Solitude, the Story of a Lone Tree Photograph

In the Midst of the Garden

A misty morning near Swellendam in May 2015, a farmer on a grader, a deal between father and daughter, and a tree I had watched for months from the wrong side of the river.

Martin Osner · Stories behind the art

Solitude Panoramic, a lone tree on a misty riverbank near Swellendam, by Martin Osner

Solitude Panoramic, May 2015. Tap to see it large.

Where it began

The tree on the far side of the river

In May 2015 I was near Swellendam, one of my favourite places to photograph in the Western Cape, preparing for an exhibition. I was making the Master Tree Series, Eminence and Quintessence, trees made entirely in the camera, layering several exposures into one frame. That work is what brought me to this valley so often. At the same time I was adding to Solitary, my lone tree photography, trees that stand completely on their own. My family was with me, and my daughter, Samantha Lee Osner, had just begun her own journey in fine art photography.

Eminence No.1, a tree layered in several exposures against a pale textured sky

Eminence No.2, bare branches spreading against a warm glowing sky

Quintessence No.1, a lone tree on the horizon above a field of tall grass

Quintessence No.2, two trees on the skyline beyond long golden grass

From Eminence and Quintessence, the two series I was making in this valley.

While I worked along one side of a river that runs out of the mountains into a large lake, I kept seeing a tree on the far bank. It stood all alone on a point of grass where the river leaves a gorge, a good two kilometres from where I was. High ravines on one side, thick forest on the other, and not a road in sight. I had looked at that tree over and over again, and I had made up my mind to reach it, even if it meant knocking on the doors of the locals.

Aerial view of the lone tree on its point by the river, with the gorge and ravines behind — The tree on its point of grass, and the gorge and ravines that kept me on the wrong side of the river. From drone footage we made at the time.

Four in the morning

Mist and photography, a marriage made in heaven

I woke at about four and had a peek outside to see what the weather was doing. It was one of those mornings when you can feel the mist is going to roll in, and mist and photography is a marriage made in heaven.

So I made coffee, woke Samantha and asked if she wanted to come with me. I was going to find a tree.

The fog was heavy and the light hadn't come up yet. The best moment is when the mist just starts to lift and lets some light through, that mixture of light and illusion, and we weren't there yet. So I said to Samantha, let's follow a road and see where it comes out. If we were lucky, we would find our tree just before daybreak.

A Land Rover Defender with its headlights on, on a misty gravel road through a forest — An illustration of my Land Rover Defender 110 on a road like that one. The roads were difficult to navigate, with no directions to follow, and there was nothing to photograph on the way in, as the mist had moved in so heavily.

Our one rule

Name it, claim it, use it

Samantha Lee Osner with her camera on a tripod on a golden beach at sunset

Samantha Lee Osner making Eternity No.2, seen from the cliff where I sat and did nothing.

Eternity No.2 by Samantha Lee Osner, golden light on wet sand around a dark rock

And the picture she made that evening, Eternity No.2.

I should explain something. When Samantha started showing her work in our gallery, we sat down and agreed some very clear boundaries. We would never photograph the same thing. If you see it, you name it, you claim it, and then by goodness you make sure you use it. You can't say "that's my tree, leave it alone" and then do nothing about it.

That rule has brought us both close to tears, when one of us finds something and the other can only stand and watch. For me it was Majestic Peak. For Samantha it was her Eternity series. I sat on a cliff above the beach for hours while she made Eternity No.2, there as the protector rather than the creator. A beautiful print, and I wasn't allowed near it.

It isn't always easy, but we keep to it, because we don't want to compete with each other on our own gallery wall. So Samantha knew about this tree. If we found it, she would have to look for something else.

Lost in the mist

"ABSA and me"

The gravel road got worse and the mist got thicker. Roads went off to the left and right into nowhere. We came down into a dense thicket of forest and, lo and behold, there was a grader working on the road. In the dark, in the mist, at that hour of the morning. I remember wondering which council official was so motivated.

I drove then, and still drive today, my trusty Land Rover Defender 110. I told Samantha to hold on, I was going to ask for directions. I knew that if the mist began to lift at first light we were in for something special, and I have always known that if you hesitate, you miss the moment. This morning was all or nothing.

I got the driver's attention and he opened his door. Just to start a conversation, I asked him who owned the land.

"ABSA and me," he said.

In other words, the bank and him. It was his farm. I told him I was lost. He looked at me, looked at my car, and said, "No wonder. You drive a Land Rover. If you drove a Land Cruiser, you wouldn't be lost."

We both laughed. I apologised for wandering onto his farm and described the tree. "That tree is right on my boundary line," he said. I would have to follow an old track in poor condition, so hopefully my vehicle would make it, tongue firmly in cheek. "Do me one favour. Close the gates behind you. I don't want my cows getting out."

The tree

A lone tree in the mist

He was right, it was no easy track, but the adrenaline was building. For the first time I had a real chance at the tree I had been watching for months. It felt like a calling.

We came through the last gate, down the side of the mountain into the valley, and there was my tree. Or there it almost was. The mist was so thick when we arrived that we could hardly see it.

The lone tree near Swellendam almost hidden in thick white mist at dawn, May 2015 — The tree as we found it, barely there in the mist.

