reach with a cherry picker. Those are views that can only be had from building height, and so a drone let’s one (metaphorically) put a temporary building wherever they’d like, at least for photographic purposes.
I’m evidently not obeying that rule here, nearly 400 feet above St. Lawrence University’s sylvan campus. It’s from this height where the taper of from larger halls down to smaller dorms and townhouses, and then ultimately to wooded space at the eastern edge of campus, is visible.
The Bonneville Salt Flats end with the rise of hillsides, but this one geological formation stands far out beyond them. I wonder what processes led to its lonely position and tabletop structure?
The Space Needle through “Eagle” by Alexander Calder.
