Point Reyes had long been on the must-see list for Amber & me, but it was always just a little too far for an easy day trip, and not quite far enough to justify staying overnight.

In November we stopped hesitating and made the trip to the iconic lighthouse at the Point Reyes National Seashore. It was beautiful, sunny, windy. Here are a few snapshots from the trip.

I was visiting family in Maryland in late August, 2011 when Hurricane Irene started making her way on a path towards the east coast that predictions said could be one of the most destructive in recent history. The entire east coast was bracing for it — New York City ordered evacuations and shut down its mass transit system, flights and trains were canceled, hundreds of thousands of people fled the coast.

At the marina in Galesville, Maryland, where my parents lived on their sailboat, the approaching storm turned the sky a deep orange at sunset, adding a bit of drama and mystery to the hurried preparations that were underway.

I made my flight back to California, the storm’s path turned to a less-destructive offshore route, the marina was largely undamaged. But I’ve never before seen a sky look like this.

I just returned from a quick trip to Los Angeles to visit my pal George. He took me on a tour of his neighborhood, East Los Angeles, and as we chatted I occasionally pointed my camera at scenes that caught my eye. Here are a few.

This was my first real Las Vegas experience — a trip for a family member’s birthday. I don’t gamble, but I do like to take pictures with my phone.

It was my third trip to Yosemite, but the first time I had seen it during peak travel season. A Saturday in the middle of summer. Thousands and thousands of people.

The photos I made that weekend were about the people covering the iconic landscape, more about the destination seekers than the destination itself.

This Yosemite photo essay originally appeared on the blog Is Greater Than, edited by my buddy Paul. I’ll be a somewhat regular contributor to his blog.

I just returned from a vacation in my former home state of Ohio, where I lived from 2000-2002. I met my wife there before the two of us left for California together. This trip was to see her family and old friends. I had an amazing time. I also shot a photo essay with my iPhone.

I lived in Florida from 1996 to 2000, and one of my big regrets from my time in the Sunshine State was never seeing the Florida Keys. So when my parents said they’d be spending the winter there, I knew it was time to make the trip.

A little background: Around the time I moved to Florida, my parents ditched the house in favor of a 41-foot sailboat. They live on it full-time, spending summers in Maryland and winters where it’s warmer.

This was going to be a short trip for me: Fly into Miami, Greyhound to Mararthon, spend time with the folks, see Key West, go sailing, all in four days. Unfortunately, it rained during two of them — and Florida’s water temperature hadn’t recovered much from the coldest winter in recent memory. Still, I arrived for a beautiful sunset, we went for a great sail (during which dolphins frolicked under the bow of the boat) and the skies parted enough to give us a day of sun in Key West — through late-arriving clouds obscured any sunset.

This was a vacation trip so I didn’t spend a lot of time focused on serious photography, but are a few of my favorite snaps.

Click the thumbnails below to enlarge.

Really, Venice shouldn’t exist.

The city’s existence is based on a series of extremely unlikely events: Barbarians invade Italy around 500 AD, so the people of Venice sail out to the lagoon to get away from them. Then they drive a bunch of tree trunks into the lagoon floor, build some platforms on top and start building a city that, amazingly, doesn’t sink. Then the Venetians (great sailors) establish trade routes around the world, become filthy rich and powerful, conquer some people, and for a time the small strange unlikely city is one of the world’s greatest superpowers.

Or something like that. Regardless, Venice is just so … bizarre. Not a car in the whole city. Some streets are so narrow you can nearly reach out and touch both walls on either side. The entire place sits just slightly above sea level, so high tide means a flood. And everything is decaying, slowly and elegantly.

Although Venice is (and has been for centuries) a touristy place, it still feels authentic. I loved wandering around the strange little streets, allowing myself to get lost, then reorienting using signs that just point in the general direction of major landmarks. I loved wandering with Amber to St. Mark’s Square after dinner, listening to the orchestras playing outside the historic cafes (like Caffe Florian, in business since 1720!). I loved the odd twists and turns of the city, the way shafts of light snuck into the narrow deep crevices that are the city’s streets, I loved the dead ends, the hidden plazas, the bridges, the crowds and the slow bustle of a living monument to a grand and strange past.

(Click the thumbnails to enlarge … )

Amber and I got married in Big Sur, a wild stretch of the California coast where steep mountains plunge into the sea. Well, if Big Sur was a little warmer, had a smattering of quaint villages clinging to the cliffs and the mountains were stacked with vineyards, it would look a lot like the Cinque Terre.

Something else about the Cinque Terre reminded us of Big Sur: It was on fire. California is the land of wildfires, and Big Sur had some pretty substantial ones a couple years ago. When we arrived at our first stop in the Cinque Terre, Corniglia, we were greeted by smoke rising from the hills and a water-carrying helicopter buzzing overhead. The town wasn’t threatened, but the phone lines were down for awhile.

The five towns of the Cinque Terre are connected by a wonderful walking trail — it hugs the mountainside above the coast. Stretches between towns range from a 20-minute walk to two hours.

The whole time I was in the Cinque Terre villages (except resort-y Monterosso) I felt like I was on a movie set. The streets, more like pathways, were narrow and windy; the buildings, like row houses from the middle ages, stacked together like four-story jigsaw puzzles. The place seemed so unlikely. And so likeable.

(Click the thumbnails to enlarge … )