per·se·ver·ance / pərsəˈvirens/ noun

1. Persistence in doing something despite difficulty or delay in achieving success.

2. The currency a photographer uses to purchase a fraction of a second: for example, investing 90 hours over two years along with hundreds of dollars in gas revisiting a specific location to capture one single 1/6th-of-a-second exposure image. See also: Why serious nature photography and persistence are inextricably linked.

A beautiful photo is just the 10% tip of the iceberg which is visible above water. The hidden 90% is the intersection of preparation, patience and tenacity.

Some photographers go to great lengths when it comes to detailed advance planning (think astrophotography). They know exactly the image they want to create, and exactly where they need to position themselves. Others prefer to approach shoots without any visual expectations. Regardless of where you fall on that continuum, effort is involved – whether physical, mental, creative, or some combination of all three.

When it comes to nature photography, perseverance is a necessary part of the equation.

Nature Doesn’t Take Direction
In a studio, you’re in control of the lights, the model – everything. In the field, the only thing over which you have complete control is yourself. Of course you can do a lot of things to improve the odds of success, but ultimately the way things play out isn’t up to you. Perseverance is about accepting nature’s timeline and receiving what it’s offering to you on that particular day. Sometimes you walk away empty-handed.

The Creative Filter
Perseverance is often what separates a postcard shot from a piece of art. I think of the times I’ve been out shooting when weather starts to move into the area. As the clouds look more ominous or the raindrops begin to fall, I look up from the camera and realize everyone else has packed up and bailed out.

That’s often when magic happens. Challenging, uncomfortable or discouraging conditions act as a natural filter, weeding out casual observers. Those who stay behind might be rewarded with drama that others will miss. By refusing to pack up when the weather goes a little bit sideways, you earn access to more uncommon moments - things like heavy mist, edge-of-storm light, or dynamic cloud formations - elements that can create interesting photographs. "Bad" weather might force you to shift gears; to improvise; to adapt. By staying put, you stop forcing your own agenda.

I try not to go into the field with preconceived notions, which frees me to see more. When I slow down and make a conscious effort to get in sync with my surroundings, I put myself in a better position to notice things: to hear whatever it is the landscape is trying to tell me on that particular day.

Nature often guides us to the photograph – if we let it.

That said, particularly in places I frequent often, I collect ideas: potential subjects that look as though they could make good photographs given the right conditions. Maybe when I first find them the light is too harsh, or the sky is too bland, or it’s not the right time of year. Those ideas go into my back pocket.

I wouldn’t qualify these as previsualized photographs since I usually don’t know specifically how I’d compose around them: the conditions are the driver – but they’re ideas I might be able to use later.

Sometimes it’s much, much later. Months. Years. I’m nothing if not persistent.

When I first gazed at Mount Moran’s reflection in String Lake one late-summer evening, I knew I wanted to make a photograph from there. I finally walked away with a keeper last week.

It took a while because, well, Mother Nature is in charge. To be fair, my own preferences also extended the timeline. In my view, the Tetons are never more lovely than in the spring when they’re still covered with snow. The “clash of the seasons” is spectacularly beautiful, and snow enhances alpenglow.

This photograph, therefore, needed to be captured at sunrise, probably during the month of May or, if there was ample snowpack, into June. Ideally, there would be some clouds above Mount Moran to add some color overhead.

Easier said than done. Even on mornings when the day dawned with clouds dotting the sky over Moran, they were fickle - often disappearing before the sun came up. More than once there was no sunrise at all: clouds obscured the eastern horizon, blocking the light.

One year extended into two. It's not like I was working that location every day; if the conditions weren't cooperating I'd go somewhere else. There were multiple attempts, however. Still no photograph.

Last week on my sixth try in three weeks, morning fog was forecast. Fog, of course, can be tricky – especially around narrow lakes like String and Leigh at the base of the Tetons. There it can become so dense the mountains are invisible.

Heading out in the darkness toward String Lake, I began to drive through some fog. Uh oh. It wasn’t especially dense, though, and I saw some clouds above Mount Moran, so I rolled the dice and continued on. I got to the lake, set up, and watched those clouds disappear well before sunrise. The fog, meanwhile, began to build. I still had 15 minutes to go before the sun came up, which is when fog is always thickest.

I’d already lost the clouds, and now it looked like I was going to lose the scene to the fog, too. That's a movie I'd seen way too many times already.

The sun began to light Moran while the fog built and rolled across the lake. The mountain and its reflection were still visible, but the fog was too heavy to make a good photo. More of Moran's face was now glowing, but there was still too much fog.

Soon the sun would be too high and I'd lose the lighting I wanted.

Then, just for a minute or so, the fog lifted enough to create an ethereal, magical scene. It didn't matter that the sky was completely clear of clouds.

This was absolutely not the sunrise photo I’d been thinking of making for such a long time. It was better.

I captured two frames before the fog thickened and drifted upward with gusto, erasing Mount Moran from view completely.

Nature didn’t give me the cloud-decorated sky I’d thought about for this composition. Instead, I received an ephemeral, gossamer scene. It was a stark reminder that the best photographs aren't taken; they’re given to us.

Sometimes it takes perseverance to put yourself in front of the extraordinary.

The next time you find yourself standing in the freezing darkness, staring at a blank sky, or watching the rain start to fall on your gear while other photographers head for their cars - consider sticking around. If you walk away empty-handed, try again. And again, if necessary.

You never know when nature is about to rewrite your script and hand you something special.

Follow the link to read more Stories Behind the Photos