This is the third in a series of images scanned from old negatives created on my first trip to Yosemite.

 

It was a lazy morning after a challenging night when we found out just how unyielding the ground can be and how little insulation is provided by a tent.  Several campfires in North Pines were contributing to an overall haze in the valley.  That haze, along with the piercing side-lighting of the early morning sun, combined to form long shadows from the trunks of the trees and rays of sunlight filtering through their branches.

 

Human sounds were rare and hushed; most people in our camp were either still in their sleeping bags or else huddled close to the fire, staring aimlessly, holding styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, and simultaneously seeking warmth and greater degrees of consciousness.  Being a “morning person” I saw an opportunity to create images.

 

Despite my having greater-than-average tolerance for the cold, and dexterity honed from several years of daily piano practice, I found my fingers slow to respond and less accurate in their movements.  The air was crisp, and I could see my breath in a cloud slowly dissipating before my face.  The metal body of my old twin-lens reflex was at equilibrium with the ambient temperature, and the ground-glass focusing screen fogged up from my breath — I had to wait for a few minutes for that fog to clear, and then more carefully held my breath to achieve final focus.  I captured 4 or 5 images in that setting; one of which was enlarged and hangs on the wall in my parents’ home, the remainder lay hidden and dormant until one month ago.

 

I can’t see this image without hearing the arrhythmic snaps and crackles of our own campfire, the chattering of squirrels up in the trees, a concerto of lyrical phrases and squawks from the indigenous aviators, and the gentle rushing of the Merced river behind me.  It was a perfect moment painted vividly across my senses.