The bucolic setting of Equus Run is so charming and quaint (and well-shielded by trees and hillside) that I can easily forget the Interstate runnin’ through the yard.
While other cows in this field were hanging out in a herd together, this loner was keeping the Sun company.
This visit to Mohonk Mountain House, in its 152th year of operation, comes six years after my last stay. In the time since, I’ve upgraded my kit (and my skills) and put both to use to get this stacked-exposure (i.e. “fake long exposure”) view of the hotel’s face on Labor Day weekend.
Hayao Miyazaki’s films are notable for these beautiful landscape/establishing shots of windswept grassy hillsides beneath huge cumulus clouds. The gentle, rolling limestone hills of northern Kentucky, with some cows grazing quietly in the distance, made me feel like I was in a Miyazakiesque setting.
This incredible summer sunset view over Glencrest Farm in Kentucky came at the perfect time to test out my new lens: a 70-200 f/2.8 (the “classic” sports photography lens) for my Sony a7R IV. Though I had such a lens for my Nikons years ago, updating all of my glass for the new camera has, of course, been a process.
We were in Traverse City, Michigan, during last year’s Fourth of July celebrations. Fireworks over the Grand Traverse Bay have some added drama, but the area is so far north (and west in its time zone) that the sky still hadn’t fully darkened.
After the main show has finished, private citizens produce their own displays up and down the beach.
Fireworks are lovely displays of chemistry and physics in action on their own, of course, but there’s an extra dimension of enjoyment from being part of a crowd and feeling the shared excitement.
The background of this image—fleets of golf carts, tons of bedding, parking lots of trucks and horse trailers, plus busy grooms and working students—is a good reminder of the effort that goes into the equestrian experience happening in the foreground.
A summer sunrise accompanies many breakfasts when horses are involved, but I have to admit that I prefer mine with less grass and more eggs.
The sight of a boat house on a remote body of water gets my eyeballs ready for an explosive speedboat entrance from a secret agent. I guess an Adirondack sunset is an acceptable runner-up prize.
A likely astonishing number of my childhood’s imaginary forts and escapes were on islands. Though I have no idea why, the present-day result is that my head snaps to the side with every Adirondack island I pass. What adventure could be happening there?
The layers of fields, tree lines, bars, and hillsides that make up central Oregon remind me of the picturesque bucolic settings of Miyazaki movies.
As we pass the shortest day of the year, I looked back to one of the longest: an endless evening, stretching out over Long Lake in the Adirondacks.
The summer grass harvest in central Oregon makes for a sudden and dramatic shift in the geometry of the grass… To the viewer, it’s the parallel rows, though to the blades of grass themselves, I have to assume that the sudden shift to being parallel to the ground is more meaningful.
Rows of vines have been carved into the hillsides of central Oregon, with the lines of evergreen trees marking what came before.