Once my least-photographed genre, nature has now become my favourite subject. Because while the mess of the bush can be chaotic and wildlife skittish, I’ve since come to value that these challenges only multiply the reward when the elements align.
High in the mountains, as morning fog drifted through the forest, this gnarled Antarctic beech stood firm as it has for generations.
Exploring the enchanted forests around Cradle Mountain, I found this grove of old-growth myrtle beech trees standing strong as they have for generations.
I stumbled on this scene early in my Fiordland trip, but the day was overcast and the light too flat. A week later the sky had cleared and I hiked up the mountain once more. The setting sun cloaked the valley in shade, yet these alpine branches remained aglow in the dying light.
The forests of Fiordland are simply enchanting. From the endless sea of ferns to the towering trunks of old-growth beech trees
Nestled on the banks of a sweeping river, I stumbled on this ancient grove of myrtle beech. The forest was home to verdant ferns and vibrant sassafras. Yet this grove remains my favourite frame from the trip.
This is a land where ancient beech trees twist and tower skywards. Where emerald ferns blanket the forest floor. And where sapphire streams carve valleys.
Ever since I hiked the Milford Track with my mother two decades ago, Fiordland’s splendour and solitude have left their mark on me. So it was a delight to return to and explore this enchanted land with her once more.
We hiked through puddles and paths, climbed over (and scrambled under) fallen trunks, shuffled along narrow wire bridges and fell through moss-covered tree roots. We loved every moment of it.
While scoping a distant ridge, this scene stood out like a beacon against the boulders. We returned before dawn the next day to capture this ghost gum ignited by the rising sun. A glorious moment shared alongside my father.
This remains one of the most ancient tree groves I’ve set foot in. As I weaved through these moss-covered trunks, a shroud of fog fell over these veterans of the forest.
I had set off before dawn to photograph the trees of the Yarra Ranges. Only to find the way to my hike padlocked and closed for winter.
With daybreak fast approaching, I took a gamble on an unexplored expanse of native forest. (And as you can already tell by this frame, I’m stoked I did.)
As I waded through the undergrowth the rising sun began to ignite the morning mist. First in a deep scarlet, then shifting to a golden glow that illuminated the forest.
Us landscape photographers often talk about stunning sunrises and magical moments. (And I can be as guilty of hyperbole as most.)
But in that moment I found myself overwhelmed with pure awe at the scene unfolding around me. I composed myself to fire off a few frames, with this one easily climbing to the top of my portfolio.
So to mix metaphors, when two roads diverge in the woods, follow the light.
This is Australia, but you wouldn’t know it. Deep in Victoria’s Great Otway National Park pockets of ancient forest remain, where gnarled beech trees reign eternal.
A magical morning within the lush native forest of the Yarra Ranges.
After six months apart, my dad and I went on a photography road trip along Victoria’s Great Ocean Road. Our first mission was to photograph the wild koalas down at Cape Otway, nestled in the manna gum bushland. In the late afternoon light this little guy was as curious about us as we were about him.
Unfurling tree ferns. Drifting fog. Stands of towering mountain ash. Shifting sunbeams. This is Victoria’s Yarra Ranges at its absolute finest, wandering deep through the Black Spur.
A small frame underfoot amongst an ancient stand of Tasmanian beech trees.
My pick of images from a glorious sunrise session in the wild and wonderful Yarra Ranges National Park. Using my 100-400mm Sony telephoto lens I captured a range of forest details, focusing in on the subtleties of forms and dappled light.
Along the Cape Woolamai trail local wildlife greeted me at each turn, with flocks of ibis, soaring albatross and curious wallabies watching me through the scrub. As the sun set, scores of shearwaters glided over the Southern Ocean, taking in one last catch before returning to their burrows on the Cape.
I knew Karijini was an ancient landscape. I had seen images of claustrophobic canyons carved by raging floods. Satellite views of rolling plains broken by fractal-like gorges. And paintings of arthritic ghost gums clinging to cliffs.
But it wasn’t until I was standing on Country that I truly felt the deep time of the landscape.
Only after scrambling down scree slopes did I see the creeks that created the gorges. Sometimes they tumbled, sometimes they trickled. Yet they flowed ever onwards, ever down. Making their mark, grain by grain, rock by rock.
Only after pausing (and catching my breath) on distant ridges did I notice the rich web of life around me. The tiny wildflowers etching out a living in the stony soil underfoot. The calls of distant parrots and cockatoos. The gums scarred by endless cycles of fire and rebirth.
Walking through this canyon, I was instantly taken by the smooth bark of these three ghost gums standing in contrast to the rich red cliffs.
Deep in Tasmania’s Central Highlands, the setting sun broke through to illuminate this striking stand of snow gums.