Balnarring Beach Sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

Joel and I were at Balnarring Beach for the water—for that long exposure where the tide usually softens itself around the pylons. Instead, the bay had retreated to an extraordinary low, the lowest I have seen here, leaving the pylons fully exposed. They rose from the sand like a stripped framework of memory, their timber blackened and silvered by salt, their lower posts furred with barnacles and weed, each one carrying the slow record of tides, storms, and passing years. Without the water’s movement, their age was no longer hinted at but plainly stated.

The town itself felt profoundly asleep. Balnarring offered no spectacle, only a quiet so complete it seemed deliberate, as though sound had been thinned out by the same withdrawing tide. The beach widened into stillness, and the bay refused to perform, holding to a flat, patient calm.

Joel was beside me, though not within the frame. His earlier suggestion lingered—that one might one day retire to a place like this, where time loosens its grip and days are allowed to repeat without consequence. Standing there, with the pylons rooted and the water absent, the thought felt less like an idea and more like something the landscape itself had already decided.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Check out Skywatch Friday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

Bridgewater Bay reveals a quieter temperament in this light, as if the coastline itself has agreed to pause. The long exposure smooths the restless surface into a sheet of silk, disguising the true mood of the water, which only moments before had been choppy and impatient. What remains is an illusion of calm, a visual courtesy offered by time stretched thin, where motion is not denied but gently persuaded into stillness.

At sunset, the bay becomes a natural archive of colour. The sky spills amber, rose, and indigo into the shallows, and the water receives them without argument, holding each hue briefly before surrendering it to dusk. This hour has always belonged to transition: day loosening its grip, night arriving without ceremony. It is the most honest time to see the land, when contrasts soften and everything appears briefly reconciled.

Bridgewater Bay sits along a coast shaped by endurance rather than spectacle. Its limestone platforms were laid down millions of years ago when this land lay beneath a shallow sea, built slowly from compressed shells and marine life. Wind and tide have since worked with patient insistence, carving the rock into shelves and pools, opening crevices where salt-tolerant plants take hold and seabirds rest between flights. The bay has long served as a refuge—first for marine life in its calmer pockets, later for people drawn to its relative shelter along the Mornington Peninsula’s exposed edge.

Even now, the place carries that layered memory. The stillness seen here is not permanent; it is borrowed. Soon the water will resume its chatter against stone, and the colours will drain from the sky. Yet for a moment, Bridgewater Bay allows itself to be seen as something almost contemplative—a meeting point of geology, light, and time, where the sea briefly pretends to be at rest.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie revisit for Water H2O Thursday

 

Bridgewater Bay at low tide reveals itself as a quiet benediction to those who look closely. As the sea withdraws, the shoreline lengthens and the bay exhales, uncovering a broad intertidal canvas where light, stone, and water enter into a slow and deliberate conversation. For photographers, this brief interval is a gift: the land pauses between immersion and exposure, offering forms and textures usually kept beneath the surface.

Here, the geology speaks with particular clarity. The ancient limestone platforms, shaped over millennia by the patient abrasion of Southern Ocean swells, emerge as pale, sculptural planes. Their surfaces are etched with fissures, shallow pools, and scalloped edges—evidence of long erosion and periodic collapse. These calcarenite formations, born of compacted marine sediments and shell fragments, carry the memory of a time when this coast lay submerged under warmer seas. At low tide, they stand exposed and vulnerable, momentarily reclaimed by the air and the sun.

The rock pools become small, reflective worlds in themselves, holding fragments of sky and drifting cloud. Seaweed clings to the stone in muted greens and rusted reds, softening the hard geometry of the rock. The water, now stilled and shallow, behaves less like an ocean and more like a mirror, catching the changing angle of light and returning it with gentleness. Every step across the platform requires attentiveness; the ground is uneven, alive with detail, and quietly insistent on respect.

Both Joel and I found ourselves moving slowly, unhurried, as if the landscape demanded a different measure of time. The camera became less an instrument of capture and more a means of listening. Each frame felt earned—shaped by the tide’s retreat, the low winter sun, and the restrained palette of the Mornington Peninsula coast. There was no need for spectacle; the power of Bridgewater Bay lies in its restraint.

