Perseverance in Photography

⏱️ Tempo de lectura: 4 min

Índice de Contidos

• The visit when I didn’t take a single photo
• A change in perspective
• Five journeys of learning
• The sixth visit: when everything aligned
• What I learned from a desert
• Conclusion: returning is creating

The visit when I didn’t take a single photo

The first time I set foot in the Bardenas Reales was almost by chance.
I was traveling with my friend Muíños through the lands of Navarra, and he insisted on making a stop at that place which, honestly, didn’t appeal to me at all.

“What the hell am I doing in a desert?” I thought.
At that time, my photography revolved around water, fog, and humid forests.
The Bardenas seemed to be the opposite: arid, dry, lifeless.
I went a bit reluctantly, convinced that the place had nothing to offer me.

So much so that I didn’t even take the camera out of my backpack.
Today I can’t help but smile when I remember it.
Life has these little ironies: it teaches you that there are no places without stories — only eyes not yet ready to see them.

There are places that call to us for no apparent reason.
Others, on the contrary, simply appear in our path, and we don’t know what to do with them.
The Bardenas Reales were, for me, one of the latter.

A change in perspective

A few years passed, and with them came a new way of looking.
On another trip through Navarra, I decided to return to the Bardenas —but this time consciously.
I no longer went as someone fulfilling an obligation, but rather with curiosity, wanting to find out if the mistake had been the place… or mine.

And that’s when everything changed.

Those eroded mountains, the ochre and golden tones, the silence (when you weren’t surrounded by tourists)…
There was a powerful energy in all of it. I began to notice textures, shapes, and lights that had gone unnoticed before.
I realized that this desert wasn’t a dead place, but a space that demanded time and respect.

Five journeys of learning

Over the next five years, I returned to the Bardenas Reales several times.
Each trip was different, and on almost every occasion, the weather played by its own rules.

Flat skies, harsh light, days without contrast…
Those moments when you think: “there’s no possible photo here.”

But returning became a habit —a way to keep curiosity alive.
It wasn’t just stubbornness; it was also trust.
Something told me that this place was holding something for me, and the only thing I could do was to be there when the moment came.

I remember once seeing a few scattered clouds at sunset. Something subtle, nothing dramatic.
And in that instant, I had the feeling that the desert was whispering: “you’re on the right path, but not yet.”

The sixth visit: when everything aligned

And then the day finally came.
On this last trip —a kind of annual pilgrimage through the northern lands where my usual focus is forests and rivers— I decided to return once more to the Bardenas Reales.
This time, I did have expectations.
I had spent days checking cloud maps, weather apps, and light forecasts. Everything indicated that the sky would finally deliver something special.

The visit began with a lot of people, tourists, cars… more movement than ever.
Many of them, I must say, quite disrespectful —crossing fences and walking into restricted areas.
This is deeply worrying, because human presence and wear severely damage fragile places like this.

Fortunately, as the afternoon progressed, the silence began to take over, and people started leaving.
Only a few of us remained. I stood there, camera ready, with that mix of calm and anticipation that always precedes the great moments.

And then it happened.
The sky began to fill with impossible oranges and reds.
The light transformed the desert, and each passing minute seemed better than the last.
I started composing and recomposing, recalling photos from past years, making panoramas, playing with the forms and relief.

For two hours there was no sense of time or fatigue —only light, wind, and silence.

It was one of the most spectacular sunsets I have ever seen.
And in that moment, I felt that everything —the trips, the mistakes, the waiting— finally made sense.

I understood that perseverance in photography is not about insisting aimlessly, but about trusting the process, preparing the path, and waiting for the precise moment in the right place.

What I learned from a desert

The Bardenas Reales taught me that returning is not a failure —it’s part of the process.
Each visit, even the seemingly useless ones, adds something: a new understanding of the light, of the place, and of yourself.

For me, perseverance in photography isn’t about stubbornly pushing forward, but about learning to wait for the right moment.
It’s about understanding that not everything depends on us.

Because yes, luck exists —especially when you are far from home and can’t simply return to a location whenever you wish.
But luck doesn’t appear magically: it comes when you know how to read the signs, when you realize that today is the day.
True luck is being prepared when everything aligns.
Even if that too requires a lot of hard work!

Conclusion: returning is creating

When I think of this last visit to the Bardenas, I feel it as both an ending and a beginning.
An ending, because I finally achieved the photograph I had been chasing for years.
A beginning, because now I know that many more are still waiting for me —and that there are still countless corners left to explore.
I’m sure there are hidden treasures out there, waiting for me to arrive with my camera.

That’s what perseverance is: returning with an open mind and a ready camera, knowing the place will still be there —waiting for the moment when light, time, and vision align once again.

In the end, photography is not only about luck or technique, but about presence and dedication.
About being there when nature decides to show us her full splendor.

Of course, I still have more photographs from that wonderful evening waiting to be shared.
If you’d like to see them, feel free to follow me on social media — they’ll be coming soon!