I rarely make these statements, but I’d have to say that this picture is my favorite of all my own hoodoo images, east, west or anywhere in between. I do concede that it’s a gloomy scene, but for me it evokes the place, and I can smell the tide and the crumbling earth and the oozing out of spring.

They don’t call them hoodoos for nothing.

Have you ever been at Shadmoor and asked yourself, “How did they get here?” These formations (unlike their more famous cousins in places like Bryce Canyon) are not comprised of eroded sedimentary rock.  What we have here is a mish-mash (my wife’s words) of sand, clay and gravel–also known as glacial till. Long Island itself is pretty much nothing more than a sandbar full of such debris left by retreating glaciers.

The formation of hoodoos here in Shadmoor occurs when water percolates down and begins to move horizontally in the ground. There it pushes out the softer deposits, which kicks off a process of slumping and erosion creating hoodoos out of the remaining harder sediments.  In spring, if you hike down in front of the bluffs on the beach, you’ll often find water leaching out of the clay. In some spots, it forms rivulets which flow onto the sand below. The ocean takes care of the finishing touches with its own brand of erosion, chomping off huge vertical sections after storms.

Anyone who has visited National Parks in Utah (or who has read anything by Edward Abbey) invariably comes away with a fondness for the term “hoodoo”. In the west, a hoodoo is a name for eroded sandstone and limestone formations, especially the ones that conjure up ghastly shapes, anthropomorphic or otherwise. The term is an alternate take on the word voodoo and probably originated in Africa. You can see plenty of hoodoos in Goblin Valley State Park (in central Utah) or in Bryce Canyon.

But the west doesn’t own them all.

Similar spires may be seen in Shadmoor State Park in Montauk, where eroded bluffs create a fantastically ragged coastline. Much like their western cousins, Montauk’s formations continue to erode and reshape themselves (and are arguably just as spectacular).

This photograph was taken a few years back on an obstreperous winter’s day when a storm was clearing out. For about a half hour, I was present for a very interesting display of light which included the occasional sunbeam slanting down to the ocean. The picture was shot on negative film with my Hasselblad.