One of the competitors in a tennis match I was watching the other day was playing lights out. It was as if she couldn't do anything wrong. Her opponent wasn't playing poorly - far from it - but had to struggle mightily against the relentless onslaught coming from the other side of the net. 

One of the commentators referred to this as "non-thinking" tennis. That may not have been the best choice of words, but I know what he meant. This player was in the kind of head space that enabled her to just swing out. She wasn't worrying about Xs and Os. She maintained complete focus. Both her shot selection and execution were first-rate. You might say she was on autopilot.

If you've ever wondered why elite athletes spend so much time training, there's one of the answers.

They've put so many hours into their sport that they know it inside and out, backwards and forwards. They've gotten to a point where they see what's happening in front of them differently than the average person. Because they process that information in a different way, they're more adept at predicting what might happen next and therefore react accordingly.

Lots of practice time also builds muscle memory, which positively impacts the athlete's ability to react. Once the fundamentals are mastered, responses become automatic. 

After athletes reach elite status, though, they continue to practice. A great deal. Why? They strive to continue to improve and to sharpen their competitive edge. Maybe the tennis player adjusts his serving motion to gain a few extra miles per hour, or tries a different racquet, or adds a new strength exercise. 

Athletes also continue to train because if they don't, their skills will begin to deteriorate. Use it or lose it, as they say.

Anyway, back to that comment about "non-thinking." I heard that and photography popped into my head. (Odd thought process? Probably. But that's another subject...)

What does a tennis player in flow state have to do with photography? 

First, if you wish to improve as a photographer, practice is required, regardless of your current skill level. 

When you're just starting out, of course there is much to learn from a technical perspective: how to operate the camera, which settings are appropriate to use in certain situations, how to achieve various effects. The sooner you can progress to a point where you know where every button and dial is located - and what each one does - without having to think about it, the better off you'll be. Fumbling with your camera's operation is a distraction. It's hard to be creative when you're bogged down with technical minutiae. 

Like the athlete, this is our own sort of muscle memory: moving beyond the mechanics.

But our eyes - and minds - also require training. We learn elements of composition. We get better at noticing things; recognizing relationships between objects; understanding the quality of the light. We learn to slow down so that we can better hear or feel or see whatever it is the landscape is trying to convey to us. We become more adept at figuring out how to translate whatever it is that has captured our attention into a photograph.

In a sense, we're moving beyond the mechanics here, too: the mechanics of composition and preconceived expectations. 

Just like the athlete, we reach a point where we begin to see things differently. We learn how to get into the zone, or the flow state, or whatever you want to call it. 

Even then, continued training is required if we wish to grow and evolve as artists.

The second parallel between the role training plays in both athletics and photography is the impact it can have on those days when things don't go so well. Even world-class athletes have off-days when they don't play their best. As my brother always used to say, "That's why they play the game." Anything can happen on a given day. 

But even when their "A" game is eluding them, champions still more often than not find a way to win. 

There is more than one way to achieve victory. There is more than one game plan. They know this because they've trained for it. 

I'm sure you've had days out on location when you're just not feeling it. You're not seeing anything. You're uninspired. You're not playing your "A" game. It happens to everyone.

In spite of that, it can still be a successful outing. 

Some suggestions:

Don't push. Creativity can't be forced. Stop trying so hard to make something happen. Put the camera down for a while and simply enjoy your surroundings. Re-establish your connection with the location.

Shift your thinking. If you've been trying for a grand landscape but it's not working, look for details instead. 

Perhaps you'll find subject matter with potential: something you can come back to later. That's a win.

Maybe you don't make a photograph that day. Still, you enjoyed the experience: the sights, the sounds, being in nature, watching the scene unfold. Also a win.

Bottom line: keep training so you can move beyond the mechanics and get into the zone.

SLOW DANCINGUnderwater grasses gently sway in the Firehole River

Upper Geyser Basin
Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming
About the Photograph

My relationship with Yellowstone National Park has been, at times, rocky. To make a long story short, let's just say there have been more than a few occasions when it's been a real challenge for me to work there. No visit ever starts out that way, but the park has had a way of getting the best of me.

It's a great place; don't get me wrong. It's just not my favorite place to make photographs, for a variety of reasons.

That said, I've learned to re-set my thinking - and since doing so, I have had far better outcomes. 

Don't push.

For me, YNP is a perfect place to actively apply that strategy.

This abstract image came about on a day when I went in with zero expectations. It was late in the year, one of the last times I was going to be in the park before it closed to prepare for the winter season. My batting average for this trip had been a little anemic: not as bad as the 2024 White Sox, but they're in a league of their own.

It was mid-afternoon with long autumnal-style shadows but still nothing exceptional about the quality of the light - and I stopped on a bridge to watch the long grasses dancing in the water. There's something about these that fascinate me. (There's another spot along the South Fork of the Snake River where I can sit for hours and watch the same type of underwater ballet.)

After a few minutes it occurred to me there might be a photo in there somewhere. Out came the camera. I experimented with various compositions and shutter speeds, and probably spent a half hour shooting. People wandered by, no doubt wondering what I found so interesting. 

Abstracts aren't for everyone, and this image absolutely does not scream Yellowstone National Park. No geysers, no bison, no thermophiles. Nevertheless, on that day, this somewhat anonymous feature of the place enchanted me.

Photographs are everywhere.