Let me just say it straight.

I love drone photography. It's a valuable part of my toolkit. I fly regularly, and I’ve captured some aerial golf shots I'm genuinely proud of. There's something undeniably compelling about seeing a golf course from above. That eagle's-eye view pulls everything together—the flow of the holes, the rhythm of the bunkering, the way the land really moves.

But lately, it feels like we’ve gone off track. Drone shots have completely taken over golf course photography. And not in a good way. What used to be a bonus perspective has become the entire show. Scroll through most modern golf galleries and they look like they were built by satellites—green after green shot straight down, every fairway stripe laser-perfect, bunkers shaped like abstract art you'd never actually stand in.

Every time I see it, the same thought hits me: I’ve never played golf from a helicopter. So why am I supposed to photograph it like I have? Golf is a ground game. Golf photography should be, too. Golf isn’t played from the sky. It’s walked. It’s felt. It lives in the small stuff—shadows that stretch across the fairway, the way the wind turns on a ridgeline, that fleeting moment when the clubhouse glows in early sun. You don’t experience a course from 300 feet up. You experience it from the tee or the fairway or, in my case, from the woods. Club in hand. Eyes tracing the slope. Sensing the vibe of the place.

That’s the story I want to tell. That’s the feeling I chase every time I pick up a camera. Drones aren’t the enemy. Overuse is. This isn’t an anti-drone rant. I’m not here to trash aerial golf photography. Drones are incredible tools. I use mine all the time, and I love what it can do when it's used with intention. But there’s a difference between using a tool and letting it take over. When every image is shot from the sky, the story disappears. The course loses its voice. The nuance gets flattened. The whole thing starts to feel more like a real estate brochure than a round of golf.

Aerials tell you what’s there. Ground-level images remind you why it matters.

And that’s the part we’re losing. I photograph golf like I play it. Only better. My approach to golf course photography is shaped by how it feels to be out there. On foot. In the moment. In the elements. So I shoot: Pre-dawn through early morning, and again at dusk, when the light actually has something to say. Low angles, gritty textures, and honest detail. Player’s-eye views that bring you into the scene, not just over it.

It’s about presence. It’s about mood. And it’s about capturing the moments that remind you why you love the game in the first place. Let the drone support, not steal, the spotlight! I’m not ditching my drone. I like flying it. I like what it adds. But it’s not the star. It’s the supporting act. Aerials bring context. They give perspective. Used alongside ground-level shots, they help complete the picture. But when they’re all you show, the story goes flat. The connection slips away. And pretty soon, everything starts to blur.

Used with care, drone golf photography makes the experience richer. Used on repeat, it makes it forgettable. golf photography should feel human. Golf courses aren’t just stretches of turf and sand. They’re memory factories. They’re filled with color, contrast, and quiet drama. They’re where friendships are built. Where you chase a number, lose a ball, sink a putt you'll talk about for years. They’re where early mornings turn into lifelong rituals. And if we forget that—and reduce these places to just “content”—we miss the entire point.

I’d rather keep it grounded. I’d rather chase feeling over formula. And I’d rather photograph golf the way it’s actually played. On foot. In the light. On the ground. And sure, now and then, from the sky. Just not from a helicopter.