It was a spiritual moment. The light wasn't right yet, it still had to break through, but we were on time. I walked around for the best angle, and even though I was seeing the tree from the opposite side for the first time, it felt as if I had stood there before. I knew exactly what I wanted.

I say spiritual because it reminded me of the Tree of Life in the book of Genesis, the tree that stood in the midst of the Garden of Eden.

And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden.Genesis 2:9

As the light came through, the mist hung around the tree and rose off the water like steam. It softened the background completely, and the river ran across the frame to finish the scene. I made one single frame of the tree on its own that morning, which is Solitary No.7 today. But I knew there was something more here. I was also working on Extended Panoramic, long and narrow scenes, and this was where the tree belonged.

Solitary No.7, the same lone tree on its misty riverbank, by Martin Osner — Solitary No.7, the single frame I made of the tree that morning.

Father and daughter

A deal's a deal

I looked back and saw Samantha. She looked as if she was about to cry. "Oh Dad, I don't believe it."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I'll give it to you if you want it, but I don't want to."

"No," she said. "A deal's a deal."

She picked up her equipment, said she would walk up one of the ravines and find her own picture, and asked how long I needed. An hour or two, I said, and off she went.

I should add that when this happens, more often than not she comes back with something better than what I found. She is highly capable and strong willed, and she will force a picture out of a place just to prove a point.

Making the panorama

One pass, start to finish

The scene was very wide, so I photographed it as a long row of vertical frames, to be stitched together later. I wanted a file large enough to print at a couple of metres, so every section had to be right, one after the other.

Timing was everything. You can't begin on the first frame and have the light change halfway along; it has to stay the same from the first frame to the last. The mist kept rising, thickening and thinning, so the light dimmed and brightened all the time. More than once it changed in the middle of a pass and I had to start again. I just prayed I would get it.

Then, on one pass, I got all the way through. Last frame, done. I checked the back of the camera. Is the tree sharp? Is it sharp? Is it sharp? On an extended panoramic, a sharp central point is everything, and this tree was not going to get away.

It was sharp.

Lightroom panorama merge joining the vertical frames of Solitude into one long picture — The vertical frames coming together in the panorama merge. Canon EOS 5D Mark III, 70 to 300 mm lens at 112 mm.

That care paid off. The largest print of Solitude I have made so far is three metres wide.

Meanwhile, up the ravine

The baboon

I was just finishing when a loud bark echoed through the valley. A baboon. Then footsteps, and I looked up to see Samantha running towards me.

She had found her spot and set up without realising there was a troop all around her, and she had walked straight into the big male. He was not having it. He barked, she got such a fright, and that was the end of her morning. Not a single photograph.

All she had to show for it was a misty drive. But don't feel too sorry for her. She has more than made up for it since, and there have been plenty of mornings when she found something exquisite and I played second fiddle.

For me, it was a day I will never forget.

A poem

"This tree is speaking to me in words"

The story didn't end in the valley. Back at the studio, my friend Craig O'Flaherty, a poet and fine art photographer, came in for coffee. I had done the first processing of the panorama and couldn't wait to show him. He sat looking at it for a long while, then said, "This tree is speaking to me in words."

We talked about the spiritual side of the tree. I shared what it meant to me, and he shared the words that were coming to him. He asked if he could write a poem, and of course I said yes.

Solitude

A poem by Craig O'Flaherty, 2015

That instant when
chaos steps back,
into the shrouded haze
beyond us.

God's gentle breath
kisses the mist,
allowing soft light to
shimmer through.

When the river's tongue
laps the bending bank
tasting wet sand,
smoothing footprints away.

Sometimes, we get to stand
in our own shadows,
through solitude
that holds us close.

It's in these moments
that our hearts are waiting
to envelop us, as we
embrace certainty.

And then beauty melts in
from the unpredictable,
as a skyline strokes
our softened eyes.

Today Solitude is one of the most popular landscape photographs in my collection, and of all my lone tree photographs, the one closest to my heart.

July 2026

The tree is gone

Time moved on. This July we were driving back to Swellendam, where I teach the Swellendam Art and Photography Retreat in the valley beside that same river. As we came over the hill, Samantha said, "Look, look, look! The tree is gone."

It was gone. From that viewpoint it is a couple of kilometres away, so we couldn't see exactly what happened, but it stood completely alone with nothing near it, so we can only think lightning took it.

How these stories connect

That same month Samantha and I held an exhibition at INARA Manor House, and I had a smaller framed print of Solitude on an easel. A younger man came over and asked me where it was taken.

"Swellendam," I said. He smiled. "Where exactly in Swellendam?"

So I described where the ravine runs and where the lake is, and his smile grew wider. "I thought I recognised it. Our family farm is right there."

I told him about the farmer on the grader in the mist. It was his older brother. We felt connected straight away, and before he left he said, "Whenever you're in the area, give me a shout. We'll have coffee and I'll show you around."

Laid to rest

Now it can rest

Isn't that beautiful, in a way? I like to think the tree was waiting for me to photograph its majesty before anything happened to it. Now it is recorded, it can rest, and it will never be forgotten.

Solitude Panoramic, a signed open edition from 120 to 200 cm wide.

Martin Osner

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