What Would Tom Cruise Do?

Gary Hart Photography: Rising Crescent Moon, Grand Canyon

Rising Crescent, Grand Canyon
Sony a7R V
Sony 24-105 f/4 G
ISO 400
f/11
.6 second

As you might imagine, at the bottom of Grand Canyon the sleep schedule syncs with the sun. In May, that means flopping into our cots to await the stars around 8:00 p.m., then rising around 5:00 a.m. On a typical day, the morning pace is fairly leisurely, providing time for packing up our campsites, coffee, relaxed chat, breakfast, and even a little photography. While all this happens, the guides clean up breakfast and pack up the kitchen and toilets, then let us know when it’s time to queue up for the 5-minute fire-line that loads the boat. By 8:00 a.m. we’re on the water.

But this was not a typical day. The plan this morning, my annual Grand Canyon raft trip’s final full day, was to compress all that morning activity into one hour so we could beat the crowds to Havasu Creek, and catch the best light there. Photographers love clouds, but when clouds aren’t in the forecast, we go for the next best thing: shade. We formulated the Havasu shade strategy the prior afternoon, then sold it to the group at dinner that night. Though some were dubious of our seemingly impossible mission, the guides assured us it was doable if everyone bought in and worked together. And it didn’t hurt that, unlike the trip’s prior nights, this campsite wasn’t positioned with the view toward the southern horizon necessary for a sleep-interrupting Milky Way shoot.

Turns out I actually had a pretty good sleep that night, waking about 4:45 and instantly springing fully rested from bed, very much geared up for the morning’s tight schedule. The first thing I did was pack my cot and walk it down to the staging area in front of the rafts, greeting a few still groggy fellow rafters on the way. But after depositing my cot, I glanced up upstream and did an actual double-take….

Before continuing, I should probably let you know, or at least remind you, that I’m something of a moon fanatic—which I guess would make me quite literally, a “lunatic,” given that the word derives from the Latin word for moonstruck. I’ve always believed that the moon’s presence enhances pretty much any scene, and work hard to include it whenever possible.

Which is why, more than 20 years ago, I started plotting the moon’s potential arrival upon, or departure from, every scene I hoped to photograph, going to great lengths to capture this arrival or departure whenever possible. In fact, many photo trips and workshops are scheduled specifically for a landscape/lunar confluence. And even when the moon isn’t a prime objective, it’s a rare photo trip that I don’t at least know the moon’s status before departing, its phase and daily rise/set positions and times, just in case.

But since the primary celestial goal of my Grand Canyon raft trip is the Milky Way, and it requires moonless nights for the absolute darkest skies possible, I always schedule this trip for the moonless nights around a new moon. Not only that, given that we spend the entire trip in the shadow of vertical walls soaring up to a mile above us, including the moon in my Grand Canyon raft trip images is never a consideration—I simply don’t think about it.

So imagine my surprise when that casual upstream glance revealed a thin slice of moon suspended in the pre-sunrise gloaming, perfectly framed by the canyon’s towering limestone layers. Overcoming my disbelief, I reflexively shouted, “Look at the moon!,” then ran like Tom Cruise to grab my camera gear and race back to the best view. (I also do all my own stunts.)

For about 10 minutes I photographed in rapturous frenzy, completely forgetting our compressed morning. I composed horizontal and vertical, recording many versions of the ever-changing moon, clouds, color, and light. Given the weight restrictions on this trip, my longest lens was a 24-105, but I didn’t stress and (correctly) reasoned that I have more than enough resolution to crop my images down to the tighter compositions the scene called for.

By the time the crescent ascended behind the south wall and I put my camera away (and remembered the departure deadline I’d lobbied the group so hard for), my adrenaline was ramped so high that I had no problem packing the rest of my stuff and catching the last raft out of camp. (Okay, there are only two rafts and we depart together—I’m reasonably confident they wouldn’t have left without me, though I imagine I’d have had to endure a fair amount of good natured abuse.)

I’m fully willing to acknowledge that my passion for moon photography is extreme, a fact confirmed by the fact that most of the group didn’t join me photographing the moon this morning. But that’s okay—we each have our own relationship with the natural world, and my own deep interest in all things celestial predates my interest in photography by more than a decade. The fact that today’s technology (finally) enables me to combine these loves is a true blessing I will never take for granted.

One more truth was with me as I photographed that morning. All week I’d been fully aware that this was my final Grand Canyon raft trip. Drifting downstream, bouncing over rapids, and hiking to so many familiar spots, I’d spent the week silently saying goodbye to all the scenes that had moved me so profoundly on my ten visits. As I composed and clicked, I couldn’t help feel overwhelmed by the realization that this magic place had bestowed a divine parting gift.

I Still Do My Grand Canyon Monsoon Workshop