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Landscape, Seasons, Spring, Yosemite

Spring in Yosemite: Water, Light, and the Long Arc of Home

June 1, 2025

Spring in Yosemite was especially lovely this year. The dogwood blossoms were abundant, their cheery bright faces glowing along the banks of the Merced River and in the shaded drainages along the Wawona Road. The waterfalls, fed by a deep snowpack from a generous winter, were thunderous and relentless. This year, I found myself less drawn to the quietness of the forest and more to the restless force of water, which seemed to mirror the turmoil in my own inner world.

Observing and photographing nature has always been a source of grounding for me the way yoga is for others, but this spring, it became a lifeline. In March, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The weeks following were filled with anxiety — appointments, scans (so many scans!), a biopsy, and eventually surgery. The worst part was the waiting and sitting with terrifying uncertainty.

A serious diagnosis like this has a way of clarifying the landscape of your life. What is important. Who is important. It reveals parts of people—friends, loved ones, even acquaintances—you might otherwise not have seen fully. Some step up, offering support in quiet, meaningful ways. Others fall away. The path shifts, and with it, so do the people who walk beside you. It’s both painful and deeply human, and in its own way, strangely nourishing. Ultimately, it created a shift in how I see the world, both as a photographer and as a woman now part of a club I never asked to join.

A friend gently encouraged me to try journaling, but words seemed insignificant compared to the weight of what I was feeling. So I did what I’ve always done: I turned to my camera. When so much around me felt uncertain and frightening, being out in nature with my camera gave me focus, a way to stay to present. And there was no better place to create and calm my nerves than in my favorite place on earth.

So, in between medical appointments, I spent as much time as possible in Yosemite, connecting, photographing, and taking one precious day at a time.

A Homecoming in Wawona

A huge source of steadiness (aside from the love of my amazing husband) has been working on our homebuilding project in Wawona. Gary and I started this journey five years ago, when we purchased two adjacent parcels in this rare in-holding community within Yosemite National Park. The process of building here has been joyful, deliberate, and challenging, but we’re finally nearing completion. I have fondly taken to calling it “the biggest art project I’ve ever attempted”. (If you’re interested, you can follow along with our project on our Instagram page.)

I get asked this question quite often: How can you build a house inside a national park? Let me explain. Wawona is one of only three residential in-holdings within Yosemite, along with Foresta and Aspen Valley. These inholdings predate Yosemite’s expansion into a national park and remain under private ownership, even as the surrounding lands are managed by the National Park Service. It is situated near the Mariposa Grove on the southern edge of the park and has a long and interesting history. For 7,000 to 10,000 years, people have settled in the Wawona area, and I feel, deep in my bones, the pull that must have drawn them here. With year-round flowing water, fertile meadows, abundant wildlife, and temperate climate, Wawona would have provided the essentials for survival for its early inhabitants. That layered history can be seen everywhere if you know where to look, and living here means stepping into its long, complex story.

One of the most meaningful parts of building a home and a life here has been the community. From the beginning, we felt an overwhelming sense of welcome. What started as neighborly kindness has grown into true and lasting friendships. The people here are generous, grounded, and connected by a shared love of this place. There is a spirit of mutual support that permeates daily life here, whether it’s sharing a meal, lending a hand on a project, or pausing to chat along the road. No one seems to be in a hurry here. There’s a small market, a post office, library, gas station, and even an elementary school. Wawona may be remote, but it is far from isolated. It has a rhythm and soul that beats in time with my own heart. It already feels like home.

I haven’t made many serious photographs in Wawona over the years, but this spring, I began bringing my camera along on our morning walks. The landscape here is quieter than the drama of Yosemite Valley, though it sits at the same elevation. The South Fork of the Merced moves more gently through Wawona. Its waters are broad and calm enough in places to swim in the summer. But upstream, the creeks that feed it tell a different story. Born in the high country, they tear through steep drainages with shocking speed and force before finally settling into the slower rhythm of the river below.

An Invitation

The photographs I made during this tumultuous spring are a personal narrative. Some were made in March, before the trees pushed out new growth, and while I waited for answers from my doctors. Other photos were made later in spring, after I learned that my cancer had not spread. All of them helped me feel even more connected to this place, and to myself.

A selection of these photographs will be featured in my upcoming solo exhibit, Symphony of Seasons, at the Ansel Adams Gallery from June 1 to July 12, 2025. The collection includes not only images from this spring but from previous years, along with photographs I made in the fall over the years in the Eastern Sierra. Together, they reflect the rhythms of change, stillness, and renewal I’ve witnessed over time. They are, in their own way, love letters to this land, to healing, to community, and to the sense of home that has taken root here.

