Chasing First Light: A Pilot’s View of America’s Wild Places
- UNPLUG. Magazine
- 5 hours ago
- 10 min read
From Yosemite's Firefall to Alaska's endless icefields, one pilot chases first light to capture America's iconic landscapes from above.
BY NEY GRANT, July 3, 2026
EPIC JOUNREY
The automatic sprinklers came on at 4:00 am, and I scrambled to move my sleeping bag and pad out of the way. I had learned not to sleep on the grass at small airport terminals, but I also needed to learn that sleeping on the pavement right next to the grass doesn’t work either. I stayed awake because I needed to get up at 4:30 a.m. anyway to pre-flight the airplane and get ready for my passengers.
Vitaliy Musiyenko and Brian Prince arrived exactly on time. At 5:15 a.m., I loaded the gear into the belly of my Cessna 210 as we took off toward the foothills and into the Sierra Nevada mountains. The flight had two main objectives: first, Vitaliy was working on his “High Sierra Climbing” guidebook and wanted to capture images of mountains and routes; second, having established many new routes in the High Sierra, Vitaliy and Brian wanted to scout additional new lines from the air.
What did I gain from this? Since it was an early-morning, calm-air flight low over the Sierra, I thought it would be a good chance to set it up so we would be above the highest peaks of the Sierra at sunrise, something I’d never done before. It worked. Forty-five minutes after takeoff, now flying above Mount Whitney at 15,500 feet, I was surprised that the sun touched the plane a full five minutes before the official sunrise for that location and date. Of course. The official sunrise time assumes we are on the ground. We were in the sun, but the earth below – as far as we could see to the horizon – was still in shadow. We watched in awe as the sun hit the top of Mount Whitney and the other peaks of the Sierra. Magical. Why 15,500 feet? As we flew around in the dark, waiting for the sun and maneuvering the plane for photos, we wouldn’t hit anything even if I totally screwed up. The top of Mount Whitney would be about 1,000 feet below us. Sure enough, we didn’t hit it.
That was my first sunrise-mountain flight, but it wasn’t (yet) a plan or goal to do more of them. I was writing a book, “Fifty Classic Adventures In California,” and my focus was on getting some adventure photography for the book.
Yosemite
Every year in late February, thousands of photographers gather in Yosemite Valley to capture the famous Firefall, when the last rays of the sun illuminate Horsetail Falls on El Capitan (not to be confused with the pre-1968 Firefall, when rangers would throw a bonfire off Glacier Point). I read that for the modern Firefall, some people stake out prime photo spots six or more hours in advance. I decided I wasn’t going to join in, but then I remembered something—I have an airplane.
Just a brief 40-minute flight from home, I took off alone one evening over the Firefall. I couldn’t simultaneously pilot the plane and capture the perfect photo, but I did find a good (and legal) altitude and angle for a wide shot. It includes the horizon, El Cap, and the Firefall all within the frame.
So, I tried something new. Before the February Firefall window closed, I invited professional photographers Ranz Navarro and Michael Castaneda to join me on a flight above Yosemite. I had seen their work online and was impressed. Now I could focus on flying the plane while they did what they do best—capture great images. I did have a slight problem, though, because the backseat windows in my plane are old and tinted green. Unacceptable for a photographer, and one of them was going to have to sit back there.
But I had a plan. I would cut a hole in one side window and figure out how to turn it into a photographer’s porthole later. But when I tried to cut a round hole, the plexiglass window cracked. Completely ruined. I used a hammer to shatter it and remove most of the pieces, then flew out to meet the photographers at the small Mariposa airport near Yosemite. I’m sure they were impressed with the broken, jagged window. It looked like I had taken a hammer to my window, because, well, I had. But they agreed to get in the plane anyway. In hindsight, that broken window let in more than cold air—it opened a new perspective.
We had a truly spectacular flight. A storm had just passed, leaving snow on the ground and debris clouds in the air. Both elements added drama to the photos. A fierce wind swept the valley, flinging snow off Half Dome and Cloud’s Rest. With one window open and another broken, even my warmest gear couldn’t keep out the four-degree cold. I was content - Michael and Ranz capturing what few ever see, and me, lucky enough to carry them there and share the moment.
