CloudBreakPhotographyAnyone with a phone can take a snapshot. So what’s the difference (besides the price of their equipment) between someone who takes photographs and someone who takes snapshots? To go a step further, what makes a photograph “good?” It’s not the gear. We’ve covered that and, as the new owner of the latest full frame mirrorless from Canon (the RP—which I LOVE!), I can state that with conviction. Technical ability plays a role. So, too, does an ability to compose the image and edit in post-production. But maybe, most important of all, is the thought process that goes into it. Or more specifically, having a story to go with the image.
Whether you know the full story or not (we usually don’t) compelling images often have a story attached. Sometimes creating the story for ourselves is what captivates our interest. Or sometimes placing ourselves into the image/story is what causes us to gaze at an image for more than the 1.3 seconds it takes to scroll through on our Instagram feed. The idea of the story behind the image is the topic of this post. Having just returned from a trip to the mainland, several of my recent images have stories I think I’d like to share. As such, this may be the beginning of a short series. This isn’t a short story, but if you’ve ever tried to go that extra step and move from taking snapshots to photographs, I think it may resonate with you.
A few weeks ago, we took a trip to Washington and Oregon to visit family. Even before my daughter and I stepped onto the airplane I had already found myself thinking and struggling to come up with a plan about how I would most efficiently spend my time once we finally arrived in my childhood hometown for a week-long visit with my family. The limited time and limited resources (we weren’t going to have our own car on the trip) all promised to make my planning even more challenging. On the surface, the time seemed pretty good. It was the end of the lunar cycle, which meant dark skies and, because we were headed to the deserts of Central Washington, the chace that there’d be a nice clear night, perfect for shooting the Milky Way, was high.
The schedule was simple enough,too. We’d arrive in Seattle on Sunday evening, hop in my dad’s new, he’d made the trip over that day to pick us up at the airport, and drive the 2 ½ hours to Yakima, the only home I really knew before moving away for college. We’d get into Yakima late, then we’d have the week to spend with family and a few old friends. My wife would arrive from Las Vegas on Tuesday and I imagined the week would be spent swimming in my sister and brother-in-law’s pool and watching our daughter cultivate friendships with her cousins. Should be time to shoot in there. No problem. There were a few other obligations peppered in, but I was confident that I’d have plenty of time to take photos, something I had never really done in Yakima before.
I thought I was pretty well prepared on that end. I did my research on various photography websites. I’d become reasonably familiar with my newly purchased Canon RP, and collected the gear I thought I needed for the trip (I will cover my packing/gear list in another post). I had some very specific shots in mind and some inklings about a few day trips I wanted to do from Yakima (stayed tuned for those blog posts!). The one thing I didn’t have, though, was a solid idea of where I could shoot around town. I wasn’t too keen about trying to get up for sunrises (in the summer, sunrises in Washington are bloody early), but the opposite of that is that sunset is late, after 9 pm, and I could do that after whatever family dinners that were planned and after my daughter had gone to bed.
Monday and Tuesday were quickly filled and before I knew it, it was Wednesday. After some more research and a few scouting trips around town, I finally settled trying to shoot the Fred G. Redmond Bridge that traverses Selah Creek just north of town on I-82. It’s a cool arch bridge and, because it’s on the Interstate, I thought I might get lucky and catch some light trails from traffic, as well. The plan was this: I could do the normal bedtime routine with my daughter and then make the quick 10-minute drive from my dad’s house to the bridge. There is a rest area just before the bridge which would not only provide an easy, safe place to park, but also a reasonably clear and unobstructed view. With any luck, I could make the rest stop, park, and find a decent composition all before the sun went down at 9:08. I’d be looking east which isn’t ideal, but I hoped there’d be cool light in the sky anyways.
