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Month: February 2026

Looking down (#23 in series) on Juneau

 

 

On the afternoon of 24 May 2015 “our” floatplane took off from the Gastineau Channel – the fiord adjacent to Alaska’s capital city.

Juneau is a surprising place, as is true of all of the low-lying, coast-adjacent terrain on southeastern Alaska’s “panhandle”.

This “strip” is not a cold place, by northern North American standards, at least.

Snow falls are infrequent, usually modest. Much of the natural vegetation is temperate rainforest.

In “the season”, cruise ships disgorge huge numbers of tourists onto Juneau’s tourist-tacky foreshore.

In terms of permanent residents, however, Alaska’s capital city is a small town;  if it were in China, it would be a “village”.

Australia calls the likes of Mount Gambier, Albany, and Bathurst “cities”; Juneau is a little more populous than “The Mount”, but a deal less so than Albany or Bathurst.

Juneau is unique among capital cities in one crucial respect: no roads connect it to anywhere more than a few kilometres distant.

The mountains and glaciers just inland of “the strip” are so formidable that all visitors – and all supplies – reach Juneau via sea or air.

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Looking down (#22 in series) at a Perth footpath, in winter

 

 

The West Australian Perth is enormously bigger, much hotter, and very much sunnier than the Scottish Perth.

”Surprisingly”, the Australian city’s average annual rainfall is only moderately lower, although its rain falls on (mostly, straight through) nutrient-poor sand rather than fertile, moisture-retaining Scottish soil.

The Australian Perth is also one of the world’s windiest cities, and almost all of its rain falls quickly, in winter.

In summer a Perth (WA) pedestrian who looks straight down at a footpath will usually see only “lifeless” sealed/paved surfaces, edged with bare sand.

In a “proper” winter, however….

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Looking down (#21 in series) at Paddington & friends on Christmas Day, 2025

After a delicious Christmas Day lunch with dear friends, at 4.21 pm all adults present were still lucid, models of decorum.

However, it appeared that a certain, allegedly-Peruvian bear – and two other “softies” – had over-imbibed!

Right in front of my feet, there they were – sprawled across the floor, “passed out”.

I did not disturb the miscreants, but grabbed my IPad in order to document their louche behaviour.

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Looking down (#20 in series) on a Banksia

 

 

Membership of the genus is hotly debated – should Dryandras be included, or not? – but, however defined, Banksias are extraordinary plants.

These members of the Protea family are unique to Australia.

The overwhelming majority naturally occur only in certain parts of Western Australia’s southwest.

Depending on when one encounters it, a banksia’s flower spike can be prodigiously shaggy, “untidy”, and drab…. or a glorious example of perfect symmetry, Fibonacci sequences, and subtle colouration.

Each flowering “spike”/“cone” bears many – sometimes, several thousand – individual flowers.

I particularly love the appearance of some banksia flower spikes when viewed from directly above.

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Looking down (#19 in series) on winter-flowering WA orchids)

 

 

Generally, with flowers, the best strategy is as per the generally-best approach to photographing people and most other living subjects….

1: try to be in (or very near to) the same horizontal plane as your subject.

2: point the lens straight at its eye/s or “face”.

3: ideally, do this when the sun is low, and behind you –  nicely illuminating the subject rather than turning it into a black silhouette or a mere scatteration of light.

Sometimes, however, the better plan – or at least, something worth trying – is to flout some or all such rules.

This post’s image looks straight down at the top of its subject, in “poor” light, in the middle of a winter day.

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Looking down (#18 in series: …but just a smidgin)

 

When in an “epic” landscape such as The Grand Canyon, one should always remember to look at the “near views” as well as the grand vistas.

However jaw-dropping it is to look down 1.6 vertical kilometres to the Colorado, there is every chance that something else – something equally worthy of your attention – sits within a couple of metres of your nose…on the ground at your feet.

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Looking down (#17 in series: facing Grand Canyon’s North Rim)

 

This post’s photos were taken within the space of circa sixty seconds, on the autumn morning of October 8, 2012.

In the unlikely event that one had never previously seen any images of the Grand Canyon, it would be easy to believe that this post’s and the immediately-preceding post’s photos were taken in two entirely different canyons.

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Looking down (#16 in series: facing Grand Canyon’s South Rim)

 

Our early autumn morning helicopter flight in October 2012 made it easy for us to see how very different were the Grand Canyon’s North Rim and South Rim.

The average “straight line” distance from South Rim to North Rim: 16 kilometres.

Maximum straight line distance: 28.8 kilometres.

However, the road distance from South Rim Village to North Rim Village is 346 kilometres; given favourable weather, a car’s driver should allow five hours!

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Looking down (#15 in series: wide-angle, aerial view of Grand Canyon)

 

 

The Grand Canyon’s  primary “sculptor” – the Colorado River – is on the left hand side of the image.

From this October 2012 photo’s helicopter vantage point, the Colorado’s waters were rendered invisible by early morning shadows, but the river’s course was readily apparent.

As you would expect, the Grand Canyon National Park’s “stats” are impressive; click here to see many of them.

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Looking down (#14 in series) …to the Colorado

The first three of this post’s four photos were all taken from a helicopter, looking down into the Grand Canyon.

That canyon’s “lead author” runs along its “floor” – the Colorado River.

As the Colorado’s excellent Wikipedia entry notes, the United States’ fifth-longest river is one of the most controlled and litigated river systems in the world.

This once-wild, formerly much-mightier river has become an ailing shadow of its former self; irrigators and thirsty cities have tamed, maimed and nearly drained it.

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