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It was another testing day on the Great Glen Way. A leg sapping slog along a straight single lane road high up in the hills above the northern side of Loch Ness, dodging the odd car that came chasing past. Now and again we braced ourselves for yet another heavenly soaking, and each time the shield wall of trees to our right gave way to open space, a cold wind blasted in from the moors and mountains. We could freeze and have a fleeting view, or we could be comfortable and see almost nothing of note. Having hiked the entire ninety-six miles of the West Highland Way before, a much more diverse and picturesque long distance trail, we were feeling shortchanged by the lack of variety and the monotony of the tarmac. Still, we’d seen two shy and secretive red deer, a fine and handsome slow worm basking in a rare patch of sheltered sunshine, a sty containing three hairy piglets, and in the distance some longhorn highland cattle. When the landscape hid from sight, Mother Nature was offering compensation with an eclectic menagerie. No red squirrels though. I’m starting to wonder whether they’re a myth, concocted by the Scottish Tourist Board. Have you seen one? No, I thought not.
After five or six miles of walking west from Drumnadrochit, our friends from across the Atlantic appeared, marching along the lane towards us, just as they had done yesterday and the day before. The North Carolina contingent had summoned us this far north, to join them on their latest adventure, and each day Ali and I would start from where we’d left the van at the end point. From there we’d begin to hike back along the trail until we inevitably bumped into them, then turning around and finishing the stage with them. Each time we’d compare experiences from the day so far, delving into each other’s bags of Haribo, discussing plans for supper, and wondering why none of us had remembered to bring a fully charged hip flask. This morning, they’d both taken the plunge, quite literally, each of them spending up to as long as twenty seconds immersed in the freezing waters of Loch Ness. We were impressed, especially given the unforgiving and eternally damp summer we were having this year. Still, in under a week from now they’d be sweltering in North Carolina once more, while we’d be, erm, shivering on the banks of Loch Lomond, shamed by their efforts into taking a dip of our own. I lasted for twenty seconds before making for the shore as well, but Ali managed over a minute. They build them tough in Redruth, you know.
Eventually, the trudge along the road stretch ended and the trail wound down towards the end of a day through a plantation forest filled with Sitka Spruces, tall and empty, a sterile silence spreading its solemnity from the darkest corners. No squirrels here. No birds either. Strange and gloomy places, these voids created by human hands, shunned by the natural world and seemingly unrelated to the bright green woodlands we know and love. But there’s no denying they can make for quite atmospheric photos. Here, a gap opened up to the east, showing the village of Drumnadrochit patiently awaiting our arrival in the glen far below. Alder and Anna were billeted at the backpackers’ hostel and invited us to join them for a fish and chip supper and beer later on, although they’d need an early night with the prospect of a daunting final twenty mile stint lying ahead of them tomorrow.
A little bit further on, we stopped awhile and inspected the rations, chewing on granola bars, glugging water and rustling in the bottoms of those Haribo bags again. And there, just to the left of us, a little way into the silent forest stood a triangle of bright green tips that shouted out of the darkness. There was that atmospheric photo, just when I had been neither looking for it, nor even really thinking about the camera that had been lying in my bag all afternoon. The camera was always with me, although I barely used it at all until after we’d finished the hike and moved further south again. But I’d brought it just for moments such as this. Without a tripod, I had to take a dozen or more exposures with the ISO ramped up to values where I really don’t like to take it, hoping that at least one of them wouldn’t be too blurry in the low light. This curiously unplanned approach to photography seemed to be continuing to deliver results to match the memories we’d carry home from the hillsides and silent forests of the Highlands.
A view from the trig point. A long muddy slog if you take the hard route like I did through moor and forest.
