Eloquent Images by Gary Hart
Insight, information, and inspiration for the inquisitive nature photographer
Stupid Things I’ve Done
Sunset Moonrise, Bridalveil Fall, Yosemite
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 100
f/9
1/4 second
Wearing the mantle “professional” saddles pro photographers with an image that isn’t necessarily justified. For example, consider the perception that we never make stupid mistakes. Well, I’m here to disabuse you of that notion, at least as far as this professional photographer is concerned.
Stuff happens. No photographer, no matter how proficient, is immune to those little mental hiccups that dog our daily photography lives: lens caps get lost (then magically reappear in a pocket you checked four times), alarms get set for PM instead of AM, batteries don’t get charged, and media cards fill at just the wrong time. In the big picture, these are all relatively inconsequential and quickly forgotten.
Then there are those embarrassing self-inflicted mishaps that might cause you glance around to see if anyone else noticed. Things like shooting an entire sunrise using the ISO used for last night’s Milky Way shoot, or suddenly learning that a tripod leg wasn’t quite as secure as you believed—by the sound of camera gear impacting pavement (the worst sound known to humankind). Guilty, and guilty.
But I suspect that most (all?) photographers, from green beginner to seasoned pro, have made even bigger mistakes that they’re reluctant to share. And I’m afraid too many inexperienced photographers, unaware that they aren’t alone in their self-inflicted misfortune, are too quick to label themselves “stupid” for the kinds of mistakes we all make. So, as a public service, here are some of mine.
The two foolish moves that instantly come to mind are “chasing the shot” moments infused with an urgency that dulled my judgement. First, there was the time while running late for a sunset at Mono Lake, I ended up on the wrong road and drove into a creek that turned out to be too deep for my Toyota Tacoma. The second one was being so confident that in my knowledge of Maui’s most remote road, I drove my rental car onto an overgrown trail and got stuck in the mud at the bottom of a steep hill.
But those two mishaps notwithstanding, I have to say that my signature move seems to be driving off without my gear. I don’t mean just leaving it in the closet in my office (though there was time I drove all the way to my Death Valley workshop before I realized I’d forgotten my computer…), I mean actually leaving valuable camera gear in the wild while I headed off to the next location. Just to be clear, this propensity is not so strong that it would pay you to follow me and snatch whatever gear I’ve left behind (sorry), but in my 20+ years as a professional, I can cite maybe five times that some or all of my gear has been left behind. Usually (if you’ll permit me an excuse) it’s been while working with a workshop group, and I just forgot that I’d even gotten my gear out in the first place.
But even that excuse falls apart when you learn that my worst abandoned gear offense can’t be blamed on workshop distraction. That was the time, on the day following my Grand Canyon raft trip, I hopped into my Uber out front of the Las Vegas Convention Center Marriott and left my camera bag (including still unloaded cards with all the images from the trip) on the sidewalk. I’m happy to say that all of these mishaps had happy endings—either I discovered my mistake quickly and returned to find my gear exactly where I’d left it, or someone else had found and secured my stuff until I could return.
I’m reminded of all this because the image I share today was preceded by my most recent gear abandonment event. It was the last day of my April Moonbow and Wildflowers photo workshop early last month, and my group and I had just wrapped up a really nice poppy shoot in the Merced River Canyon. We were wrapping up the workshop with a very special full moonrise over Bridalveil Fall, the only time of year when the moon aligns perfectly with a swollen Bridalveil. But with a little time to kill before the moonrise, I decided to take my group to one more location.
I don’t usually take groups to that relatively unknown view of El Capitan because there isn’t a lot of room for an entire group, but we’d had some attrition (which sometimes happens as people depart early to catch flights home on the workshop’s final day), so I decided to reward the remaining participants. I don’t shoot a lot in my workshops unless I think I can get something special, but since I like this spot and don’t get there often, just in case I grabbed my camera bag from the car before making the short walk to the view. I ended up just setting my bag on the ground beneath a tree while I worked with my students, then never thought about it again.
So, imagine my surprise when I opened the lift-gate of my Outback and saw an empty void where my camera bag should be. The sight disoriented me so much, at first thought I’d left it at our poppy location, the last place I’d actually taken any pictures, but someone in the group reminded me that I’d taken it out at the El Capitan view too. I wanted in the worst way to instantly retreat to rescue my bag, but was also aware that I was responsible for my workshop group. So I was extremely grateful that they unanimously (and enthusiastically) insisted that I go, that they’d be fine without me. I didn’t need to be told more than once.
I’d been looking forward to this moonrise all workshop, and building it up to the group as a great grand finale, but before leaving I saw that a persistent cloud bank threatened to erase the moon entirely. Nevertheless, before departing I told them when to start looking and pointed to the spot the moon would appear if the clouds parted, then promised to be back as quickly as possible. Honestly, given the late hour and location where I’d left the bag, I was more concerned about missing the moonrise than I was about losing my bag.
I made record time and was back in 20 minutes, camera bag in hand and a smile on my face. My smile widened when I saw that my group was happily clicking away at the rising moon. I love photographing the moon’s first peek above the horizon with an ultra-long telephoto, but my blunder shot that plan in the foot, so I went straight to my 24-105. With so little time remaining, and plenty of vertical versions of this scene from previous years, I just concentrated on horizontal compositions. Going horizontal also enabled me to eliminate most of the canyon and compose tighter than I usually do (85mm), making the moon bigger.
As we shot, the moon ascended through the clouds, intermittently disappearing and peeking out. Eventually it disappeared completely and I was afraid it might be gone for good, but when a couple of small gaps opened, just as the last light colored the clouds and highest granite, I was able to get a few more frames. Shortly after I clicked this, it was gone again and we were done.
The point I’m trying to make is…
In my workshops I see a lot of people beating themselves up for mistakes, big and small, that they have no idea others do all the time. Doing stupid things doesn’t make you a stupid person—I’m not stupid (despite appearances to the contrary), and neither are you. Be kind to yourself.
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Eloquent Images by Gary Hart 
You gave me my first chuckle of the day! Thanks! No worries, you are still on the photographer pedestal in my eyes, and I’m happy to know you are human! Lovely photos: Thanks for sharing! (Oh….I do feel better about MY mishaps now. LOL)
I so enjoyed your article! I know it’s been a long (too long) time since I’ve been in one of your workshops. I seem to remember being counted on for at least one “less than elegant” move during each workshop I did attend. I like to think of them as comic relief for the workshop group. Please be assured, I’m still at it. Would you like an autographed photo of the inside of a lens cover?