Opening reception
Saturday, June 7, 2025, 2-4 PM
The Ansel Adams Gallery
Located in the heart of Yosemite Valley, between the Visitor Center and Post Office

“Flyby” — Each spring, snowmelt from the high country sends Upper Yosemite Fall into a wild performance — thundering, luminous, and full of energy. I’ve photographed it many times, always hoping to catch the Common Ravens that circle the falls. I’d seen them there often, but never managed to catch them in the right place, at the right moment.
This year, I stood beneath the cliffs again, watching. The light was just touching the crown of the fall and would soon strike the mist drifting into the air. I reached for my longest lens and waited. Then they appeared. A pair of ravens danced in the mist, sweeping in and out of view, just a bit too fast. “Just once more,” I muttered. “A little higher this time.” They did. And I was ready.
“Whispering Veil” — Bridalveil Fall has always felt like the most mysterious of Yosemite’s waterfalls. It flows year-round, even in the hottest summer, and seems to shift constantly with light and wind. The Ahwahneechee people called it Pohono, meaning “spirit of the puffing wind,” which captures it well. This is the waterfall I return to most often. There’s always something new to notice. On this morning, it wasn’t the main cascade that caught my attention but a thin wisp of mist that had drifted out on its own and into a shaft of light. I composed the image with black oaks in the foreground to create a quiet frame. The fall plays a supporting role here, partially hidden and deliberately placed. This photograph is not about spectacle. It’s about restraint. About stillness inside motion. Bridalveil offers that, if you’re patient enough to watch.
“South Fork” — South of Yosemite Valley is another section of the Merced River. The South Fork runs through the heart of Wawona. It rushes down through canyons, eventually converging with its northern part down at the junction of Hwy 140 and Hite Cove. Here it is as it rushes past Wawona.
“The Welcome Gift of Water” — The tributaries that feed the Merced River are often steep and violent in the spring.
“Galaxies” — In early spring, as the creeks and rivers swell with runoff, foam accumulates in the eddies along the banks. Inspired by John Sexton’s classic print, “Foam and Water, Yosemite”.
“Ephemeral Fall” — It’s hard to comprehend the scale in this photograph, but this was a small waterfall next to a huge waterfall, which I’ve only seen once, as it only appears during peak runoff. A small tree somehow managed to hang on tight through the deluge.
“Crescendo” — Just below the brink of Upper Yosemite Fall, Yosemite Creek slams into a massive rock that juts out like a shoulder into the flow. The impact is so forceful that much of the water turns instantly to mist, sculpting the fall’s signature shape—wild, volatile, and mesmerizing. It’s a thrill to photograph, always shifting, always demanding timing and a little luck.
“Rhythmic Rhyme” —

 

“Morning Bridge” — I made this image early one spring morning along the Merced River. The dogwoods weren’t blooming yet, but the cottonwoods had just begun to leaf out. Their new growth caught the backlight like small flags. I was drawn to the way the vertical trunks broke up the soft glow behind them. I positioned the sun near the edge of the frame to create a subtle starburst through the trees without overpowering the scene. The stone bridge became a natural anchor, its low horizontal form grounding the vertical lines of Half Dome in the distance. The balance of warm and cool tones was important. The golden light on the river and the pale green of the cottonwoods played against the purples and grays of the shaded granite. Though bears had begun to emerge from hibernation, the valley still felt quiet. Visitors hadn’t yet filled the trails, and I had time to work the composition with intention. This image is about emergence — of light, of color, and of the season — and how all of that can be organized into something calm and cohesive.
“Petals and Granite” —Spring had fully arrived in Yosemite Valley. The dogwoods were in bloom, and this single pink one, its blossoms suspended in the morning air, stood out distinctly from the native white Pacific Dogwood that are common. I had already scouted this location and knew the angle I wanted: a layered composition where the curved branches would counterbalance the vertical weight of the granite wall behind them.
I waited for the sun to rise high enough to create a starburst through the blossoms. Using a small aperture helped control the flare and give the image structure. The green cottonwoods in the distance echoed the color of the new leaves overhead and added depth to the frame.
This scene is about contrast: soft against hard, luminous against shadow, ephemeral against ancient. The challenge was organizing all of that into something clean, not chaotic. Timing mattered. So did patience.
Spring in Yosemite is a short, shifting window. You don’t always get another chance the next day. Sometimes, the photograph has to happen now.
“Light Through Dogwood” — This photograph captures Yosemite’s layered contrasts—ethereal Dogwood blossoms, luminous foliage, and the timeless strength of Half Dome.
“Spring Rhapsody”
“Stonefall” — El Capitan at this angle and at this moment in the early morning, looked less like granite and more like one of the ephemeral waterfalls that ribbon down the Valley walls.

Charlotte Gibb is a contemporary fine art photographer based in the San Francisco Bay Area specializing in landscapes of the Western United States. Her images are often taken in familiar places for the well-versed landscape photographer, but she prides herself on her keen eye toward the subtle and sometimes overlooked beauty of the natural world. Growing up among the beautiful mountains of Northern California, she considers herself a student of life, learning about people, nature, music, and photography along the way. But always, her life-long passion for the wilderness shines through it all. Charlotte earned her Bachelor of Arts degree from the Academy of Art University in San Francisco and has exhibited her work in several solo shows throughout California. Her darkroom, long gone now, has been replaced with digital darkroom tools, and her style has evolved from a somewhat journalistic approach, to one that pays tribute to the natural world. 