As most of my plans go, this one hit a snag early. I left the house a little later than I’d planned. Regardless, I hopped into my dad’s car and got out of town quickly. As I made my way up the hill outside of Selah, I remembered: the rest stop for north-bound traffic was ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE CANYON! I thought fast as I drove and weighed my options. I considered pulling over on the side of the interstate and shooting from the side of the road instead of the rest stop. This idea seemed pretty good because then I’d actually be shooting west, into the sunset, which was exactly what I wanted. The downside was, it was probably a little more risky than I was admitting at the time. A second option was to drive to the rest stop for northbound traffic and try to walk back to the canyon. Again, I’d be shooting west, so that might work, too! My last option was to turn around, come back south, and then I could follow the original plan and pull over at the original rest stop. Again, I’d be shooting away from the sunset, but it would definitely make the whole process easier.
With echos of my wife’s voice in my head, “be careful” (translation: “don’t do anything stupid”) I opted for the safer options. I drove to the rest stop headed northbound and got out of the car. I knew pretty quick this wasn’t going to work. I was nearly two miles past the bride and an arm of the canyon stood between me being close enough to the bride for a realistic shot. In short, there wasn’t a feasible way to get to where I needed to go.
Back into the car. Tick, tick, tick. The sun is setting now, and I realized I needed to move quick or I could miss it all. At this point, I was struck by another realization that, 25 years ago, when I was driving this road regularly, would’ve been a problem I could have identified with very little problem and/or fanfare. Unfortunately, not only have I not LIVED in Yakima for multiple decades, even when I visit I don’t always drive this route. Along this 30 mile stretch of I-82, nearly the entire way to Ellensburg, I could not envision a single place to turn around. Well, shit. The quick drive didn’t bother me, nor did the lost evening or premium gasoline that I would have to replace. The biggest disappointment now is that I’ve wasted one of the few sunsets I was available to shoot over the course of this entire week. Just as I was having this thought and discomforting realization, something incredible happened: I crested one of the hills and, to my absolute and total astonishment, I witnessed a blazing red/orange sky that I would have NEVER seen, if I hadn’t driven that far north.
This was, quite possibly, the savior to my night and much too good to pass up. Now, if you have ever driven that 30+ mile stretch, you’re probably thinking the exact same thing I was at that moment: THERE’S NOTHING OUT HERE! No trees, no buildings, no grass, no wildflowers. I-82 runs along a US Army training facility, commonly referred to as the Firing Range. A barbed wire fence divides Department of Defense sagebrush from Department of Transportation sagebrush, but that’s not helping my immediate problem.
At times like these a comment from Chris Burkard, a professional photographer, often rolls through my consciousness like the prices of stocks on CNBC’s ticker: “If you’re not willing to suffer for your craft, then I don’t know what to tell you.” Keeping my own safety (and that of my dad’s new car) in mind, I made the executive decision that I had to capture this. I pulled safely off the highway and braved rattlesnakes, slippery/wet terrain, barbed wire, and the US Army and ran to the top of North Umtanum Ridge.
Now, I’m a poor judge of distance (and, though I meant to, I forgot to check my Apple Watch). I’m sure it was less that ¼ of a mile up the hill, but in my defense, I imagine I gained about 200-300 vertical feet (a quick review of my workout app on that day shows I climbed “20 flights of stairs”) from the road to the summit of the hill. As I gasped for breath and felt my jeans and socks soak through from the wet brush, I quickly set up my trusty Sirui tripod, mounted, and switched on my RP. This image was my reward for all that hard work.
After firing off a few more shots with slightly different compositions and settings, I realized the light wasn’t going to improve any more than when I first got there. I packed up my stuff and headed back down to the car. Going down is always a little more difficult. Maybe because it was wet and slippery, maybe because it was a bit darker, or maybe it was because I wasn’t in as much of a hurry. Either way, I got down without incident and resumed the drive, still heading north towards Ellensburg.
A few more miles and I found a military exit which allowed me to head back south. I was already there and there was still light in the sky, so for good measure, I pulled over at the rest stop and shot the image of the bridge I’d originally intended as I set out that evening.
Neither image is technically perfect and I could spend time finding some pretty obvious faults (or things I would improve on next time) with each. Many people may not find either image all that aesthetically pleasing, but to someone who spent their formative years hiking, camping, and mountain biking through terrain just like this, both images actually make me smile. And the story just makes them that much better.
Thanks for reading! A hui hou!