Escape · Simon Servida
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Two Oakway Leasing EMD SD60s, along with a pair of Cascade green locomotives, pull a Burlington Northern coal train toward Belmont and the summit of Nebraska’s Crawford Hill on July 9, 1994. The train is about to enter a large cut, made when the hill was realigned and double-tracked, completed in 1982. Above the lead motor is the old right-of-way leading into Nebraska’s only railroad tunnel, now void of tracks, of course.
A BNSF westbound slogs west up the 1.4 percent grade on Main One just east of Ash Hill, California, on one of several grade separated areas of the CTC Two Main Track Needles Subdivision.
To the right is a portion of the original Main One alignment, which after reviewing aerial maps appears to have been almost completely realigned from Siberia to Ash Hill. Many cuts, fills, bridge abutments and old tie plates can be found with a little exploring.
Main Two from here eastward to Siberia breaks off just to the right and uses a more direct and steeper (2.3 percent) grade that's about two miles shorter than Main One between the same two points.
Loaded coal from Clymer slogs through the rainy streets of Clearfield at dusk. They'll tie up in the yard at Clearfield, and another crew will run south for another 65 loads before the trains combine and the 130 behemoth is moved to Keating where it will become a NS 632 for Baltimore.
This shot really did tax my stamina. I had to slog my way all of about 400m from the front door of the hotel weighed down by a hearty breakfast to grab this shot. Just a case of picking some foreground and positioning the trees then waiting. Initially the Buckle was in solid shade but then the sun rose enough to start blasting through some gaps and travel across the landscape. I took a number of shots but picked this one for the position of the light and the clear peak.
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I started up Skiddaw in the dark, about 1 1/2 hrs before dawn. It's a slog but the thought of a spectacular dawn looking down into mist filled valleys kept me going. None of the above transpired....cloud rolled in along with a bitter wind and snow flurries. But near the top there was a break in the cloud to the east over the northern Pennines, into which light poured along with snow showers. The long lens came out (450mm equivalent). This one scene made it all worth while. I just love the way the snow showers come down in subtle curtains and soften the distant hills, making it look like an impressionist painting.
Doug Harrop Photography • April 6, 1978
A Union Pacific TR5 pulls a 75-car Salt Lake City to Ogden transfer run into Riverdale Yard in Ogden, Utah.
UP's eight TR5 sets were designed and built by EMD for yard transfer service. This 2,400 horsepower set supports that fact.
Northbound on the Burlington Northern Santa Fe’s Casper Subdivision is a freight led by BNSF EMD SD40-2 No. 6338 at Sodium, Wyoming, on September 1, 1998. Behind No. 6338 is BNSF GP9u No. 1638 and Livingston Rebuild Center (LRCX) GE SF30C No. 9556, both former Santa Fe locomotives.
After a slog across the California desert, Trona's daily turn arrives at Searles Station, passing an old water tower as they make one final pull up the stiff grade into the interchange. With temps hovering around 109, you truly become immersed in the environment.
A shot of part of the long track up from Rhosydd to the old mine workings of Cwmorthin. The track here has slate slabs as fencing, a product in ample supply as the hardy miners made there way up and down from the mines! The pine trees made a nice focal point by the ruins of Rhosydd Chapel.
I also thought the mono treatment brought out the nature of this landscape which saw the massive loss of workers engaged in the extraction of slate, giving Cwmorthin the unenviable name of the "slaughter house"! You can make out the continuation of the track as it appear as a strong diagonal on the side of the mountain in the distance, making its way up to the deserted workings of the old mines.
© Arild Solberg - Ystevasshornet - Holetindane - Dalmannshorn - Brekketindane - Slogen - Smørskredtindane osv.
Somehow my school holiday has evolved into a 24/7 slog on DIY jobs, but last Friday I gave myself a day off to go to Middle Black Clough in the north of the Peak District. Having researched directions to get to the waterfall, I figured that they were all a little bit sketchy, so I decided to navigate my way using the Earth's magnetic fields and the position of the sun. In other words, I ended up using my instinct to get to the location, which involved taking a wrong path and wading up the stream over slippery rocks. This made me realise my lack of fitness at present and the fact that I am now 46 years old - not 26 like I keep trying to convince myself. As soon as I arrived at the location I saw this composition.