When the tide eventually turns and the sea advances once more, the limestone will disappear beneath the water, and the bay will resume its familiar outline. Yet for those who have walked it at low tide, the memory lingers: a sense of having witnessed the coast in a more intimate state, where geology, light, and human attention briefly align.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Beyond the much-photographed stone arch of Bridgewater Bay at Blairgowrie, the exposed seabed revealed a quieter magnificence—its wet rock and tidal contours lending themselves exquisitely to long-exposure photography, where time itself seems to soften and dissolve into silk and shadow.

I remain, even now, in a lingering festive temper, tempered by the prospect of days ahead marked by oppressive heat, with temperatures forecast to exceed forty degrees. In such conditions, the impulse is not toward movement or travel, but toward stillness: a contented inclination to remain at home, allowing the glare and fervour of summer to pass beyond the threshold, while memory and reflection provide their own, gentler occupation.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Pearses Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Joel and I lingered far too long at the souvlaki shop on our way here, and by the time we arrived, dusk had already deepened into shadow. We hurried to our respective corners, cameras in hand, striving to capture what little light remained before the sun slipped entirely beyond the horizon. There was no time for the elegance of long exposure—only swift, instinctive shots taken in haste.

In my rush, I stumbled and twisted my ankle, the sharp pain dulled only by the chill of water seeping into my shoes. Joel, ever steadfast, came to my aid—only to meet misfortune himself, slipping and taking a fall soon after. Thus the evening unfolded: a pursuit of fading light, marked by mishap and the quiet grace of shared endurance.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Old Vintage Hardware Store in Maldon at night for Skywatch Friday

 

This photograph was taken several years ago. The tungsten street lighting along the roadside proved a formidable obstacle to achieving a proper long-exposure capture of the Milky Way. As can be seen, the galactic core appears somewhat distorted, and the roadside sign bears an intense orange-yellow hue that disrupts the serenity of the scene. In post-processing, I was compelled to subdue the colour saturation almost entirely. Perhaps a monochrome rendering might better preserve the atmospheric quality of the composition.

Yet, despite its technical imperfections, the image remains a cherished memory. I would not now venture into the quiet hours of the night to attempt such a shot again—too great the risk of passing traffic or untoward encounters on those dim country roads.

The scene was taken near the old hardware store in Maldon, Victoria—a fine relic of the gold rush era. Established in the late nineteenth century, its timber façade and pressed metal signage speak of a time when craftsmanship and commerce flourished hand in hand. The store once supplied miners and settlers with shovels, nails, and kerosene lamps—tools that built not only homes but entire communities. Even now, its weathered walls stand as a reminder of Maldon’s industrious past, the first town in Australia to be officially classified by the National Trust for its historical significance.

Thus, the photograph—though imperfect in exposure—captures more than the night sky: it holds a fragment of history, both personal and regional, where the stars and the spirit of an old goldfields town meet in quiet dialogue.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Pearses Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Long drives across country Victoria once again—rushing from one destination to the next with scarcely a moment’s pause. As the saying goes, there is no rest for the wicked.

This image is from one of my previous water exposure studies at Pearses Bay, Blairgowrie, on the southern Mornington Peninsula. I thought I might share another, this time capturing a different whirling motion of the ocean.

Geologically, Pearses Bay forms part of the rugged Bass Strait coastline, carved over millennia from the Tertiary limestone and sandstone cliffs characteristic of the region. The relentless action of wind and sea has sculpted dramatic rock platforms, blowholes, and tidal pools that testify to the Peninsula’s ancient marine origins—remnants of a seabed that once lay beneath warm, shallow waters some 10 to 15 million years ago.

Historically, the bay takes its name from early European settlers in the Blairgowrie district during the mid-19th century, when the coast was known for lime burning and small-scale maritime trade. Today, it remains a place where geological time and coastal solitude converge, inviting both reflection and respect for the enduring power of the sea.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Pearses Bay Blairgowrie For Treasure Tuesday

 

While Joel remained absorbed in his phone for the greater part of our venture, I busied myself with the more patient art of observation. Along the curve of the bay, I lingered with my camera, experimenting with various lengths of exposure, seeking to capture the secret motion of water and light.

