In May of 2023, I had the opportunity to revisit one of my favorite places: Badlands National Park.
Unlike other recent trips, this wasn’t a family trip. Though I had originally planned on a solo adventure, my good friend (and talented author) Josiah agreed on short notice to meet me there.
I began the trip brimming with anticipation about what lay ahead. Badlands National Park is not only a spectacularly beautiful place, one where I feel like I am home; it’s a place that holds a growing history of fond memories for me. I wrote my wedding vows while sitting among the park’s namesake formations during my first visit in 2019. A year later, I was able to share the park’s beauty with my wife on another visit with my family. And last month, we stopped there during a long road trip to northwestern Montana, making it the first national park my daughter has ever been to.
Given that Josiah and I each drove over six hours to get to the Badlands, it was somewhat surprising that we arrived within 20 minutes of each other. We quickly set up camp, ate a mid-day meal, and wasted no time venturing into the park.
Eager to stretch our legs and get acquainted with our surroundings, we started by visiting a few of the many established overlooks at the park. (You know, the ones with parking lots.) We were informally scouting locations for that evening’s sunset, as well as for the next day’s sunrise, but these were secondary goals as we eased ourselves into the desolate, magnificent landscape.
Eventually we found ourselves near Yellow Mounds Overlook, where we got out of the car and followed a dry creek bed into a grassy gully. Caught up in conversation, I found myself uninterested in photography, though I did pull out my camera for a few snapshots of the abundant death camas. To my surprise, I felt a heavy mental resistance with my camera in my hands. I was going through the motions: making images because I felt like I should, not because I was actually drawn to anything around me. I shrugged it off, cautiously confident that I would find the creative spark soon.
As sunset approached, we moved uphill for a better perspective. However, rather than the spectacular blaze of colors I’ve witnessed on previous visits, sunset was anticlimactic. Heavy atmospheric haze from Canadian wildfires snuffed out the sun before it reached the horizon, and the light quietly faded to gray with no drama.
Determined to give photography another go, I decided to try out a few compositions with my pinhole camera before the light completely faded. I loaded a roll of Portra 160 and advanced to the first frame.
I realized too late, however, that I didn’t advance far enough, making my very first exposure an accidental, partial double exposure.
It felt like a fitting start. I quickly made a handful of other exposures, doing my best to let go of my hesitations and let my intuition guide me to various compositions in our surroundings. Josiah had wandered off to a nearby mound to find his own compositions. I flitted from scene to scene, questioning myself every step along the way. I finished the roll feeling more or less the same as when I started: like I was making images because I thought I should, not because I felt drawn to my surroundings. Like I had probably just wasted a roll of film.
If you’re familiar at all with my photographic philosophy, you know that I’m not someone who normally chases sunrises and sunsets. That said, when in Badlands National Park, one simply doesn’t let such opportunities go unpursued.
So the next morning, we were up before 6:00 and looking for compositions near one of the overlooks we had visited the previous evening. Much like sunset the night before, however, sunrise was utterly stifled by the atmospheric haze. The vibrant colors I’ve witnessed on previous visits were nowhere to be found. To some extent, it was a relief because I was still fighting my creative funk, not quite feeling open to the photographic opportunities around me.
After a quick regroup at our campsite, we spent the next several hours hiking. I didn’t bother with my digital camera all afternoon, but I did break out the pinhole camera a few times. I loaded the one roll of Ilford HP5 that I had brought with me, and along our hike stopped for a few images from the tops of remote overlooks and from within deep, rugged canyons.
As I made these exposures, I tried to envision what the monochromatic results would look like… and I started to feel a few twitches of familiar excitement. I felt myself begin to open to the possibilities that I knew surrounded me.
I quickly burned through the roll of HP5, then when we returned to our vehicle, loaded another roll of Portra before we started our drive to the western side of the park, where we would be making camp for our second night.
The area we explored that evening took a little more work to get to than the locations we visited the previous day. After a quick meal in the field (with one of the best dinner views in recent memory), I made a few more exposures with my pinhole. Then, without any forethought, I found myself lining up a panoramic image with my digital camera. Next, I moved on to some telephoto intimates of distant formations. Then it was back to my pinhole camera for a few exposures along our return trek. Before I knew it, my metering app was telling me that my exposures would need more than more than 10 minutes. I knew I wouldn’t have time to finish the roll; darkness was falling fast, and we still had a few miles to hike back to the car.