This Yosemite aerial adventure was so rewarding that I decided aerial photography would be a perfect addition to my new book. As I explored and revisited national parks and adventure spots such as Joshua Tree, Lake Tahoe, and the Eastern Sierra, I focused on capturing at least one memorable aerial shot for each section of the book, usually before daybreak.
Joshua Tree
I had trouble staying dry while trying to sleep. My back window was still broken, and a new plexiglass window with a camera port hadn't arrived yet. I thought, “Well, at least I’ll be in Joshua Tree where it rarely rains.” Yep. At 1:00 a.m., a thunderstorm hit. Rain poured through the broken window onto my sleeping bag. I patched it with duct tape and plastic bags from my survival kit—good enough until my phone alarm woke me at 4:30 am.
My passengers were Mike Lindle and his crew from Framework Films. I now had the schedule pretty much down, and we took off on time to reach Joshua Tree before sunrise. But about five minutes before sunrise, the engine suddenly quit, which rarely happens. In fact, in over 2,100 hours of flying this very plane, it has never done that. It started again in a few seconds, but I immediately turned toward the closest airport, Twentynine Palms, and told my passengers over the intercom that we needed to land immediately. I’m used to nervous passengers, but one asked if we really had to land—could we continue? Really?
However, it then occurred to me what the problem was. I was flying partially sideways with one wing raised and the opposite rudder pedal mashed down for better photography. This is called “uncoordinated flight” and is okay to do for a short time, such as when landing in a crosswind. But it causes the fuel to slosh to the end of the wing and “unports” the fuel intake. I had effectively run out of gas. As soon as the engine stopped, I instinctively straightened the plane out, and it restarted. The flight was back on, but with an added safety tip. A photographer might ask me to raise a wing, and I would, but not for very long.
Lake Tahoe
I was excited that amateur photographer Brian Prince agreed to meet me at the South Lake Tahoe airport in the predawn for a sunrise flight. This airport was close enough that I could sleep in my van at my airport and simply wake up around 4:00 am to fly over the Sierra mountains. We witnessed the common “two sunrises” as the sun lights up high cirrus clouds and ice crystals far before daybreak. Then, and often surprising everyone, just before sunrise the sun can light up lower clouds.
Death Valley
I had waited years for this: sunrise over Death Valley, imagining the colors as the sun crested the horizon. I was sleeping in my plane at the Stovepipe Wells airstrip, with my electric bike, exploring nearby canyons for my book. This runway is notoriously rough, with bumps up to two inches called “salt heaves.” These can be tough on the landing gear, so I waited in the dark until I could see and avoid the worst of the salt heaves on takeoff. Still, it was only about a ten-minute flight to get into position, so I had plenty of time.
I made one pass to take pre-dawn photos, then flew out over the desert so I wouldn’t bother the park visitors at Zabriskie Point. I waited anxiously until the sun was nearly cresting the horizon before heading back. As the sun rose, the light turned harsh, and the landscape was washed out. The proverbial “Golden Hour” that photographers often talk about was actually just the “Golden Ten Seconds.” I waited two years for that. Fortunately, there's also the “Blue Hour” before sunrise, when the cool light is soft and more even. When I looked at the images I had taken, the ones captured before sunrise were stunning and much better than the photos taken after sunrise. So, okay, it was worth the wait after all. My strategy is to do my best on camera settings and lens choice, then take lots of images because many are not going to work out.
Wrangell St. Elias National Park
My wife, Betsy, and I were in Gulkana, Alaska, preparing to head back to California. Betsy drove the van south through the Alaskan interior while I took a straight-line route—flying across the Wrangells and the 127-mile Bagley Icefield. Flying a single-engine airplane over a frozen wilderness in the dark is a special kind of risk, and it made me uneasy.