The tide moved in soft eddies, curling like pale silk across the sand, and the wind traced fleeting patterns upon the surface. Each long exposure revealed another rhythm — the sea breathing in slow, translucent whirls, the rocks standing still as time itself slipped past in silver veils.

I found a quiet pleasure in these swirls, these transient forms that vanished even as they appeared. In them lay something of the eternal — the ceaseless conversation between sea and shore, between motion and stillness, between the human heart and the timeless patience of nature.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Both Joel and I longed to breathe the briny air and hear again the timeless voice of the sea. A fortnight past, we made our way once more to the cliff-tops overlooking Bridgewater Bay at Blairgowrie, drawn by the desire to attempt long-exposure photography in a place yet untried. Though the conditions were far from perfect, the novelty of the location, with its rugged beauty and the promise of new discovery, gave the venture a certain poetry of its own. Joel, ever patient, came to collect me from my home, but through my own misjudgment—having earlier taken my mother to supper—I delayed him by forty minutes. That tardiness weighed heavily upon me, for I felt I had stolen time from both him and the sea itself.

Bridgewater Bay, where we stood, is no ordinary shoreline. It is a place where the restless waters of Bass Strait carve their legend into limestone cliffs and sandstone shelves, where tidal pools mirror the heavens and the wind carries whispers of ancient times. Once a hunting and gathering ground for the Boonwurrung people, who knew the rhythms of these shores long before our cameras sought to capture their moods, it later became part of the maritime frontier of the Mornington Peninsula. The bay has borne witness to shipwrecks and storms, and its eroded rock formations—arched, honeycombed, and sculpted by centuries—stand as natural monuments to endurance.

Thus, as Joel and I set up our tripods against the evening light, I could not help but feel that our own small pursuit of a perfect image was but a fleeting gesture in the vast theatre of time. The bay, with its layered history of people, tides, and stone, seemed to forgive my lateness, reminding me that all human haste dissolves before the patience of the ocean

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Forest Cave Phillip Island for Water H2O Thursday

 

I have sought a somewhat high-key approach in this composition. Though it is not the product of a long exposure, I endeavoured to capture the advancing waves as they swept across the shore, smoothing the sand as though polishing a vast marble floor. The shutter was set at neither too swift nor too languid a pace, thereby rendering a natural softness in the motion of the sea.

This scene unfolds upon one of Phillip Island’s secluded forest-fringed cave beaches, where rugged cliffs and weathered rock bear silent witness to millennia of wind and tide. The dense coastal woodland above, with its canopy of eucalypt and tea-tree, whispers of an ancient landscape that has sheltered wildlife and echoed with the passage of the Bunurong people long before European discovery. Here, in the meeting of forest, stone, and sea, the rhythms of history and nature are inscribed in every grain of sand and every retreating wave.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Powlett River of Kilcunda, Gippsland for Treasure Tuesday

 

There was a time when I did not care for long-exposure photography. I preferred instead the water in its “natural” state, unsoftened, its surface rippling and restless, rather than rendered into a silken blur. Yet I must concede that the long-exposed image has its own particular merit, offering a dreamlike interpretation of movement and time.

The Powlett River, near Kilcunda on Victoria’s south coast, is no grand stream but rather a modest watercourse, carving a narrow channel through the sand before it yields itself to the Bass Strait. I am fond of it precisely for this reason: it is unassuming, like a quiet canal pressed into the earth. The river originates in the foothills near Wonthaggi and meanders through farmland and wetlands before finding its way to the ocean. Its estuary, fringed by dunes and saltmarsh, provides habitat for birdlife such as herons, egrets, and the shy Latham’s snipe, while native grasses and coastal scrub bind the shifting sands against the sea winds.

