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Rangefinder Magazine
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Slot Shots by Jane Wingate
Skeptical Meets Mystical In The Sandstone Canyons of Page, Arizona
I first heard about the Page, Arizona, slot canyons when my husband
and I-on a three-week tear around Arizona and Utah-ran into a photographer
who had been to the canyons and called the experience "mystical."
Well, "mystical" sounded nice, so we headed for Page.
In the motel there, we met another photographer who told us her
photo-workshop group had shot one of the slot canyons the day before.
She pointed me to a flyer advertising the services of a "guide"
who, for $35 a pop, shuttles you onto the Indian reservation to
the canyon, leaves you there, and picks you up in four hours.
The flyer suggested you include a flashlight with your gear. I asked
the photographer what you needed a flashlight for-was it dark in
there? She said she didn't need a flashlight. She could see her
way around just fine.
The guide piled us and our gear into the open back of a truck fitted
out with cushioned seats-a comfort, presumably, to accommodate the
pampered tourists. Out of town and entering the reservation where
the slot canyon was, the guide and an Indian at the gate exchanged
nods, and then we bounced along a sandy track until the truck slammed
to a halt in the blazing desert sand. We spilled out, retrieving
our water bottles and bits and pieces of gear that had skittered
around in the bed of the truck.
Eager to check things out and get shooting, I was all for slipping
into the canyon right away. But the guide had something else in
mind. "Lemme see your camera," he said, holding out his
hand. "I'll give you some tips." I shook my head. "No
one but me and the sherpa here (I said, indicating my husband) touches
my stuff." The guy looked ticked off.
He led us out of the dazzling sun, into the narrow opening, and
trotted us through to the other end, into the sunlight again. The
whole walk-through took no more than a minute, and it was easy going.
There were a few relatively large rooms, or chambers, but mostly
the canyon was narrow; in some spots you could stand and touch both
walls with your outstretched arms. There was no way you could get
lost-no side chambers, or spooky little crevasses to tempt you astray,
so it wasn't clear why our guide thought we needed to be led through.
The place was crawling with other photographers-all with tripods,
some with pretty fancy gear, including a couple of 8x10 cameras.
They were all busily shooting, some of them clumped up, waiting
to get the same shot. There was a camaraderie among them that suggested
they might be another photo workshop.
I'd never shot with a group before, and at first I felt as if I'd
crashed a party. But I looked around, thinking what I'd like to
shoot, and in no time I was doing my own thing, and exchanging the
occasional pleasantry or technical tidbit with the other photographers.
As I was working on my first shot, thinking what fun this shoot
was going to be, our guide came along and said, pointing to my camera
on the tripod, "Lemme see your composition."
I said, "I haven't begun to get it right yet." The guy
was getting on my nerves, and I was glad when he left, so I do some
serious mystical business. For the half dozen photographers who
have not yet partaken of the slot canyon experience: the walls of
this one, Upper Antelope, rise up about 30 feet, in fluid curves
and twists. The light comes in through a crack overhead, intensifying
at high noon, causing the canyon walls to glow. The light keeps
changing, and it is something to see.
When the sun is highest over the slot, the canyon is full of light,
and you can shoot the lower canyon walls. But most of the time,
the best shots are the ones overhead, which means you have to be
aiming upward, in such skewed positions that you wonder if your
neck will ever be right again.
In much of the canyon, it's dark. I really blew it when I believed
that woman who said I didn't need a flashlight. What you need one
for is not to see where you are, but to read your camera dials,
because sometimes you and your gear are in near-total darkness.
I discovered that right away, on my first shot, and I just about
freaked. All the other photographers had their nifty little Mag-Lights.
I was so desperate to see my dials that I wrenched my husband's
Indiglo watch from his wrist to see if that would cast enough light
on them. It didn't, so I was really stuck. A couple of times, I
sheepishly begged a nearby shooter for his flashlight. Good thing
photographers are an amiable, accommodating lot.
Without a light, I had to wing it, shooting, literally blind, by
feel, counting click stops and hoping the camera settings were where
I figured they were. A couple of times I asked the nearest photographer
(who was aiming about where I was aiming) how long his exposure
was, and used that as an guide for my exposures. Once I figured
I had the feel of shooting blind, I could concentrate on composition.
Soon I was grooving on this mystical experience-wandering around
(careful of the maze of tripods), getting used to all those other
upturned faces squinting over their compositions. Just once, so
mystically transported was I, that I made a tiny step backward,
not aware there was a photographer right there, and jogged one of
the legs of his tripod. Argh! Of course I apologized abjectly, groveling
in the sand at his feet. Fortunately, he was cheerfully forgiving.
I shot all these images with my Nikon F3 and my 80-200mm lens. It
might have been nice to have my 300mm lens, but on this western
junket I wanted to travel relatively light, and had to make those
hard decisions about what to take, what to leave behind.
I used Velvia film, and that meant really long exposures in the
slot: 30 seconds, 60 seconds, even 90 and 120 seconds. And then,
your bracketed exposures are long, too-say, 30-second increments.
(Every so often a photographer rounds a bend, looking for his next
shot, sees a fellow shooter gazing upward, cable release in hand,
and calls out, "Are you open?") Each of those exposures
seems like an eternity; your sense of time is somehow altered in
the dim light of the little canyon.
Freelance writer and photographer Jane Wingate is based in Farmington,
N.H. She can be reached at her web site: http://www.worldpath.net/~wingate/photo/
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