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Bowra Station, QLD. I found myself really thinking about my time at Bowra this week and realised there still photos I hadn't looked at. This is one of those shots. I took a video of this one but don't know how to edit video yet. Once again the beautiful red sand is a nice backdrop to any image.
See it on Fluidr.
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Durness beach at golden hour, with an incoming tide and no tripod. A very happy hour it was too, playing around with ICM.
I love these birds. They make a sound like rusty scissors and love to hover while catching insects. Decided to share it despite the soft focus...
Honorable Mention in the California Coastal Commission 2009 Amateur Photography Contest.
See below for some processing comments.
Photo Collage
A model of the Bride from the Disneyland's Haunted Mansion. The model pre-dated the murder storyline, so I had to add the hatchet. The background is a lovely little graveyard in Guadalajara. A flame for the candle and a bit of dry ice fog, and there you go.
This cliff overlooks Little Hunter Beach which I prefer to call Pebble Beach as the entire area is covered with potato sized rocks that have been polish by the wave action.
The noise that is generated by the grinding of the stones is really something to hear up close. Check out my previous post for a video of the waves.
A couple dozen Northern Shovelers have been at Constitution Gardens all winter. They usually sleep till mid-morning and stay near the small island, but last week they were moving early and often, and most spread out away from the island.
I'm not sure, but the hawk (posted previously) may have made them uneasy. I doubt it was any danger to the Shovelers; it appeared to be after smaller prey.
View LARGE for the best look.
Low clouds drifting over the craters of the Tongariro Volcanic Complex. Photographed from the summit of Mt Ngauruhoe.
Tongariro National Park.
Full Album - Tongariro: Chasing After the Wind www.flickr.com/photos/bluepolaris/sets/72157655156275179
Beneath a vault of boundless azure, where the clouds tumble and twist like restless spirits, New Zealand's Routeburn Valley unfolds—a land of such profound beauty it seems to pulse with the memory of creation itself. Set amidst the raw splendor of New Zealand’s Southern Alps, this realm feels ancient beyond reckoning, its features carved by the steady hand of time and the chaotic whim of the elements.
The forest at the valley’s edge surges forward in chaotic majesty, a riot of greens ranging from the soft, glowing emerald of mosses to the dark, brooding shades of towering trees. Each leaf and branch seems alive with whispered secrets, their stories carried by a breeze that snakes its way through the undergrowth, rustling and sighing like the ghosts of forgotten ages. Beneath the canopy, the ground is soft with decay and renewal, where every fallen twig and clump of lichen plays its part in the endless cycle of life.
Above it all, the mountains rise with an almost imperious indifference, their ridges serrated like the edges of a broken crown. Snow clings stubbornly to their highest peaks, glinting in the sun like shards of white fire, relics of a winter that refuses to yield entirely to the warmth below. One jagged peak commands the scene, thrusting upward with primal force. Its slopes are smothered in dense green forest that creeps upward as if trying to claim the summit for its own, while bare rock above seems to defy it, jagged and immovable. It looms with a quiet authority, a monolith that seems to regard the passage of time as little more than an afterthought.
In the valley’s heart, the rivers thread and twist with the grace of a dancer, their waters shimmering like liquid glass under the midday sun. They carve thin, silvery scars into the earth, a pattern so intricate it feels deliberate, like an ancient script left by the gods. The wide grassy plains, saturated with the vitality of untouched wilderness, seem to cradle these waters, offering them passage as they journey deeper into the unseen.
This place is alive with a stillness that hums with hidden energy, as if the air itself is charged with the memory of something vast and eternal. It is the kind of quiet that feels intentional, a silence that listens as much as it is heard. One might imagine Aragorn leading the Fellowship through such a land, his steps careful on the mossy ground, or Legolas pausing to gaze at the mountains with a glint of recognition in his ageless eyes. The air carries the faintest trace of something unnameable—a scent of rain-soaked stone, of blooming earth, and of the faintest echo of a melody, lost to time but lingering just enough to be felt.
The Routeburn Valley seems untouched by the corruption of the wider world, a sanctuary where the light of the Two Trees might yet flicker in some secret hollow. The mountains guard their secrets jealously, the rivers speak in riddles, and the forests feel as though they are watching. Standing here, with the sun casting its light across the valley in soft gold and sharp white, one cannot help but feel this is a place where the fabric of the world wears thin—where Middle-earth might still echo faintly, and where a weary traveler might look beyond the farthest peak and glimpse a glimmer of the West, eternal and unchanging.
It reflects the tension between urban vitality and hidden decay within Hong Kong’s lesser-seen spaces.