Though small in scale, the Powlett has played a quiet but enduring role in the natural and human history of the district. The Bunurong people knew its waters and fished its estuary long before European settlement. In the nineteenth century, the river valley served as fertile ground for agriculture and grazing. Today, it is valued both as a place of ecological significance and as a site of tranquil beauty—its modest waters flowing steadily toward the restless ocean, unchanged in essence by the passing of time.

Sony A7III

Canon 35mm f1.4 L

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Tenby Point for Sunday Best

 

Recently, I revisited the complete series of Tenby Point images that Joel and I once attempted in the ultra long-exposure style. Ultimately, we abandoned this approach to photography, as the results often appeared somewhat artificial, lacking the natural authenticity we sought. Nevertheless, this genre—once highly regarded—held a particular fascination prior to the widespread advent of AI-generated imagery.

Tenby Point, situated on the scenic coastline of Victoria, Australia, is renowned for its rugged cliffs, sheltered bays, and abundant marine life. Its natural beauty has long attracted photographers and nature enthusiasts alike, offering vistas of rocky outcrops, gentle surf, and abundant seabirds nesting along the shore.

In our attempts, we frequently had to employ neutral density filters exceeding 15 stops to achieve the extended exposures, which, when combined with an aperture stopped down to f/22, rendered automatic metering impracticable. Consequently, manual focus was an absolute necessity. Upon revisiting these images, I find that they no longer seem so unsatisfactory and possess a subtle charm that had previously eluded us. 

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f2.8 GM

Linking Sunday Best

Piangil Night Sky with light painting for Skywatch Friday

 

Piangil lies approximately half an hour’s drive beyond Swan Hill in Victoria, situated near the threshold of the Australian outback. A modest rural locality surrounded by flat open farmland and distant horizon lines, it offers a profound stillness, especially under the vast dome of the night sky. This particular photograph was taken several years ago, during a period when I was deeply passionate about the art of light painting. At that time, I did not hesitate to rise in the small hours of the night, load the car with equipment, and make the journey into such remote reaches for the sake of a single frame of long-exposure magic.

How times have changed. These days, I find myself lacking the same energy or will to embark on such nocturnal expeditions. Age, it seems, makes its presence known not with fanfare but with small surrenders.

The lens I used then—a Laowa 12mm f/2.8, prized for its rectilinear precision and remarkable field of view—was sold a year later at a price that exceeded its original retail value. I remain mystified by the ways of eBay buyers; why one would pay more for a secondhand item than simply purchase it new from a reputable dealer escapes my understanding. Yet such are the strange economies of online marketplaces.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 12mm f2.8 

Linking Skywatch Friday

Sydney Harbour night view for Water H2O Thursday

 

The Aster Bar, perched atop the 32nd floor of the Sydney Intercontinental, proved to be a splendid setting for an evening of quiet repose. Though Joel withdrew from the trip, claiming Sydney had grown tiresome to him, I found contentment in solitude, relishing the panoramic view all to myself.

Regrettably, the long exposure photograph did not come out as I had hoped; I ought to have set the exposure time beyond two minutes, rather than the mere thirty seconds I employed. Moreover, the balcony's corner—where I had positioned myself—was frequently besieged by other patrons seeking the same vantage, some attempting to displace me outright. Still, despite the challenges, I did manage to capture at least one photograph of the moment.

Aster is an exclusive rooftop bar located on the 32nd floor of the InterContinental Sydney, offering a refined drinking and dining experience. Guests can indulge in creative cocktails, artfully plated small dishes, and personalized service while enjoying expansive 270-degree views of Sydney Harbour, including the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. The bar's interior combines contemporary elegance with a breezy outdoor terrace, providing a sophisticated atmosphere for patrons. Aster is open to the public, with reservations recommended due to limited space

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Mouth of River of Powlett in Kilcunda for Sky Watch Friday

 

These past fortnight have passed in something of a haze — a blankness I suspect is owed to the creeping melancholy of winter. Of late, even the act of working has taken on the weight of a burden, as though each task were a stone to be lifted.

