A river runs through it
Mistaya Canyon, Saskatchewan Crossing, Banff National Park, Alberta, Canada. 7:45 local time. 15 September 2009
Arriving at an ungodly hour before dawn in a remote corner of the Canadian Rockies, David Noton is startled to encounter another photographer…
We arrive in darkness, as usual; our head-torches illuminating our breath on the cold air.
It’s late summer and yet the temperature is down around the freezing mark. It won’t be long before the peaks around Sakatchewan Crossing receive their first fresh dusting of snow. That’s the Canadian Rockies for you; we’ve been snowed on in June here before, but this really is one of my favourite places in the world. The Promised Land, and a veritable playground for landscape photographers.
I set up and wait, and wait, and wait. I’m hoping firstly for some ghostly twilight on the snow-clad peaks, but it’s not to be. The next event could be the first pink rays on the mountains, but cloud to the east scuppers that. We stick it out, savouring the solitude and scene below as the glacially fed waters from Peyto Lake rush through the bottleneck of Mistaya Canyon with a constant roar. Over the millennia the erosive powers of the churning river has cut a narrow deep twisting cleft, leaving the rock curved and textured as only nature’s creativity could.
We’ve now been here for two hours or more. Finally some weak dappled light is just managing to break through; my shutter clicks. Was it worth the wait? Without a doubt; the insipid low-contrast light has its advantages as I need to expose for the shaded canyon yet hold the detail in the sky and distant peaks. The composition precludes use of a hard ND grad, but a 0.6 soft just subtly holds back the exposure on the top half of the frame without the tell-tale grad line being too obvious. A two-second exposure enables me to record a touch of movement in the water, but it’s the wonderful contortions of the twisted rock that make the picture.
With limbs stiff from the cold wait we’re finally packing up when I see a figure approaching with the familiar shape of a tripod over the shoulder. It had to happen. A month here and I’ve managed yet not to lock antlers with another photographer, but it was inevitable at some stage. To the uninitiated this is a fascinating behavioural study. Two photographers working the same patch usually circle each other warily, sniffing the air, eyeballs rolling, tripods poised, pawing the ground and posturing. Actual physical aggression is rare, but not unknown. More likely there will be a prolonged standoff as, like two competing stags, we snort and manoeuvre for the best vantage point. Photographers as a species are a strange lot; too much time spent on lonely hilltops often produces insecure beings with haunted looks and dubious social skills. My encounters in the field with others of my craft has resulted in some truly bizarre incidents; a few have become friends, others have declined even to acknowledge my presence. This morning no blood is drawn, we even manage to have a polite chat; as he’s coming and we’re going there’s no conflict. But the ritual of the eyeing up of the kit does occur and his body language leaves me in no doubt that, as he’s using a large 10x8-inch field film camera, I am a lesser being. I decline to point out that he’s too late and has missed the best light.
When I arrive back at the motel I quickly do a rough process of the Raw image on the laptop; I need to confirm that the long, cold vigil was worth it. I’m chuffed, it seems to have worked. My mate with that cumbersome, impractical wooden camera is still probably setting up. Hah! Next month French-comte