I first hiked to this spot in the seventies, just a few miles above Lake Sabrina. I had come to photograph the falls, but the water was barely moving, it had been a dry winter — a thin ribbon where I had imagined power. Still, something about the place stayed with me. Over time the idea evolved into a clearer vision: the waterfall in full flow, set against the distant summit of Picture Peak catching the first light of dawn. A simple juxtaposition, but one that required everything to align.
For years I returned, sometimes in hope, sometimes just to check the conditions, sometimes because the idea wouldn’t let me go. The Sierra teaches patience in its own way — not through lessons, but through repetition. You come back, and come back again, until the mountains decide you’re ready.
In early July of 2003, they finally opened the door. The water was running strong, the air was still, and the sky held that fragile clarity that only exists in the moments before sunrise. As the first light touched the crest of Picture Peak, the falls came alive in the foreground, exactly as I had imagined them all those years earlier. The photograph felt less like something I made and more like something I had been waiting to receive.
Even now, when I look at that image, I see not just the scene but the years behind it — the false starts, the dry seasons, the quiet mornings spent listening to the creek. It reminds me that some photographs aren’t taken in a single moment. They’re gathered slowly, over time, until the mountains finally say yes.