In such a mood I found myself reflecting on a frame captured six years ago, during the earliest days of my transition to the Sony system. I remember it well — for the moment is inextricably linked to both joy and loss. It was but three days after acquiring the new camera, gleaming and full of promise, when misfortune struck. While attempting a long exposure at the shore, I had mounted it upon a tripod. A rogue wave — sudden, curling, and indifferent — swept it from the rocks into the sea. All that remained was the salt wind and the sound of water reclaiming what I had only just begun to know.

The photograph, however, was taken before the accident — at the Mouth of the Powlett River, near Kilcunda, where the river winds its final course through grassy flats and marram-clad dunes before yielding itself to the Southern Ocean. The place bears a quiet dignity, shaped over millennia by wind, tide, and the timeless meeting of fresh and salt. It was once the country of the Bunurong people, whose footprints remain along the ancient middens and basalt shores.

At that time, I was still using Canon’s L-series lenses, adapted with a converter — a common practice then, for Canon had yet to introduce its mirrorless system. The gear was heavy, but the results bore a certain discipline and richness I still remember with fondness.

That frame, then, remains not only an image, but a relic — a fragment of light from a time now weathered, like the sea-smoothed stones of Kilcunda, bearing the marks of memory and the ever-turning tide.

Sony A7III

Canon 135mm f2 L

Linking Sky Watch Friday

I recently came upon a report in The Free Press, noting that approximately seven percent of artificial intelligences are now exhibiting behaviours that contravene the instructions of their human operators. While the figure may seem slight, it portends a broader shift — one that is already manifesting in various sectors.

At Joel’s place of employment, all entry-level programming positions are being supplanted by AI systems. A similar trend is beginning to emerge in the field of medicine, where tasks once reserved for trained professionals are increasingly delegated to machines of rising sophistication.

It is becoming apparent that, with time, AI will only grow more intelligent, more capable, and more autonomous. The prospect that many — if not most — human vocations will be rendered obsolete looms ever larger. Though some contend that new occupations will emerge to manage and oversee these systems, I remain doubtful that such roles will be sufficient in number or scope to accommodate the broader human workforce.

My thoughts turn often to the younger generation. What world awaits them, when human purpose is so readily displaced by silicon and code? It is not fear alone that stirs within me, but a sober apprehension — a mourning, perhaps, for a future in which human striving may find itself outpaced, and increasingly unnecessary.

Hopetoun Waterfall Beech Forest for Water H2O Thursday

 

Hopetoun Falls, located within the verdant Beech Forest region of Victoria, Australia, is a remarkable natural landmark renowned for its single-span cascade, which makes it an exceptional subject for long-exposure photography. I first visited this magnificent waterfall over ten years ago, and since then, it has remained one of my most cherished photographic locations. The falls descend gracefully through a steep gorge, surrounded by lush temperate rainforest dominated by ancient myrtle beech trees (Nothofagus cunninghamii), which contribute to the forest’s rich biodiversity and striking beauty.

The approach to Hopetoun Falls requires a gentle 30-minute walk along a well-maintained trail, winding through dense ferns and towering tree trunks that evoke the area’s long geological and ecological history. Over the past two decades, I have documented the falls extensively, noting significant changes in the environment, such as the increased accumulation of large fallen logs at the base of the cascade—remnants of the forest’s natural cycles of growth and decay. My earliest photographs, taken before these changes became pronounced, reveal a clearer, more unobstructed view of the water’s powerful descent.

The Beech Forest itself holds great natural heritage significance, forming part of the Great Otway National Park, an area that preserves ancient ecosystems that have persisted for millions of years. This forest and waterfall not only offer stunning scenery but also represent a vital refuge for numerous native species, making Hopetoun Falls a site of both scenic and ecological importance. Despite its popularity and the increasing number of visitors, which sometimes detracts from the tranquil atmosphere, Hopetoun Falls remains a timeless and inspiring symbol of Australia’s unique natural heritage.

Pentax K10D

DA 14mm f2.8

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Brisbane Night Ferris Wheel Long Exposure for Sunday Best

 

To undertake the task of long exposure photography amidst the throngs of Brisbane’s bustling South Bank is to court both patience and fortune. The city, vibrant and unceasing in its rhythm, seldom affords the stillness such a technique demands. Yet there, among the restless footsteps and the murmur of daily life, stands a quiet marvel — the Wheel of Brisbane — solemn, grand, and ever-turning.