The key to a great waterfall shot IMHO is isolating the falls from its surrounding distractions, getting great light and using a decent ND filter to make silky, creamy flows across the contrast of the rocks as it pours through. This shot has maybe one of those previous mentioned elements going for it and due to its dog leg left flow maybe not even that, my 1000 ND filter was a screw on and you can only set focus before adding it to the lens which is why I watched it swim on down the river on my very first composition.
Pictured here is Ragged Falls located conveniently in Ragged Fall Provincial park just outside Algonquin Park off Highway 60, after finding a spot in the car park area a rather short well-groomed 1km hike gets you to the top of the falls looking out at the Oxtongue River. This shot involves a little steep slog down over the hill from the falls and a little rock hopping to set up on it but worth it for the perspective, if you are looking for fall colors to frame a shot the best capture is from the top.
I took this on Sept 18, 2021 with my D850 and Tamron 24-70 f2.8 G2 Lens at 24mm 1/400s f`5.6 ISO 64 processed in LR, PS +Topaz ,and DXO
Disclaimer: My style is a study of romantic realism as well as a work in progress
70812 slogs past Ais Gill, with the 6M38 1012 Ravenstruther to Longport - 09/06/2023.
I was delighted to see this train appear on RTT, the day before we went on holiday & inspired by a friend, who took a shot of a Class 70 at this beautiful spot, I decided to come here to see it. In the end, this train ran twice on our holiday & I was very lucky to capture it in sunshine on the second occasion.
Slogging away from a large spring thunderstorm we find CN taconite loads from the Fairlane plant in Forbes, Minnesota bound for Proctor and the Duluth docks on the way south behind three different SD40's -2 or -3 which ever you prefer. I kept missing the lightning bolts, but just as well I was glad I stayed with this guy and had sun all the way south and did not stay north and get soaked for 4 hours of rain . . .
April 13, 2023.
Doug Harrop Photography • August 11, 1974
A combination of EMD GP9s and GP30s pull UP's OGSL train west out of Ogden, pictured from the 19th West overpass near Roy, Utah.
The grade of the Salt Lake Subdivision between Ogden and Clearfield maxes out at 0.54%. Can you imagine how awesome this may have sounded, especially standing above the exhaust stacks?
6029 powers away from Canberra with the 3rd shuttle of the day to Queanbeyan as 6S76.
Saturday 1st September 2018
With a smoky EMD SD70ACe third in the power consist, Union Pacific's Roseville, California - Green River, Wyoming merchandise train rumbles into Echo, Utah.
With 52 loads, 56 empties, and 8,369 gross tons on the drawbar, the train is making a steady 30 mph. Momentum will soon collapse when the MRVGR 30 hits the 1.14% grade at the foot of the 25-mile slog to the 6,792 ft. summit at Wahsatch.
Led by a pair of Union Pacific GE AC4400CWs, a southbound UP coal load slogs up to the top of Logan Hill at Logan, Wyoming, on the afternoon of June 28, 2024.
"You should come up. It's beautiful." Ali was hiding in the car with the second of the pair of books she'd liberated from the shelf at the place we'd been staying in, recuperating from the walk to the summit of Pico Ruivo that we'd made earlier on that afternoon. "I'm coming," came the reply. No matter how tired she was from the upward slog, nor how warm she might be sitting in the car, probably under a blanket a couple of hundred yards away, it seemed a shame for her to miss out. Dutifully she arrived, admitting that this view to the east was indeed quite wonderful. So was the one to the west. The south too for that matter. If you looked north you wouldn't be complaining either. By the time she had wandered up the slope to where I stood poised over a clifftop, I'd already taken this shot and had greedily moved onto the next epic view to the west, where the sky was starting to get interesting as the sun disappeared somewhere over the mountains we'd just come down from. Suffice to say I think you can expect to see another shot from the mildly ecstatic hour I spent gazing at the assembly of clouds, water, waves, stacks, mountains and cliffs that make this island so unforgettable. There are plenty of good reasons for the existence of so many miradouros both along the coast and interior here.
