I was in a hurry to meet a friend and take their portrait. Either I was late, or the designated time we agreed to meet was off. Anyway, we were off. And though the afternoon was not going as planned, I decided to make the best of it anyway. The falls were right over there, and I had all my camera equipment (and all the expensive equipment I borrowed from work).
At first, I just planned on taking pictures of the falls. And that was going okay, until I could see a little spot where enterprising people with good shoes might be able to squeeze inside and slip behind the falls. I’d heard it was possible, and there is no time like the present to find out.
The sheet of ice that curtains from the ice falls is solid and slick. Anyone with spiked shoes could make quick work of a journey up these slippery slopes. But with my shoes and ungainly equipment, I looked like a duck trying to waddle up the hill.
Surrounding the falls were crowds of people either taking pictures of the falls, or trying to get their pictures taken with the falls. At one point I stood up to map a route up the hill and noticed everyone had stopped taking pictures of the falls and, instead, were watching me struggle up the hill. I located a small opening and slipped inside, behind the ice. Maybe it was just the rushing water of the falls, but I swear I heard cheering from the crowds of onlookers.
Behind the falls was surprisingly bright. Rushing air, heavy with mist swirled through the back cavern. From outside, the falls looked much more white, but as the light passed through the ice, it turned almost an iridescent aqua blue. This deep blue, set against the oranges and yellows of the inner walls was instantly stunning. From time to time, a large chunk of ice came loose and fell to the stone floor with an incredible thud. Taking pictures, I was keeping one eye on all the settings (ISO, f-stop, shutter speed and focus) and another eye on the falling ice.
I was by myself, behind the falls. I was in a hurry. Since the original plan had been to take a couple snaps of the falls and scram, I’d foolishly put only a half hour on my parking meter. A half hour was more than enough time for a couple snaps. But it’s never just a couple snaps.
I make a lot of mistakes when I’m hurried. I forget to search out proper frames, or overlook a critical setting for the exposure. I suspect the best photographers are the ones who know their camera so well, they can operate the device without having to think too much. That is part of it. But the other part is having a keen feel for light and shadow. The photographer can see a thing that is not readily obvious to a casual eye and crank the settings to capture the thing. It seems impossible to do this under stress with any degree of calm. Maybe this is something I will always be working at.
In spite of the roaring falls, it was quite peaceful behind the sheet of deadly water. It was cold, yes. Bitter cold. And wet also. It was all I could do to shield my poor camera from the oppressive mist. I turned my camera to the floor, to the piles of slaked chips from the fallen pillars of ice. I turned to the walls, and the many layers of sediment and stone, pushed apart by veins of frozen seepage. I turned to the ceiling, and the jagged drapery of dripping icicles that caught the light and seemed to glow like a chandelier.
I worked furiously, what with the scant time remaining on my stupid parking meter. I rarely pausing to actually enjoy this peaceful space. Instead, I tried at every angle, to capture every feature of ice and rock and falling water and the breathless possibilities of light in all its infinite forms.