In this article, Forest shares how years of chasing silence, scale, and raw terrain, from the deserts of Kazakhstan to the ridges of Iceland, shaped his approach to photography. He reveals how he uses light, texture, and vast negative space to create images that feel both intimate and immense, along with practical tips on planning remote adventures, mastering natural conditions, and bringing cinematic depth to extreme landscapes.
My relationship with remote mountains began with loss. When I was fourteen, my father passed away. In my family, we bring ashes to distant mountains as a final farewell. At that age, I couldn’t grasp what “forever” meant; I only remember being carried into a vast, silent landscape that felt both sacred and unbearable.
Looking back, that moment shaped everything. Mountains became more than scenery; they became a place where I could continue speaking to him.
When I travel through Kazakhstan, Tibet, or Xinjiang, I’m not just photographing landscapes. I’m documenting the spaces where I meet him again in dreams, the conversations that happen across empty plateaus. That’s why my images often feel dark, quiet, and moody. They come from grief, but also from a dialogue that never ended.
I never studied landscape photography formally. My approach grew from emotion far more than technique. Kazakhstan may be more familiar to travelers, but Tibet and Xinjiang still feel mythical, “blank” in most people’s minds because they’re so distant. That distance, both geographic and emotional, is what draws me in.
These places blur reality and memory. They’re landscapes that act like bridges to the people we’ve lost.
Best Places to Photograph in Kazakhstan • Bozzhyra Valley • Bokty Mountain • Tiramisu Landscape
Kazakhstan has become one of the regions I return to again and again. Its landscapes feel massive, ancient, and untouched, the kind of places that remind you how small you are.
Bozzhyra Valley is usually the first place I suggest to photographers. The formations look extraterrestrial, as if carved by another planet’s weather system. The light spreads slowly across its cliffs at sunrise, creating long shadows and deep contrasts, perfect for moody, cinematic photography.
Bokty Mountain feels like a geological monolith rising out of the silent steppe. Its layered sediments hold millions of years, and at sunrise, the entire mountain glows. The colors shift slowly; the silence becomes almost physical. It’s one of the most powerful places I’ve ever photographed.
This landscape is softer, more delicate. The layers stack gently like a giant dessert, gradients of beige, cream, and warm brown. The formations are fragile, sculpted by wind over thousands of years. It’s subtle, photogenic, and unlike anywhere else.
Kazakhstan’s tourism infrastructure is developed compared to Tibet or Xinjiang, but these places still demand respect: long drives, unpredictable weather, and a mindset ready for silence. The reward is immense, landscapes that feel both ancient and intimate.
When I arrive somewhere new, I don’t set up my camera immediately. I walk. I circle the terrain again and again until something feels harmonious. It’s not about technical perfection; it’s about a moment where the light, silence, and space align emotionally.
Compositionally, I frame with minimal sky and minimal foreground, keeping the subject centered. With my darker tonal style, this creates a natural gravitational pull, like a dream with one central image.
Xinjiang and Tibet are different from anywhere else. There are no standard “photography spots.” You study maps, mark distances, check which roads are drivable, and then you test them yourself. You find the real places by going, failing, and trying again.
The challenges are real: Blown tires, altitude sickness, freezing nights, long stretches without signal, and hours or days without food or water.
But difficulty is part of the experience. The landscape gives meaning slowly.
Tibet and Xinjiang require preparation on a different level. Fuel stations can be hours apart, so I plan routes carefully. At altitudes of 5,500–6,000 meters, oxygen becomes scarce, and even simple movements feel heavy. Nights can be dangerous; wild animals roam, and temperatures drop sharply.
A few months ago, I experienced mild frostbite while shooting a mountain at dawn. My fingers are still recovering. It was a reminder that remote photography is not just about the images, it’s about respecting the environment and understanding the risks.
In 2023, when photographing Mount Shishapangma, I waited five full days for the mountain to finally reveal itself at sunrise. Moments like that teach patience and humility.
Even though my images look dramatic, I never create light artificially. Everything is natural. I simply wait for the moment when real light aligns with the emotion I feel in the place.
Waking at 4 a.m. has become normal. Sometimes I wait hours; sometimes days. But the fragile, cold light before sunrise is when landscapes feel the most honest.
My color palette looks cinematic, but my philosophy is simple: remove distractions and let the light speak.
1) I darken the edges to guide the eye inward.
2) I protect the natural sunrise gradient — that fragile orange-yellow glow.
3) I merge similar tones and remove color noise to keep the image cohesive.
4) I lift the blacks slightly and introduce a subtle magenta tone to the shadows.
5) I keep highlights warm and orange.
That contrast, shadow magenta vs. warm highlight, creates the mood people often notice.
For me, “reality” is not just what a camera sees. It’s also memory, grief, breath, silence. I never manipulate a scene with Photoshop; I only use color and light. I’m not documenting a place exactly as it is; I’m documenting how it lives inside me.
One of my hardest experiences was a dawn shoot in Tibet, flying my drone in freezing wind. I was so focused on composition that I stopped noticing my hands. Frostbite set in without warning. Even now, my fingers are still recovering, thankfully not severely.
Moments like that stay with you. They remind you why patience and awareness matter more than any piece of gear.
I’m 18 this year, still studying, still learning. But if I had to share something, it would be this:
Go to places that make you feel something.
Don’t choose landscapes because they’re famous or beautiful. Choose them because they change your breathing, because they scare you a little, because they remind you of something you can’t say out loud.
Your style is shaped by what you’re willing to endure:
1) Waking up at 4 a.m.
2) Waiting five days for a mountain to appear
3) Enduring frostbite
4) Being alone with no signal for hours
These moments teach you who you are visually.
My journey through Kazakhstan, Tibet, and Xinjiang has taught me that landscape photography isn’t just about documenting what you see; it’s about documenting what you feel.
In this article, Forest shares how years of chasing scale, silence, and raw landscapes shaped his approach to photography, from the deserts of Kazakhstan to the volcanic ridges of Iceland. He talks about how he uses light, texture, and vast negative space to create images that feel both intimate and overwhelming.
Simon shares the journey behind his photography, from early inspirations to field techniques, editing, and the story of the winning shot that shaped his path.
In this article, Miro shares how his love for cinematic music evolved into a deep passion for photography and how he uses light, color, and atmosphere to turn the streets of Prague into living film scenes.
In this article, Stefanie reveals how her background in physics sparked her passion for astrophotography and how she blends science with creativity to capture the beauty of the night sky. Readers will discover her approach to color, contrast, and editing, as well as her aurora photography workflow.
Spanish photographer Yhabril captures the profound connection between humans and the mountains that shaped him. Growing up in the Pyrenees, his work bridges outdoor sports, landscapes, and celestial scenes — often blending athletes, moonlight, and wilderness into striking visual stories.
In this article, Ariane shares how photography helped her navigate personal challenges, connect authentically with people and animals, and develop a philosophy rooted in empathy and artistic freedom. Readers will also discover her ethical approach to wildlife photography and her trusted equipment for both camouflage techniques and cameras.
Discover how to photograph Dutch tulip fields in their most magical light. From choosing the right gear and lenses to mastering composition, color, and aerial perspectives, this guide shares creative techniques to capture the beauty of the Netherlands’ tulips. Learn how light, color grading, and proportion bring emotion into every frame.
In this article, you’ll learn how to read and use light in your home city, choose the right technical settings for low-light scenes, and refine your editing workflow to shape color and atmosphere step by step. In addition, Dominik shares how to find fresh perspectives on familiar locations, five lessons that transformed his photography, and insights on the future of street photography.