I carry an emergency locator beacon, a Garmin inReach satellite-tracking device, and a backpack full of survival gear, but even so, the thought of this flight in the dark was a little frightening. I chickened out, waited until just before dawn, and completed the entire flight in daylight. It turned out to be a great photo opportunity. Because of the overcast, the light was soft, and there was still some pink in the sky. Combined with fresh snow, the scene was unbelievable. Many of these landscapes just can’t be captured with a camera, and at one point, I put my Sony down and did a 360-degree spin above the ice field, just taking it all in.
Factory Butte, Utah
My next book is “Fifty Classic Adventures In the Southwest,” and I was in Kanab, Utah, doing some exploring. One evening, I decided to try capturing aerial sunset photos of Capitol Reef National Park and an interesting formation called Factory Butte near Hanksville. After chasing so many sunrises, I figured a sunset deserved its turn. I took off and headed toward the butte about 45 minutes away, but soon realized I had misjudged and the sun was getting low in the sky. I was going to miss the sunset. (Fortunately, my fuel math is better than my sunset math.)
As I got closer, I could see the butte, partially bathed in sunlight. I was only five minutes away, but I knew I wouldn’t make it before the sun set. I arrived just as the top of the butte, barely lit by the sun, slipped into dusk. My timing was completely off, but then I looked around and was stunned by what I saw. This was the golden hour at its finest! I reduced the power and slowly circled the butte for 20 minutes, marveling at the shifting colors as the sky transitioned from purple to dark blue. After soaking it all in and taking dozens of photos, I headed back toward Kanab. I’d missed the sunset but found something magical instead.
On the return trip, the sky turned a moonless black as I flew over Capitol Reef and Escalante. It felt quiet and peaceful inside the cockpit. This was uncontrolled airspace, and I didn’t need to talk to anyone on the radio. So I didn’t. The radio stayed silent and no aircraft lights were visible. The high desert air, tortured by the sun during the day, was completely still. I was truly alone in my cocoon. There were very few ground lights, which can be challenging for a novice pilot. A lack of lights beyond the windscreen can cause confusion about which way is up. Is that a ranch house or a star? As a high-time pilot I enjoy this because few visual references mean you don’t get a sense of speed, and it feels like you're just floating along in the dark. Ranch house. I’m pretty sure it was a ranch house.
Kanab has mountains to the north, so I planned to land from the south. With few visual references and because Kanab is an unfamiliar airport, I programmed my instruments to provide a GPS-based approach, which guided me to the runway. Five clicks from my radio and the runway lights eerily emerged from the darkness. I flew down between the row of lights then landed, taxied to the ramp, turned off my lights, and shut down the engine. I just sat there. After a flight like this, I always do. I simply sit, listening to the instrument gyros wind down, then to the silence. Now that my mind is completely free from the task of flying, I can think about the flight and reflect on what just happened. Magic happened.
Grand Canyon, AZ
The difference between visiting the South Rim of the Grand Canyon during the day and early in the morning is striking. It’s very crowded and noisy during the day, but calm and quiet in the early hours. It’s simply human nature; few people like to wake up early. The same thing in the air. During the day, there are many tour planes, helicopters, and nonstop radio chatter as pilots make position reports. In the morning? Quiet. I would expect there would be demand for early-morning sunrise flights, but nobody is up there.
This time, I took advantage of a comfortable couch in the small terminal building in Kanab, Utah, and met JB Belanger and his son Mike in the predawn darkness near my Cessna. We took off 45 minutes before sunrise and were well-positioned over the legal tour corridors at dawn. Later in the day, these corridors will be full of aircraft, particularly tour helicopters. However, for now we were completely alone.
These sunrise flights reminded me that adventure can unfold in quiet moments—before the world wakes, when the air is still, and the first light hits the peaks. From the icy stillness above the Bagley Icefield to the golden shimmer over Joshua Tree, I’ve learned that chasing first light isn’t just about photography—it’s about perspective. Every takeoff in the dark is a small leap of faith, and every landing brings a deeper appreciation for the vast, wild beauty that still defines our parks and open spaces.
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