On our final full day in Badlands National Park, I awoke to the sound of meadowlarks before the sun had crested the horizon. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep, I slowly ventured out of my tent and made a few compulsory images of the rising sun.
When the sun was shining brightly and Josiah had still not emerged from his tent, I decided to take advantage of the quiet early morning and wandered up a nearby hill to explore the surrounding area. I brought my pinhole camera with me, as I still had one exposure left on the roll of Portra that was loaded.
I chose for my subject an old, sprawling juniper tree backed by the rising sun. As I closed the shutter and started winding the film onto the take-up spool, I took a deep breath. Turkeys gobbled somewhere in the hills behind me. A few bison lumbered through the prairies below. Insects were beginning to buzz. The air around me was warming up quickly. I closed my eyes and stole a final moment to myself before heading back down the hill.
We spent the remainder of the morning slowly making our way east to our first campsite, stopping to get out of the car several times along the way for brief wanders. After we arrived, we set up camp (again), rested while the sun was directly overhead, then left camp for one last afternoon of hiking.
Within minutes of starting our hike, we came across an intimate nature photographer’s dreamscape: a massive mosaic of magnificent mudcracks. Josiah and I exchanged glances; he knew what I was thinking, and I knew he knew what I was thinking. I hesitated for a long moment. Let’s see what else nature has to offer, I thought. We can always visit them on the way out. We moved on.
Not long afterward, I did find myself tuning in to other scenes. Precarious spires towering overhead. Neatly arranged boulders and piles of rocks strewn across the landscape. Distant pinnacles emerging proudly from the flat, grassy plains. An astounding abundance of fascinating textures at our feet. We even found tiny sea shells, embedded in vertical walls of layered sediment. My mind reeled at the thought of how old the shells might be — the region hasn’t been submerged in water for millions of years.
I primarily used my pinhole camera, casually looking, composing, looking again, and making exposure after exposure. I began to feel the grip of doubt release. I could feel myself relaxing and enjoying photography more than I had at any point on the trip up to that moment. I felt like I could see again.
And then… we came across an isolated sod table, standing proudly amidst a sprawling network of pristine mudcracks, no doubt formed as a result of runoff from the table.
Resistance was futile. I dug out my digital camera and spent so much time among those glorious fractured plates of perfection that I think Josiah may have actually fallen asleep waiting for me.
I finally pulled myself away just long enough to be pulled in by different mudcracks, these ones shallower, lighter, smoother. The area was strewn with dark rocks, providing sharp contrast in the intense afternoon light. I was starting to see a new image collection coming together in my mind.
At long last, I felt the creative process take hold, like a flame had come to life.
I don’t know how long we spent on that hike, but we didn’t get far. Eventually we turned back and made our way to the car, slowed only by my incessant indulgence in photographing tiny scenes along the way.
After a brief stop back at camp, we pressed on, eager to make the most of our final evening. We decided to revisit the dry creekbed that we had explored on our first night in the park.
A lot had changed since that night, when I wandered with reluctance and hesitation. When I felt uninspired, forcing myself through the motions of doing what I thought I should be doing.
Now I was back with a renewed enthusiasm for photographing the wondrous landscape around me. I was seeing everything in a whole new light. Preconceived notions, expectations — they were gone, replaced by a childlike desire to playfully explore nature’s generosity.
I consider this trip to be a huge success. It was full of exploration, discovery, and many fond new memories.
Despite the slow start with my photography, by the time I left, I was feeling lighter and much more confident. Though I was of course eager to get back to my family, I was struck by the familiar disappointment of knowing that a memorable adventure was coming to a close.
In the end, this trip wasn’t my most fruitful in terms of photographic output, but of course, that’s never what it’s about. I came to disconnect from practical worldly concerns and reconnect with nature. I came to visit the landscape of Badlands National Park and remind myself why this place is so special to me.
And I am happy with the small set of images I made. They will forever remind me of this incredible experience. Together, they form another small part of a story that is still being told, one that I hope will continue for many years to come.