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18 Comments

  • Richard Valenti
    June 1, 2025 at 11:15 AM

    Charlotte,
    I am moved by the sharing of your medical challenges. I can’t imagine the emotional turmoil that you must have gone through. I am pleased to read that your cancer has not spread. I wish you a full and speedy recovery. You are a strong women with a big heart. We all stand with you in these challenging times.

    Your photo exhibit looks wonderful. Such a large array of beautiful images from your heart. I love them all!

    • charlottegibb
      June 2, 2025 at 2:03 PM

      Thank you, Richard. I’m relieved the cancer hasn’t spread, but I still have a ways to go before I’m through this. Your support means a great deal to me. I’m also glad you enjoyed the exhibit. The work came from a very personal place.

  • Danna Dykstra-Coy
    June 1, 2025 at 2:41 PM

    I’m in awe of you…always have been. I’m over here in San Luis Obispo County hugging you right now. ❤️ Danna

  • Marcy Gray
    June 1, 2025 at 7:58 PM

    I just saw your post, and I want you to know I’m here for you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I’m holding space for you with care and love.

    I am so proud to have several of your beautiful photos hanging in my house. And to seeing (and buying) more. You are an amazingly strong, talented, kind and wonderful person. If there’s anything you need — someone to talk to, a distraction, or help with anything — I’m here.

    • charlottegibb
      June 9, 2025 at 8:48 AM

      Thanks, Marcy. It helps to know you’re thinking of me. I’m just getting through it, day by day.

      I’m glad my photos are part of your home. Maybe we could meet for coffee sometime soon. That actually sounds really good. I could always use a distraction!

  • Darlene Sours
    June 2, 2025 at 7:47 AM

    Thank you for sharing. It’s such a personal
    Journey filled with emotions, I can’t even imagine any of it or what you and your family are going through. I hope you can find some peace to be still and purposeful in the days to come. I’m sending you love and light Charlotte. YOU’VE GOT THIS.

    • charlottegibb
      June 9, 2025 at 8:51 AM

      Hi Darlene, I appreciate your note. It’s been a lot, but I’m getting through it. Thanks for taking the time to write and for sending such thoughtful support.

  • Barry Wolf
    June 2, 2025 at 8:51 AM

    Stunning and very moving work! Looking forward to getting to meet you in Moab. See you soon!

  • Ace Batacan
    June 2, 2025 at 9:20 AM

    Hi Charlotte.
    We will keep you in our prayers. You and your work are truly inspirational. If only the gallery was close enough to us, we would definitely be there to see your exhibit in person. The images you capture are just beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

    Big hugs from OR.

    Ace

  • David Bonnot
    June 2, 2025 at 11:05 AM

    I was shocked to read of your recent trials with cancer. So glad to hear that it hasn’t spread. Thank you for the beautiful words about your journey. Sending healing energy your way. These images are magical! I love your descriptions, also. Congratulations on your show this summer, hope I can get over there and see it.

    Dave

  • Beth Robbins
    June 2, 2025 at 11:14 AM

    Moved by your story, photos, and your beautiful writing. I am sorry you have to go through the cancer treatment and wish you the best in recovering. I am glad you have your photography to distract you. Peace, quiet, and time spent in nature is so helpful. I have been down the same road you are on 9 1/2 years ago so I totally get it. Thank you for sharing.

  • Kathy Barnhart
    June 2, 2025 at 2:10 PM

    Thanks for your wonderful art, as usual, and your personal story of recent challenges. I’m so glad to hear that the cancer has not spread, and it seems that you have weathered the storm well with the help of loved ones and your camera. My husband died last October and it has been challenging for me too, after 47 years of marriage. We all have so much to learn and be grateful for in this journey, and the granite, rivers and falls lend us the perspective to deal with what we are given. So glad you have found needed spiritual nourishment there and will in the future in your new home in Wawona, Charlotte.

  • Kayla Crouch
    June 2, 2025 at 5:19 PM

    Charlotte I was able to listen to you speak at OPA in Colorado just before your diagnosis. You are an inspiration. You were then. You are now. I am so sorry to hear of your diagnosis and struggle with breast cancer. You remind me of the power of creating art through difficult times. I wish you all the best and all the healing going forward.

  • Valerie Laney
    June 2, 2025 at 9:55 PM

    Charlotte, I’m truly sorry to hear of your diagnosis, thank you for sharing this with us. As someone who has gone through breast cancer, I understand what you are going through. I do believe that one of the best healing “medicines” for this type of diagnosis is exactly what you are doing…going outside in nature, seeing and really Feeling it’s beauty, living each day in joy doing what you love most and spending time with people you care about. My take away from it was learning to let people show me they love me, by letting them “help” me in whatever way they could (usually I would say “no, I’ve got this”)…But everyone takes away different “learnings” from a diagnosis. I will definitely keep you in my prayers, and I am here as a support for you if you should need it!

    On another note, your photos have always inpsired me with their unique, quiet beauty that only you can see and capture. Your new images are Fabulous! I was up in Yosemite for one of the snow storms and was so excited to see your work in person in the Gallery! Your work fills us all with much needed beauty.