In early 2019, Dan Worden and I had spent the last several months thinking about a specific shot on the southern coast of Oregon which requires the sun to rise at a specific angle in order to successfully create the image. We knew the window of opportunity was roughly two weeks a year before the sunrise no longer aligns with an enormous arch that stands over 100ft out of the ocean. This our the story of how a simple idea between two friends for a single photograph goes through the process of conceptualizing, planning and finally executing their vision together.
Feat. Dan Worden and Spencer Fochtman
Directed, Produced and Photographed by Spencer Fochtman
Drone operation by Spencer Fochtman
Cinematography by Brandon Moore
Executive Producer Bone and Gold
Commissioned by Klean Kanteen
Special thank you to Subaru USA, Huckberry Inc, and We Are Fieldscout
A photograph is rarely just about the moment the shutter is pressed. Sometimes, the most meaningful part of creating an image is everything that happens long before you ever get there.
Along a remote stretch of the Southern Oregon Coast, there's a pocket of coastline that feels almost otherworldly. The weather can shift dramatically in a matter of hours, sometimes even minutes, transforming the landscape from a rain-soaked, fog-covered wilderness into something entirely different as the afternoon light breaks through.
Nearly a year before the photograph was made, I began planning the trip with my good friend Dan. We knew the conditions would have to be just right. We had a window of roughly two weeks each year, and even then, the opportunity to capture the scene might last no more than an hour.
Despite all the preparation, we were ultimately at the mercy of Mother Nature. A storm moving down from Alaska threatened to bring enormous swells and completely eliminate the light we needed. Everything we'd spent months anticipating came down to a single morning, just after the new year. With four a.m. wake-ups looming, I was on edge, quietly wondering whether bringing this crew to such a remote stretch of coastline was going to pay off.
But that's only part of what makes photography so rewarding. You can plan, research, and prepare all you want, but there's always an element of uncertainty. You have to adapt, stay present, and remember what brought you there in the first place. We'd been as thorough as possible. I had the shot list, checked at least a hundred times that the sun would rise high enough to shine through the massive arch, hired a knowledgeable local professional to help oversee kayak safety, and checked the tide tables to make sure they aligned with exactly when and where Dan needed to launch his kayak. The list goes on.
For me, photography has never really been about the end product. It's about the experiences that lead to it: the places we explore, the challenges we overcome, the people we share them with, and the curiosity that keeps pulling us somewhere new.
The photograph is simply what we bring home. Without question, though, it's the experience behind it that gives it meaning.
Standing above the massive arch with my camera, I found myself questioning whether we'd actually managed to get the shot. Had we covered every angle? Were the highlights clipped? Had I missed a composition? I let out a heavy sigh of relief as I scrolled through the images on the back of my camera, while Dan made his way back toward us to see the results.
Then, standing alone on the ledge, I started to chuckle. As it turned out, the carefully planned hero image was fantastic, but a completely unplanned photograph I'd taken just after radioing down to the crew that we were finished was infinitely more beautiful. It was a photograph of Dan and our local guide, simply enjoying a moment in the sun as they warmed themselves up after a long morning on the water.