It was the last "going out" day at the Floating Garden before the adventure was due to come to a close, and a sunset taking in the views from the Ponta do Rosto seemed the perfect way to conclude the trip. We'd been here a few days earlier and walked to the tip of the rugged Ponta de Sao Lourenco path, and had vowed to return before Easyjet flight 6246 was due to spirit us away from this sub-tropical world and back to the cold northern climes we call home. Under clear skies we could see the shimmer of Porto Santo and its sandy white coast, Madeira's much smaller sister island twenty odd miles to the north-east. Slightly closer to the south-east were the mysterious mountain ridges poking out from the surface of the ocean, the Ilhas Desertas, inhabited by nature alone, hovering serenely on the calm petrol blue Atlantic waters like a group of enormous serpents. And behind us lay all of the Floating Garden, save for this thin strip of rocky coastline that tapered off into the ocean a couple of miles or so from where we were standing. It was one of those evenings where I felt myself lulled into a glorious sense of peacefulness, enchanted by the beauty of what a huge volcano under the sea could do if it were given a few million years to set the foundations and get the architects in to make the final flourishes. One of those evenings where the clouds were just about moving so that a long exposure such as this might give those blues and magentas a purposeful sense of direction and flatten the mirror like sea. Evenings like this are made for ten stop filters I so often think.
With the aid of a phone snap I asked my ex geography teacher mate Dave to tell me what I was looking at. The phrase "horizontal layers of ash and pahoehoe lava in the big trough on the right hand side" left me none the wiser, but Dave still writes the GCSE textbooks used in schools across the nation, even though he retired several years ago. His garden summerhouse is full of jars of interesting looking rock collections from his many trips around the world so I've no reason to doubt his verdict. On each one there is a label, such as "Mount St Helens volcanic ash" for example. Bizarrely Madeira is one of the very few places I've been to that he hasn't. I think he wants to go now though. Whatever those layers were, they did look very pretty I thought. Orange tones always work well against a strong blue background.
Of course I was supposed to come here for sunrise. More than one of you told me that - but I struggle shamefully in the early hours - we'll never get along I'm afraid. Last time I stirred myself into a pre-dawn start the rest of the day went very badly. I'm lucky that I live in a place where most of the great views point towards the west. And this shot also reminds me that sometimes the sunset is behind us. Well obviously it's not - that doesn't make sense, but at the same time the fading light can bring drama to the eastern sky as well. In fact the evening delivered the best light show of the entire two weeks, and we stayed at this spot until it was dark, watching the occasional plane come in to land on that infamous runway on the side of the mountains between Machico and Funchal. Cover your eyes when you're about to touch down if you're going in daylight or you may be wondering whether the pilot is planning to miss the runway entirely and land on the sea or the main road that passes underneath and then alongside it.
While this may be a shot from the final evening of our fortnight on the Floating Garden, there are still files full of adventures from the rest of the holiday that remain untouched. I'll get there in time, but now another short adventure beckons. I hope you all enjoyed that chocolate, and for those of you who are enjoying your last day off, I hope the sun is shining in your part of the world. Preferably with some nice clouds to add to your sunset shots. Have a good one.
In the late 1980s, the concept of a "sprint train" came into vogue. It usually meant operation with an extended crew district, a reduced size crew, and a limitation on train size. When we were on our big 1988 trip to California and Arizona, we encountered Santa Fe's west coast entry in the sprint train portfolio. The ATSF 899/998 trains offered fast intermodal service between the LA Basin and the Bay Area.
