It's funny how one can run the full emotional
gamut in the space of just a few hours; such is the case for me on a walk
to Albina Lake with fellow photographer David Houlder.
It begins raining as we reach the campsite, continues
to rain most of the night, and in the morning looks like we are in for
even more rain.
Emotionally I feel very low at this point, and looking
around at the flat light I start thinking that maybe I should leave. It's
beginning to look as if I will not get any photos at all, and I ask myself
why I even bother walking to these difficult places when great images
can often be made within metres of the car. Later that day my question
would be answered.
The rain returns so I retreat to my tent, lie down
and listen to the constant patter on the roof, obviously I doze off because
the next thing I hear is nothing, complete silence.
Peering from the tent I am presented with an eerie,
silent, and fog-bound world. I grab my camera, rush a short way up the
mountain and make two photographs (Towards the Amphitheatre and There
Comes a Storm) before more rain sends me scurrying to my shelter.
Later that afternoon the rain stops again. By this time David and I are getting
quite stir crazy so we shoulder our heavy large-format cameras and head up the
mountain. Before long we reach the spot where I had earlier made Towards
the Amphitheatre. David sees a composition he likes, so to get out
of his field of view I decide to climb a little higher. On reaching the top
of a small ridge I can see the slopes that lead to the top of Mt Alice Rawson."There's
no way I'm going all the way up there", I tell myself, "I'll just see what's
over the next ridge".
A large natural amphitheatre, with massive walls of
granite and a floor of alpine grass carpeted with thousands of wildflowers,
that's what is over the next ridge. It is outstanding. Wildflowers
however, while beautiful to look at, are very difficult to photograph
successfully in black & white. Anyway, by this time I am in the mood
to climb.
I have a mental trick I use when confronted with a
large climb like this. I tell myself that I'll just go to the next
rise and see what's there. If I do this a dozen or so times I'm
so near the top that I don't need the trick any more, I will continue
to see what's on the other side no matter what. I use this trick
to get myself up the mountain.
After some time I encounter a steep snowdrift. To cross
it each step requires several kicks with the toe of my boot to create
a foothold. It's very slow going, with my weight constantly on my
toes and no rest for my calf muscles. But by now I am very near the top
of the range and I'm determined to see what's on the other
side, almost running the last hundred metres after crossing the snowdrift.
So what is on the other side? The rest of the world,
or so it seems. Framed by massive granite tors is a vast, almost manicured,
grassy area that leads my eye to a marvelous vista — thousands of
hills, each a little bluer than its predecessor, stretching clear into
Victoria. I climb to the top of a rocky outcrop to improve my view. A
kilometre or so to the south is Mt Townsend, while further south I can
see Mt Kosciuszko (Australia's second highest and highest mountains).
To the north rises Mt Alice Rawson and behind it some massive clouds that
herald a return of less than perfect weather. I unpack my camera and make
The High Country.
Repacking my camera I walk towards Mt Alice Rawson. On reaching the summit
I turn to the south and see the delicate sidelight on the boulders.
I make The Main Range.
This is great. To me this is what landscape
photography is all about. I am alone in the mountains; I have the right
equipment, the right level of fitness, the right light, and the right
frame of mind. I feel euphoric.
Tomorrow I will return to civilisation,
but for the moment there is just me, the rocks, the grass, and the view.
Most importantly there is the light.
After all these years of photography
I still get excited by the light.
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