The thoughts behind Winter Light
Low fog obscures all but a sliver of mountainside near Eagle River in mid-January.
Winter in Alaska is a photographer’s dream[1]. The December and January sun arcs low above the horizon, creating a soft light all day. A day’s long golden hour is ideal for taking photos sunrise to sunset. Low-angle sunlight not strong enough to feel warm to the touch is also not strong enough to cause issues with a camera’s limited ability to resolve in a single image extreme light and dark. To everyone else’s chagrin, short days[2] help the photographer, with little extra effort or loss of sleep, overcome seasonal depression by seeing every post-10am sunrise and post-4pm sunrise[3]. While the days are short and sweet, winter nights can be oppressive. I frankly have doubted, at times, that the sun will ever rise again, though the universe has yet to let me down[4].
[1] Really for any artist, as any creative bone in one’s body will be tickled during the dark of winter, with as much time as is spent indoors. Great for cat people, too. [2] In Anchorage, bottoming out at 5 hrs and change around the Winter Solstice. [3] Indeed, my only complaints about the summer months are the too-late sunsets and too-early sunrises. [4] Anchorage residents, living at the 61st parallel, have it easy compared to some other Alaskans. North of the Arctic Circle, 66 deg N and up, there is at least one day when the sun fails to overcome the horizon. At Alaska’s northernmost point, the village of Barrow, the sun sets in late November for a nighttime covering two full months.
A heavy March blizzard turns Kincaid Park into a winter monochrome.
The quality of daylight can also be quite low. While winter is generally clearer than summer, Southcentral Alaska is an extension of the Pacific Northwest and is generally a cloudy place. Cycles of daily snow and weeklong overcast are not uncommon. Life inside a ping pong ball is a common description among locals. The sky’s moisture, be it overcast, low clouds, or fog, contributes to softening an already weak winter sunlight. Hiding beneath the pure white of snow, the landscape fades to a monochrome of snow and ice. The lack of color and shadow makes for understated, ethereal winter scenes.
A sweeping bend of Eagle River, seen in mid-January while cross country skiing on the frozen riverbed at Eagle River Nature Center.
Even on clear days, the sun can fail to make an appearance. Weather patterns generally mean the clearest days are also the coldest. Northerly winds and arctic air tend to chill the atmosphere so much that the surrounding bodies of water steam to create their own moisture[5]. Dense fog persists on clear, windless days. Sunrise and sunset remain grey on these odd, clear-but-not-clear days.
This makes it all the more exhilarating when the sun does finally come out and grace us with her life-giving rays. The human brain seems to self-regulate. A longing for the sun amplifies the experience of finally seeing it; absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. Nature does its part, too. Clear snaps usually present themselves after a cold night when fog rolls through town, freezes in bitter cold air, and accumulates as light flakes of ice on tree branches. The resulting hoar frost makes for beautiful wintry scenes that countless Christmas decorations seek to emulate.
[5] At sunset on clear evenings, you can actually watch the Turnagain or Knik Arms of the Cook Inlet, which surround Anchorage on three sides, start to steam into dense fog.
Sun Dog and Hoar Frost, a surreal scene during a lunchtime walk through Kincaid Park in late January.
On the first clear day after several days of ping-pong grey, I take my lunch break from work at one of Anchorage’s many parks, enjoying a walk through a quiet, still scene of snow and hoar frost. These mellow walks in the dead of winter seem more special than any summer hike ever will be. All-year residents of Alaska like to joke that winter is our little secret.
Mid-Winter Hoar Frost, as seen at while ice skating at Westchester Lagoon in early January.
The collection Winter Light was inspired by the euphoria of seeing hoar frost. The first image created that inspired the rest (and still my favorite) is Mid-Winter Hoar Frost. It ties the hoar frosty trees to the low fog that created it, all bathed in a vibrant blue as the early January sun struggles to rise above the foggy horizon. This image was made at Westchester Lagoon in the heart of Anchorage.
Other locations that presented gorgeous overcast and foggy scenes included Kincaid Park and Eagle River Nature Center, all within 45 min of home. I am lucky.
While winter can create saturated colors at first and last light, I find the soft winter light to be just as satisfying. My second winter in Alaska made me appreciate all the ways winter presents itself, even the grey of overcast days. I find constant inspiration in the Alaskan landscape if I am open to seeing its beauty in every season and in any light.
Link to view the rest of the collection Winter Light
Interested in owning an edition of Winter Light? Prints are available in the print shop