In this image, the Los Angeles-bound 998 train passes a Southern Pacific coal train at Bealville siding. Both trains, interestingly enough, were lead by an SD45-2. It is a fair guess to imagine that the short Santa Fe pig train will fly up the grade through the Tehachapis much quicker than the train of coal destined for Searles will.
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Although it can feel like a hard slog, no visit to St. Paul's would be complete without scaling the interior of the dome. All told, you'll face 528 steps to the top - a height of nearly 365 feet.
One of the largest such structures in the world, St. Paul's dome weighs almost 65,000 tons and consists of a unique three-dome structure, including a decorated interior dome, a middle dome built of brick (and largely unseen) for strength and support, and the exterior dome.
Stunning 360-degree views over London and the Thames are available from the exterior platforms accessible from both the Stone Gallery and Golden Gallery.
There are 259 steps leading up to the spectacular Whispering Gallery, which runs around the dome at a height of 100 feet. It's so called because of its remarkable acoustic properties: it's possible to hear a whisper from across the dome's total width of 112 feet.
From here, visitors can see Thornhill's paintings up close and gain a breathtaking impression of the size and proportions of the nave far below.
From the Whispering Gallery, a further 117 steps lead up to the Stone Gallery around the outside of the dome, and a further 166 steps above this is the Golden Gallery.
After slogging through the desert, squeezing through tight walls, and climbing over obstructions I found myself staring up at the horn, a scene that was first made famous by Michael Fatali. Amongst the various slot canyon scenes I have encountered, this formation ranks near the top in beauty. Concentric sweeping walls almost in the shape of a heart provide the backdrop behind a beautifully sculpted horn protrusion It represents some of the finest handiwork of Mother Nature and upon seeing this photo, several people have told me the walls seem to be moving and circling around accentuating the horn. A big thanks to JM for making this day happen!
2:06PM After a long slog along the canyon rim, Our Lady of the Red Lapels describes the Plitvice Lakes system in front of a map showing—among other things—the 7 upstream boardwalks across small waterfalls that were closed, one by one, over the preceding days and hours, as the flood stage kept rising. The Big Falls and the trail down to it are just over her head.. Never found out if the whole trail system was closed at any point, but the weather was fine on our trip farther south.
And so concludes my photo essay on Plitvice Lakes.
What's next, I wonder?
01:30 UTC; 14 June 2023;
Slogged my way up to the summit of Ben Ime and held out on the summit until sunset. Conditions were changing very rapidly; this was one of the calm, clear periods. Looking roughly westward from the summit.
My legs screamed in protest, but the view from the British Lookout silenced them with a gasp. 😮 After a grueling 4-kilometer (2,48-mile) slog from the Francés Lookout, I finally stood at a staggering 1,000 meters (3,281 ft) above sea level.
Below me, the north valley unfurled like a crumpled velvet tapestry. Imposing granite walls rose from the emerald expanse, their sheer scale eliciting a muttered "what the hell?" – a phrase that perfectly captured the humbling beauty before me.
This, my friends, was the crown jewel of the French Valley – Mirador Británico, a hidden gem and undisputed highlight of the W Trek. It's not for the faint of heart; reaching this viewpoint requires a dedicated day of hiking. But for those who persevere, the reward is a jaw-dropping 360-degree panorama.
Pehoe Lake shimmered like a fallen sapphire, dwarfed by the colossal Los Cuernos peaks and the mighty Paine Grande. These granite titans, unseen from other vantage points, thrust skyward like the spires of a forgotten city.
Why black and white? Because it captures the raw, dramatic beauty of this landscape. No color could do justice to the stark contrast between the towering peaks and the dark, mysterious valley below.
So, who's ready for a virtual hike to the British Lookout? Let's share the pain and the glory together!
***
PS. Number ONE on Explore on October 19th., 2024.
66740 'Sarah' slogs up Count March Summit working the loaded 6S46 North Blyth Alcan to Fort William Alcan