Today I Ended a 50+ Year Streak in Photography. On a Mountain. In the Snow.
Somehow, I staved off this inevitable moment for over 5 decades.
A photographer’s tale of woe, snow, and malfunctioning hoodies.
February 20, 2024. 3 PM, MTN.
Once on a gig in Santa Cruz, I watched an 80–200mm Canon Zoom (the Magic Drainpipe) roll unceremoniously out of the back of my SUV and smack the tarmac with such a sound as to let you and anyone else within distance, that it was indeed an extinction-level event.
I didn’t have to pick it up to know it had expired. With prejudice.
In an earlier, analog time, I watched my brand-new F3 tumble from the top of a tripod after having refused to mate with the plate. It seemed like slow motion. Disaster was about to befall the shoot.
My assistant, not good with mounting a camera on a tripod, was brilliant in catching a falling SLR with his foot and backhand.
Awesome. Now JC Penney would have their vitally important photos of some girl wearing bell bottoms with a bigass belt.
I have never dropped a camera with a lens on it.
Until about three hours ago.
It was snowing, but the road was clear. And although the sign a few miles back had stated it was closed, I saw no evidence of that truth.
So all the way to the top of Bryce Canyon we went.
The snow alternated from flurries to a bland consistency, and it was, well, cold. Did I mention it was snowing?
Rainbow Point is the farthest lookout you can get to. 9100+ ft of elevation, and on a ridge, so the wind is always a concern.
There was no wind. None.
Stillness with falling snow. Falling straight down.
Gravity minus wind equals a straight trajectory.
For a few minutes, it was nearly silent, but for the click of the shutter on my Df.
It was gloriously quiet.
Usually, from this point, one can see the Henrys all the hell way out there, parts of the Kaibab Plateau, and, of course, miles and miles of the Grand Staircase.
Today we could see about 300 feet into a whiteout abyss of swirling snow and clouds.
The gusts took me by surprise, and snow entered every part of my exposed neck, going deep into the back of my shirt.
Brrrr…fk.
I reached back to pull the hoody up… and it was stuck.
Being a macho, macho man, I just jerked it up harder only to find that it was not, indeed, stuck. It was wrapped in my camera strap.
Hoody came up.
Camera went down.
Lens first.
Same extinction level sound I heard 15 years ago in Santa Cruz.
Same results.
The Df seems fine, but the fantastic, much loved, highly used 24–120mm Nikkor bit the dust.
Well, bit the icy concrete, actually, but you get the idea.
My wife gasped.
I gasped.
A bald dude in a ski jacket gasped.
I think the canyon even gasped. My wife doesn’t think so, but I think I heard it.
Anyway, the rest of this trip will be zoomless in nature, meaning I will be swapping out primes like a monkey with a box of crayons.
The perils of being on the road, I suppose.
Also the perils of not being aware enough to know the camera strap was wrapped in the damned hoody because you are all caught up in the incredible moments of snow, wind, ice, and minimal visibility.
Yeah… it’s their fault.
I will have to replace it at some point, but I also wonder if it is some sort of sign.
Eh, will mutter on about that later.
But for now, I need a hot coffee and a good rant full of colorful four-letter words and references to various anatomical parts. Although not in the same place.
Later.
Hi, I’m Don Giannatti, a photographer and mentor for up-and-coming photographers. You can find me on my website, Don Giannatti, and at my Substack site, where I also publish for creative people. All subscribers to my Substack have access to a free, long-form workshop on the business of commercial and professional photography.
