Unpredictability is perhaps the defining element of landscape photography: sometimes a photographer’s greatest frustration, it can also deliver the ultimate reward. It is both a curse and a blessing.

When working in nature we do our best to stack the odds in our favor, but in the end, whatever happens with the conditions is out of our hands because we’re not in charge. Nature doesn’t care that you spent weeks planning, or checked multiple weather apps, or waited for the front to move through, or chased the storm all day, or rolled out of bed at 3am. Logistically speaking, you can do everything right and still walk away from a shoot with nothing to show for your efforts.

Even when you get the conditions you anticipated, success is not guaranteed. The fog might be too dense for too long. A localized squall might make that low tide behave a lot more like it’s coming in hot. And so on.

If nature were entirely predictable, however, photographing it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting – either on an emotional level or in terms of the photos we make.

Often, it’s those surprise moments that are the soul of the craft. Sudden changes in weather, transient variations in light, shifting fog – or a thousand other variables – can create raw, authentic scenes. They push us to find creative solutions and alternate viewpoints. They teach us how to adapt. Most important, they produce images that are more likely to be unique.

It’s not unusual to walk away from unforeseen situations having made a photograph completely different from what you thought you were going to capture. Sometimes, not only is the final product nothing like what you imagined – it’s better, and you’re euphoric.

That euphoria, though, is almost always purchased with patience. Nature rarely reveals its magic on a schedule. It's not unusual for it to make you wait out the sudden shower or the heavy fog, or to ignore the bone-chilling cold while you bide your time. It might require a shift in strategy: for example, swapping locations to put yourself in a better position to take advantage of whatever you sense could occur. Sometimes persistence pays off, other times you strike out - but you won’t know if you don’t give it a chance.

I’m reminded of an old saying: You cannot appreciate the sweet without tasting the sour.

Without the disappointments of many a ruined sunrise, the occasion when light unexpectedly breaks through a bank of retreating storm clouds and briefly fills the sky with vibrant color wouldn't carry the same weight. If every shoot yielded a masterpiece, landscape photography would lose its magic. It would become an exercise in execution rather than an act of artistry and discovery.

Perhaps unpredictability isn't a curse at all. It's just part of the process, and a valuable one at that.

Landscape photography isn't actually about controlling nature. (Obviously.) That's something none of us is capable of doing. We can, however, control how we react to whatever nature offers us on any given day.

The best photographers don't necessarily get better conditions, they just have better relationships with disappointment, a deeper well of patience, and a higher level of adaptability. They view unexpected developments as opportunities. An investment of extra time and a change in strategy might yield a little bit of a miracle.

The relative scarcity of “perfect” conditions turns photography into an adventure. (And what is perfect, anyway? Maybe it's not what we think...) There is raw, unscripted beauty waiting to be recognized - and captured. Embrace the unpredictable.

Following are three examples from my personal "improvisation" files.

Before I begin, I'll share my Golden Rule of Managing Uncertainty: The better you know the location at which you're shooting, the more effectively you'll be able to call an audible when Mother Nature throws a curveball. Yet another reason - if you needed one - to keep returning to the same places.

Fog is one of my favorite conditions in which to work. It can be a potent "secret sauce" when it comes to creating interesting photographs. That said, it's also recalcitrant with a mind of its own. Rolling, building, ebbing, it has a habit of shifting rapidly, changing the light along with it. Compositions vanish, then vaguely reappear. Sometimes after hanging around forever it burns off in an instant.

Fog will hone your improvisational skills while making you want to pull your hair out. But it can also make you very happy.

The picturesque little church pictured above sits next to of one of the many lakes in central New Hampshire. When the temperature dips down to freezing overnight, you can count on morning fog over the water. With the forecast I was after, I left my house in the darkness one early October morning so I'd arrive before the sun came up.

I got fog in spades: so dense it was disorienting. Parking right next to the water, I couldn't see it - let alone the opposite shoreline and the church. At one point, a fisherman showed up, launched his rowboat, and almost immediately disappeared into the sea of white.

"Sunrise" came and went. By 9am I'd been there for nearly three hours and still couldn't see anything. Now I was concerned that, when the fog finally did burn off, the sun would be so high in the sky the quality of the light would be poor. Not wanting to be caught unprepared, I set up the tripod, pointed the camera in the direction of the church, and waited some more. At long last the fog began to lift in a most interesting way, as if a curtain were rising on the scene.

Though I'd planned on including the hillside behind the church in my composition (filled with maple trees in all their autumnal finery), that clearly wasn't going to be an option. The yellows, oranges and reds remained obscured, all while the lighting on the church was quickly strengthening. Soon it'd be too harsh.

Completely switching gears, I went in tight. There would be no wash of color as a backdrop. Instead, it was just a single red tree for seasonal context, the fog, and the church - in the end, a more impactful photograph than the one I thought I was going to make.

This photo underscores how useful it is to be very familiar with your location. I'd started out at daybreak next to String Lake in Grand Teton National Park. Because it had rained the night before, I knew there would be fog, and I wanted to capture it hanging over the water. Unfortunately, it was very dense. I waited for maybe 90 minutes, but by that time the sun had risen and it was still thick as pea soup. When/if the scene finally became visible, the light would be coming from too high of an angle.

Opting instead for a reliable vantage point outside of the fog and looking in at it, I headed for the north end of the park. There was a composition I'd kept in my back pocket at Willow Flats for a few years, just waiting for the right conditions. That turned out to be the day.

Overcast provided an assist; the sunlight was mostly obscured and when it did peek through it was nicely filtered. I waited until it partially lit the ribbon of fog and warmed the granite face of Mount Moran.

String Lake was a bust, but the jackpot was waiting at Willow Flats. Improvisation.

Finally, this abstract, a personal favorite, came about unexpectedly. On that morning in early June, I'd planned to shoot wildflowers in Grand Teton National Park as the sun came up. However, a hard freeze overnight caused all the blooms to droop. The poor things looked pathetic with their heads hanging down. So much for photographing flowers.

Capturing a more conventional sunrise photograph wasn't an option, either, because there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I watched as the first rays of light warmed the faces of the mountain peaks, then made my way over to the Taggart Lake Trail. The lake is always quiet very early in the day, and maybe I'd see something interesting while hiking.

Turns out, I did: a dreamy depiction of "green season" in the gently rippling water. It's probably the most peaceful morning I've ever spent at Taggart Lake, and I ended up making a photograph after all.

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Perspective