Photographing Guilin isn’t really about China alone—it’s about chasing light, patience, and the strange alchemy of travel where history, landscape, and chance collide in front of the lens. From the ritualised grace of ancient cormorant fishing to the rice paddies lit by sudden spotlight, from fire on the river to the mist-wrapped Yellow Mountains, these five photographs are less a portfolio than a journey. Each image holds a fragment of time—an early morning gamble, a hurried detour, a climb into the clouds—that together remind me why I carry a camera: to stand still long enough for the world to open.
Playing with Fire
This was one of the first frames of the day. The fisherman leaned over his lamp, coaxing flame to life, just as I pressed the shutter. His concentration, the sudden burst of fire—pure serendipity.
The famous cormorant fishermen still venture out before dawn on the Li and Yulong rivers. This was on the Yulong—the Jade Dragon—river, surrounded by limestone karsts sharp as dragon’s teeth. Too often, the places you dream of don’t live up to their pictures. This one did. More than that: it exceeded them. Walking down to the river in the wet darkness, air heavy with green growth and humidity, I felt goosebumps before I’d even lifted the camera.
I had just a single day here, a cruel brevity. But it was enough to know: I will be back.
Fishing in The Ancient Ways
The journey begins with a frame of a Cormorant Fisherman on the Li River. Of course, these fishermen now perform their skills mainly for photographers, the practice itself having all but vanished. Cormorant fishing has a history—China, Japan, Korea, and beyond—stretching back more than 1,500 years. The birds, fitted with rings around their necks, spit out the larger fish while keeping the smaller ones for themselves. Nets weighted with stones swing wide, cast with an elegance honed by generations.
This outing stands as one of my most satisfying one-day shoots in years. Worth every cent of hiring a local guide—the same guide who picked me up in the dark, drove an hour and a half into the hills, and brought me to this hidden spot. I don’t often hire guides, only when time and local knowledge are scarce. A few times it’s been a waste. This time it was indispensable.
…Photography isn’t just about light—it’s about what light does to memory.
Dawn of Another Day
I’ve drawn from this photographic well before, getting into other shots of my morning with the Cormorant Fishermen on the Li River in Guilin. Not original in subject, perhaps, yet unforgettable. The first light rose, reflecting low across the water, and backlit the fisherman—one of those moments where time folds in on itself.
This shoot was a gamble, squeezed into the tail end of a work trip. With a midnight flight ahead, I’d debated visiting Wulingyuan National Park and its “Avatar”-like karsts, but realised Guilin’s karsts were just as spectacular, far more accessible. After a restless two hours of sleep, I was up, packed, and driving deeper into the countryside.
China never felt dangerous to me, yet scams and traps lurk. Still, I trusted the guide, booked through a reputable company, and soon enough, we rolled into a small fishing village without a hitch. The tropical air was thick and alive; the dawn sky was veined with cloud but promising light. The fisherman met us, paddled me to a dock, lit his lantern, and floated out across the water. Once the day fully broke, he threw his net and loosed the cormorants, a relationship between bird and man older than memory.
We stayed until the sun climbed, then hiked karst peaks, sweating up narrow paths for the wide view. By sunset, exhaustion settled into my bones. I barely made it back to Shanghai in time for my flight—but what a gift to be so immersed, body and mind, in a single day. That immersion is the very reason I photograph.
I’ll return to Guilin one day and stay longer. Until then, more images live in my album.
Rocky Redux
I’ve been a little obsessed with this photo since the moment I took it. Normally, I’m my own harshest critic, reluctant to rhapsodise over my work. But this one—no apologies. I love it.
That said, I reworked it: cropped tighter, swapped in a different foreground from the same ridge. A tedious edit, but worth it.
The image comes from the Huangshan—the Yellow Mountains. Painters have worshipped these peaks for centuries, and it’s easy to see why: layers of cloud snagged on sharp granite, pines clinging to impossible ledges. The Huangshan pine, to be precise—Pinus hwangshanensis. The whole scene breathes mysticism. I had only a day and a night, not nearly enough, but it was enough to fall under its spell.
…The quiet miracle of photography is turning transience into permanence.
Sky Matthews’ Shine
There’s a strange pressure that builds in me when I haven’t posted photos in a while, as if the next one has to be better than the last. Silly, really. So here’s this one—simple, direct.
I always loved the heavenly spotlight falling across this rice paddy in Guilin. Not at sunset, as you’d expect, but midday when a break in the clouds opened and poured light down like revelation. Shooting it was tricky, the range too wild for the sensor, but the moment was worth it.
Photography isn’t just about light—it’s about what light does to memory. And this one stays with me.
Looking back, the thread is not just Guilin, nor even China’s landscapes, but the way light turns fleeting encounters into memory. A fisherman’s lamp igniting against the pre-dawn dark, a bird leaping at its master’s whistle, a mountain veiled in painterly mist—each frame is both documentation and dream.
I left exhausted each time, luggage heavy, flights to catch, deadlines waiting. Yet in those suspended moments—camera in hand, senses lit alive—I felt more awake than anywhere else. That is the quiet miracle of photography: the power to turn transience into permanence, and a single day into a story worth telling.
Read More: My Notes Across the Great Wall of China
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