Point and shoot

At Rainbow Point, 9,000 feet high on the rim of Bryce Canyon, the air was as thin as I'd been warned.

Both the sun and temperature were dropping fast in this part of southwest Utah, and I was alone. The park rangers had spoken of mountain lions, and armed only with a tripod and a 35-millimeter camera, I was confronted with a serious dilemma.

The sky was on fire. Billowing red clouds soared over the black cliff in front of me - a spectacular sunset. Mountain lions in California and Colorado had taken people off jogging and hiking trails. I managed a faint laugh, realizing that the whistle I'd been advised to take in case of trouble was in my camera bag.

It was getting darker. The branches rustled. The wind? I was in a place I had always wanted to photograph, but like the cold seeping through me, the fear I felt was also spreading. Should I stay and shoot the incredible sky, a once-in-a-lifetime chance, or run to save the one lifetime I had?

The word amateur seemed to be invented for only one reason - to precede photographer. I was definitely an amateur photographer. I'd stare with awe and envy at the outdoor photography books in stores and on coffee tables, and at the landscapes in Arizona Highways. The West of John Ford's movies had always stirred my imagination.

If my photos were ever going to move beyond amateur status, even for a moment, maybe I'd have to go to the West and photograph it. In the back of Outdoor Photography, I read about photo expeditions to Bryce, Zion National Park, and the slot canyons of northern Arizona. Maybe that would be the way to learn what the professionals knew about light and composition. So I called my travel agent.

My old camera was nicked, dented, heavy and nearly 30 years old, so I bought a new one, the Canon Rebel 2000. The Rebel had both automatic and manual systems. For film, I would take Fujichrome Velvia. Because of its sharp colors that seemed to jump off the page, Velvia was the choice of many professional photographers. Despite the reassurances from airport security, I wouldn't risk it to the X- rays of metal detection; I had the guards hand check my film.

I flew to Las Vegas and joined two members from the expedition for the drive to Zion, 170 miles away. We had arranged to share a car rental for the eight days. According to the brochure, our days would begin before sunrise and end well after the last glimmer of sunset. The cost for the professional guide and the lodging was approximately $1,000 per person. Air fare and meals were additional. We had been told what to pack and to prepare for hot sun, rain, snow and temperatures ranging from minus 20 to 85 above.

Our rendezvous point was Springdale, Utah, minutes from the entrance to Zion. Nine of us made up the party, including a dairy farmer, a tax accountant and a potato farmer. With our backpacks heavy with camera equipment, water bottles and sunscreen, we were eager to get into the field before we lost the light Brent was our guide. The 6-foot New Jersey native wore a Western hat and had the face of Jack Palance. He had been an Army medic and a teacher. He had studied photography with landscape photographer Eliot Porter, and some of Brent's photos had appeared in national publications.

He knew the canyons and trails and would take us to the best places when the light was magic. When a bald eagle circled overhead, he said, "Indians hold that to be a good sign." Translation: we'd have a good week of shooting.

Outdoor photographers like to complain about the weather. At Zion, there were grumblings about the blue sky. "Tourist weather," someone muttered. Photographers want clouds - cirrus or cumulus for contrast in a flat blue sky.

Meanwhile, I watched for rattlesnakes and fumbled with my new tripod. We all stalked the yellow cottonwoods, the boulders and the mammoth rock towers that seemed to watch our every move. We were friendly toward each other, but silent rivals for the best vantage point, the better shot. But something was holding me back. In the first two days I'd shot only three rolls of film.

Professional photographers shoot, shoot and shoot again. Varying their exposures (bracketing) on the same subject as well as changing compositions, the pros might take thousands just to get the few right ones.

Amid the wondrous canyons of Bryce, my inhibitions fell away. Rock and water had been carved and sculpted into a fanciful kingdom of arches, bridges, spires, windows and castles. Bryce's rock statuary had names: Queens Gardens, Thor's Hammer, The Hat Shop and Fairyland. The golden light of early morning lit it all into a pallet of pink, vermilion, brown, yellow, gray and white. Listening to the tips from Brent and the others, I bracketed and altered my scenes continuously. I couldn't get enough.

At 5:30 p.m. I became separated from the others. We'd been told to meet back at the cars, but I was apparently wrong about the time. No one was there. It was the first time all week I'd been without them.

In the distance, I saw the sun setting. The clouds were beginning to catch fire. I wanted to get closer to the sky and those glorious colors, but I didn't move. The pictures of mountain lions I had seen at the park center filled my head in a hurry. Somewhere I'd heard that mountain lions liked to attack from behind. But the sky before me was like a beacon. If I didn't move quickly, this sunset would be gone forever. I grabbed my camera and tripod and headed faster and faster back to Rainbow Point.

Closer to the rim of the canyon than the parking lot, I imagined the infrared-like eyes of a mountain lion. In half-light or darkness they could see better than any human. And in the fading light, lurking rattlesnakes would be invisible. I kept going until the rim's edge was only several feet from me.

Suddenly branches moved. I didn't forget my fear, but set up my tripod, mounted my camera, framed the unimaginable scarlet sky and shot non-stop. Satisfied that I had gotten everything out of the scene, I found the trail back to the parking lot, but knew better than to run like some prey. I listened to every sound and watched my back, my whistle now in my coat pocket. Two hundred yards later I was at the car. The others arrived shortly. I was safe.

Perhaps my life had never been at risk, although in my mind it was at that moment. But one thing was sure: I'd been caught up in something and I'd changed.

A day later in the slot canyons I stooped, squatted and twisted, becoming an extension of my camera as I lost myself in the rich colors and contours of the rock. Later in the week I crawled in the dirt to shoot from the golden sagebrush up to the green pines, red cliffs and blue sky painted with a sphere of white cloud.

In eight days I shot everything from sweeping vistas to a single leaf shining in a Monet-like stream. On our last full day we hiked single-file into a high-walled Zion canyon whose rock face glistened pink, black and white. Our packs were tight against our backs, with tripods slung over a shoulder or carried in our arms. It reminded me of some boyhood adventure. It truly felt like an expedition, and I truly felt like a photographer.

Back home I waited anxiously for my 20 rolls of developed film. I had seen first-hand some of America's most awesome landscapes, but had I captured any of it?

In the past, accident or fate had produced some striking photos. I examined my 700-plus slides one-by-one. While most were thrown away, many were good, and more than several were comparable to those in books or magazines. That pink and black canyon wall had turned a luxurious orange and blue. The ceilings of the slot canyons were bathed in shades of dreamy pastel. I had Bryce's rock marvels and that fiery sunset.

What makes a memorable photograph? A great subject and one's ability to see it. With today's new generation of computerized cameras and with some knowledge and technique, if a grand image is in the view finder it's likely to be in the photo.

On the expedition I had come to a better understanding of the relationship between light and lens. The land I saw and felt, the experienced assistance, and my own perseverance not only raised my camera skills but enriched my senses far more than a browse through a bookstore.

The mountain lion? Before I left Utah I did see one. The animal was stuffed and snarling over the reservations desk in the lobby of our lodge at Bryce Canyon.

This sidebar appeared with the story:

IF YOU GO

Photo workshops

For more information about North Light Photo Workshops, call (800) 714-1375 or (914) 361-1017. Cost for professional guide and lodging runs about $1,000 per person, with air fare and meals extra.

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