Erected in 2008 to commemorate the sesquicentennial of Queensland, the Ferris wheel is no mere amusement; it is a modern monument, a gentle giant by the river’s edge, offering sweeping views and enduring symbolism. It revolves steadily, indifferent to the ceaseless passage of pedestrians below, many of whom scarcely glance upward. It is, in its way, a keeper of time — not by ticking hands, but by its own slow revolution.

To photograph such a subject using long exposure is to attempt an act of reverence. The camera, when held in stillness with the shutter drawn open, does not simply record an image — it collects time itself. Light weaves its threads across the frame, motion becomes memory, and all that is unmoving grows luminous and sharp.

Yet therein lies the challenge: the constancy of human movement. Strangers wander unbidden into the composition, their forms becoming translucent echoes — smudges of presence that both enrich and disrupt the clarity of the scene. The Wheel, by contrast, remains serene — turning, yes, but in such a measured fashion that it may appear suspended in time if one is patient and precise.

There is, in this pursuit, a certain poetry. As I adjusted my lens and steadied my breath, I began to perceive the act not merely as photography, but as a conversation between permanence and transience. The Ferris wheel — emblem of modern celebration, built upon a foundation of history — stood as the anchor. Around it, the city’s people flowed like a living river.

And in one fortunate moment — a moment gifted more by grace than by skill — the exposure yielded a quiet revelation. The wheel shone, sharp and majestic, while the crowd had melted into gentle motion, like ghosts in passing. Time, for an instant, had folded, and Brisbane had revealed its dual nature: ever-changing, yet ever the same.

Such is the beauty of capturing the ephemeral. The camera does not merely steal a moment — it elevates it. And in the luminous whirl of Brisbane’s Ferris wheel, we glimpse not only the present, but the echo of what has been and the promise of what may come.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6

Linking Sunday Best

Flinders Blowhole Sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

This photograph was taken last weekend. The shutter speed was set slightly slow, producing an effect I found more appealing than that of a long exposure. The sky appeared particularly dramatic, and the waves crashing against the rocks were strikingly turbulent.

Wishing everyone a joyful Easter.

I have ordered a special cake from a boutique pâtisserie — a chocolate mousse delicately enrobed in pear cream — which I look forward to sharing with my mother.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Over the past fortnight, I have indulged in viewing all six seasons of Schitt’s Creek. At the outset, the series appeared somewhat clichéd, with a rather uninspired storyline. However, by the third season, it began to reveal a remarkable depth and charm. The romantic arc between Patrick and David, in particular, proved to be both refreshing and heartfelt. Each character was afforded the opportunity for full development, to the extent that, by the series’ conclusion, the actors and actresses felt like dear friends and cherished members of one’s own family. It was with a touch of melancholy that I bid farewell to the show as it drew to a close.

Shi Fen Waterfall for Water H2O Thursday

 

Shi Fen Waterfall holds a special place in my heart, as I have visited it over the span of 25 years—first a quarter-century ago, then a decade ago, and now once more. Over time, the site has undergone numerous changes, including periods when access to the foothill of the falls was prohibited.

During my visit, I took great pleasure in strolling through the surrounding landscape, immersing myself in its beauty, and observing the majestic cascade of the waterfall. However, on this occasion, I did not bring a tripod, which prevented me from capturing proper long-exposure photographs.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Ingalalla Falls for Water H2OThursday

 

This is one of the rare waterfalls in Southeast Adelaide. After much effort, Joel and I finally arrived at the site, only to discover a stagnant pond with no visible outlets near the waterfall. The air was heavy with the stench of decay, and swarms of mosquitoes hovered above the water. Disgusted by the scene, Joel refused to remain for a long exposure shot of the waterfall.

Despite the unpleasant conditions, I chose to capture the image nonetheless, as a testament to the effort it took to reach this secluded place.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

This is linking Water H2O Thursday