How Bad Weather Made My Best Landscape Photos Possible

In my new YouTube video, Shooting Epic Landscapes in Terrible Weather, I take you behind the scenes of one of the most intense stages of my award-winning project ENLIGHTEN. The episode is about a lesson I learned the hard way: how to work with difficult weather and why those conditions often lead to the most powerful images. Here’s the full story behind that shoot.

It was the fourth day of production in the Alps. The first night in the Bivak pod Skuto was still in our bones when Marcus and I set off for the next spot: the Bivacco Luca Vuerich, a small hut perched dramatically on the ridge above Sella Nevea. I wasn’t chasing architecture here. What drew me in was the location—staggering cliffs and jagged peaks stretching into Italy.

At the trailhead, things looked promising: blue skies, comfortable temperatures, and the hope of an easy climb. But the moment we glimpsed the summit, our hearts sank. The hut was swallowed by thick cloud.

Part of me wanted to call it. “The location isn’t worth it. The weather isn’t right. We’ve got other spots ahead.” The excuses lined up fast. But years in the mountains have taught me: the weather can turn in minutes. So we shouldered our heavy packs and started through the meadows, cows grazing and chamois watching us from the slopes.

The climb was rough. By the time we reached the rocks, I felt shaky, my steps uncertain. Was it exhaustion? Altitude? The pressure to deliver? The anxiety crept in. Marcus and I slowed down, buying time for my body and the clouds above. Eventually, we pushed onto the plateau, just as the impossible happened.

The clouds tore open. Shafts of light poured across the massif. The fear lifted. I grabbed the Hasselblad X2D, framed the Bivacco Luca Vuerich, and the flow returned. Two chamois sprinted across the ridge. My pulse spiked, the adrenaline rushed in, and suddenly I was gliding over the last rocks with pure euphoria.

At the hut, we scouted positions. The terrain dropped away on three sides, wrapped in fog. Every composition was a test of patience. My Lowepro GearUp Camera Cube paid for itself here—gear organized, hands free, focus on the essentials. In the end, there were only two safe vantage points. That was enough.

The biggest lesson of that day? Preparation is vital, but flexibility wins in the mountains.

Waiting It Out

Blue hour was spectacular: layers of clouds, bursts of color, a scene in motion. Then the fog closed in tight, sealing away every chance of a night shot. We weren’t alone, though. Another hiker shared the hut with us, curious about our gear and amused by our rituals. These moments are part of why I love these tours—no reception, no noise, just soup, tea, and conversations about mountain architecture.

Every 15 minutes, I cracked the wooden hut door, scanning the sky. My tripods were already in place, weighed down with stones against the ridge winds. All I had to do was clip in the X2D. At 9:00 p.m., the temperature dropped, the fog thinned, and the stars came alive. This is a pattern I’ve seen again and again in the mountains: don’t give up too early. After sunset, conditions often shift fast.

The night was brutally cold. We had left in T-shirts, but by now we wore everything we had: fleece, down, shell, gloves, hat. Marcus set up our Aputure MC LEDs, while I positioned myself a meter from the cliff edge with the XCD 21mm. Click. The first exposure began.

But the night had one more promise: at 4:30 a.m., the Milky Way would rise over the hut. We grabbed a few hours of restless sleep before stumbling back out. The sky was clear, streaked with faint clouds. We painted light, bracketed exposures, and tried every angle. But the composition just didn’t work—the hut felt like a block, the depth missing. That, too, is part of photography: sometimes the magic doesn’t happen, and the attempt itself becomes the lesson.

Sunrise Redemption

After another short rest, I stepped out before dawn. This is why I often sleep on location. You save the climb, you gain hours of observation, and you’re already there when the light breaks.

And what a light it was. What had been hidden in fog the day before now burned in reds and oranges. The XCD 90V captured rock textures, shapes, shadows—the mountains revealing themselves with every passing minute.

Then I reached for my “mini-Hasselblad”: the DJI Mavic 2 Pro. At last, I could free myself from the cliffs, send the drone out over the abyss, and frame the hut as I had always imagined—clinging to the edge, dwarfed by the immensity of the Alps.

When the drone batteries died and the last granola bar was gone, we packed up. The Bivacco Luca Vuerich faded behind us, small and unassuming, but with a view and a story that will stay with me forever.

Lessons From the Weather

On the descent, I kept turning it over. Had I gotten the shots I came for? Absolutely. And more than that, I would have regretted it deeply if I had let the clouds convince me to stay in the valley.

It was the bad weather that made the best photos possible. Clouds bring atmosphere, drama, depth. They shape the light, charge the sky with movement, and give images tension. The photographs from that night and morning remain some of my favorites from ENLIGHTEN.

But I need to add this: safety comes first. Always. Fog, storms, cold, rain—these aren’t just inconveniences, they’re real dangers. It’s not heroic to gamble with them; it’s reckless. I wrestle with that balance myself, but I’ve learned that if the risk is manageable, the reward can be extraordinary.

So here’s what I’d like you to take away: don’t let bad weather chase you inside. Prepare properly, respect the mountains, and trust your instincts. Because sometimes, the photograph you’ll remember for the rest of your life is waiting for you in the storm.