Flow State or Snow State - Winter 2025

As a recent January weekend approached, snow entered the forecast for the lower elevations of the central Sierra. I had been waiting a while - almost six years to the day - for another opportunity to explore snow-covered woods and meadows with my camera, and it didn’t take long to decide a quick trip to the mountains was warranted. My last outing in these conditions remains vivid in my mind, and a number of the images I made have held up well in my eye, even as my approach to photography has evolved over the years.

I remember waking up to a foot of fresh snow in Yosemite Valley that day six years ago. As I drove down an unplowed Northside Drive in the dark, a bobcat crossed the road in front of me, portending good things for the morning. I made my first stop at Tunnel View, and after taking in the snowy scene for a few minutes, I decided to head to the valley floor instead. In retrospect, that proved to be a milestone decision in my journey as a photographer. My comfort zone and frequent objective was larger landscapes and proven photographic vistas, preferably bathed in golden hour light. This was something very different.

I’m sure I missed some awesome shots at Tunnel View that morning, but I remember being completely entranced as I walked along the riverbank, captivated by the snow-covered trees and rocks in the water. I soon had little sense of time and even less concern for anything other than the natural wonders around me. If someone mentions flow state in photography, I immediately think of that day. Wiser, more enlightened souls might disagree, but it was an unforgettable and engrossing experience.

In light of that, it’s surprising I have not been able to get back to the snowy mountains for six years, since I live just a couple of hours away. Life’s other priorities, and certainly the weather, had something to do with it, but I’m content with the countless other photography adventures I’ve had, as well as my life choices. Nevertheless, I approached my recent trip with great anticipation, which was only tempered slightly by the knowledge that the forecast could change.

I arrived on a cold, gray afternoon, 36 hours ahead of the storm, and decided to explore an out-of-the-way section of the Merced River where it tumbles out of Yosemite Valley through a series of boulder fields. I hoped to find some ice or frosted leaves and was surprised to discover a section of the riverbank covered in a thin layer of snow. I assumed it was a few days old, preserved by the canyon’s shade, and I set about looking for patterns and interesting shapes among the rocks. I quickly became absorbed in the small landscapes in front of me, feeling euphoric about the possibilities and mildly overwhelmed by the choices. It’s a curious thing to confront such an array of potential photographs yet feel a sense of paralysis about where to begin. I waded in, figuratively, and worked the scene, reassured by the idea that I could return the next day for more.

The next day arrived cold and clear, and I headed up Yosemite Valley in the dark to a destination I had in mind. This has become a familiar pattern on these expeditions: start with an idea of where to go and then quickly discard it after becoming sidetracked or confronted by unexpected conditions. It’s a pattern I’ve grown to enjoy. I ended up at an old favorite spot where a dramatic bend in the river fronts an imposing view of Half Dome. I paid my respects to the mountain with a half-hearted wide-angle shot that I knew from the start was DOA. Then I eagerly began to forage the riverbank with its iced-over pools and frosted stones. Time became a distant concern.

Even without snow, a winter day in the valley offers countless options for photographic exploration, and I wandered in the meadows and along various sections of the river, exploring new locations and familiar spots alike. As the sun climbed higher, I was treated to a series of scenes where brilliant sidelight struck bare trees at the edge of a meadow. When the landscape became washed out with light I moved to more shaded areas and eventually made my way to Bridalveil Creek, a place I return to often but hadn’t visited in a couple of years.

After bushwhacking up the creek, I found a perch on a massive boulder that offered a clear view of the falls. While the grand view of Bridalveil Fall is one of Yosemite’s iconic vistas, I quickly became fascinated by tighter compositions of the wind-blown water striking sections of rock on its long descent. I spent quite a bit of time shooting the falling water, as it shifted across the rock face, but I soon attracted the attention of some in the crowd at the visitor platform across the creek. They started to make their way to my spot, probably convinced I had found wildlife or a stunning postcard shot that should not be missed. I certainly don’t begrudge their interest, but I’m often amused in these situations when I think about their dismay if they could actually see my photographs.

The day ended with a return to the snow-covered riverbank from the previous afternoon. To my surprise, the snow I thought had been preserved for days by the cold canyon’s shade was gone. Apparently it was a dusting of snow from the day I arrived. I set aside my disappointment and happily worked scenes of ice along the river, hopeful that the next day’s forecast for snow would hold.

Fresh snow indeed arrived that night. I made my way up Yosemite Valley in the morning and was giddy at the landscape transformed by a few inches of light powder. I’ve come to feel that fresh snow is like sunsets and fog in photography - captivating but imminently fleeting. Once again I had an idea of where I wanted to be as the light set in, and I was determined to make use of every possible minute. While I didn’t change my mind this time, my first stop proved wildly underwhelming. Fresh snow was everywhere, untouched and covering the landscape at my appointed spot, but after a stroll around I decided I just wasn’t feeling it, as they say. Was I paralyzed by the long-anticipated moment? I don’t know, but my solution was simply to remain calm and move along.

I soon found another meadow, and whether it was the changed light direction or simply a more appealing arrangement of trees, I found myself subconsciously transitioned into a state of heightened awareness. This was not a heavy snowfall, and while it left the landscape with a beautiful white cloak, it was not so thick as to obscure all the underlying branches. This contrast between dark, skeletal tree limbs and the white coat of fresh snow captured my attention fully, and I spent the rest of the morning moving between groves of grand oaks, cottonwoods, and aspens. It was deeply engaging, invigorating, and, I later realized, exhausting. An odd description, perhaps, but a sign that my attention was intensely focused on my surroundings for an extended period.

Had I reached the exalted flow state? I’m not sure. I don’t recall it with the quite the same sense of being lost in time from six years ago. But I’m grateful for the experience and not especially concerned with giving it a label. I’ll remember the day as one of excitement and awe at the natural beauty of a snowy day, and I hope the images I made will hold up to the test of time.