Eloquent Images by Gary Hart
Insight, information, and inspiration for the inquisitive nature photographer
Going Out a Winner
Milky Way Reflection, Colorado River, Grand Canyon
Sony α1
Sony 14mm f/1.8 GM
ISO 6400
f/1.8
20 seconds
There was nothing easy about this picture. Milky Way photography in general is a challenge, but trying it at the bottom of Grand Canyon is especially harrowing. In addition to the standard Milky Way photography difficulties, like insufficient light essential for composition and focus, any kind of night photography at the bottom of a mile-deep hole adds another level of dark.
In this extreme darkness, some locations are worse than others, and navigating to this one in particular was difficult enough to put it on the fringe of my safety comfort zone. Not only did getting here require a longer than usual walk on uneven and sometimes trailless (is that a word?) terrain, the last section was along a series of narrow ledges where a single misstep might result in a sudden plunge into the Colorado River. Oh, and as if all that wasn’t enough to test me, on the entire walk out here this night, I couldn’t push down the thought that the name of this particular camp is Rattlesnake.
But I was especially motivated to make this shoot work, because…
I knew before the trip started that this, my tenth Grand Canyon raft trip, would be my last one. Rafting Grand Canyon had been a bucket-list item for as long as I could remember, but when I scheduled my first trip way back in 2014, I had no plan to continue once it was it off my list. But, for many reasons, that initial experience so far exceeded expectations, I vowed to continue doing it until people stopped showing up. Fast forward nine more trips: turns out, I’m the person who will stop showing up…
Let me explain. The trip still fills, but not nearly as quickly as it did those first few years, when I already had a waiting list for the next year before the current year’s trip even pushed off. And with costs rising faster than I’ve been able increase the price (see slowing enrollment reference in the previous sentence), and understanding that I’m on the financial hook for a full trip whether or not it fills, somehow my Grand Canyon raft trip had become the most stress-inducing offering on my schedule. So, while I still love the whole rafting experience as much as ever, when I decided to pare a few workshops from that schedule, it seemed like ten (!) Grand Canyon raft trips was a nice round number to go out on.
But I will miss it. Between the sights, the rapids, the guides, and the fantastic people I got to share it all with, it’s pretty difficult to single out one thing I’ll miss most about rafting Grand Canyon. But hold a gun to my head, and I’d have to say it will be the night sky filled with more stars than I’ve ever seen, and so dark the Milky Way actually casts a shadow.
As desperately as I craved a good Milky Way experience (and when I say Milky Way, I refer specifically to our galactic core) on this farewell trip, I always go in knowing that, for many reasons, Milky Way success is far from a sure thing. Even though it’s always a priority, before this one, I’d had trips that had two nice Milky Way shoots, one nice Milky way shoot, and zero nice Milky Way shoots.
First obstacle is that, despite Grand Canyon’s typically clear skies, clouds do happen—I had two trips with so many clouds we never even saw the Milky Way. But even when the sky is clear every night, we still need a little luck to even see the galactic center because, from most campsites, the Colorado River’s general east/west orientation through the canyon puts views of the southern horizon (where the Milky Way hovers in May) behind the looming south wall. It helps that over the years I’ve been able to identify a handful of campsites that are either on the north/south trending Marble Canyon section of the canyon (where we spend our first two nights), or (more rarely) on a south-facing bend in the river. But they’re few and far between.
Since all Colorado River campsites in Grand Canyon are first-come, first-served, my trips can never count on getting one with a Milky Way view. And the Colorado River is unforgivingly one-way—if your first choice campsite is taken, there’s no way to return to that wide open second choice campsite you passed two miles back. This fact sometimes forces us to settle for whatever campsite is available. And with a schedule to maintain, even coming upon an empty ideally oriented campsite is of no value if we’re floating past it at 11 a.m. because we don’t have enough wiggle room in our schedule to lose a half day of rafting.
With all this in mind, at the start of each trip I powwow with the guides to explain (emphasize) my Milky Way and other photography priorities (for example, if it’s sunny, there are several key locations I only want to photograph in the full shade of early morning or late afternoon). We come up with the framework of a plan that by Day-2 is usually out the window, or at least is significantly renegotiated, as things invariably don’t go exactly as planned. And each plan change factors in downstream Milky Way possibilities.
The first thing I do after arriving at a new camp is check its Milky Way opportunities—specifically, I identify south and whether it’s behind a canyon wall (bad), or between the two walls (good). But even an open southern exposure isn’t enough—I know of at least one campsite with a great view of the southern sky, but it’s so overgrown along the river that all we get for a foreground is a bunch of scruffy shrubs. And my groups have also had several campsites where the only place to park the boats is smack in the middle of the only open view of the southern sky. So all the tumblers need to click into place for the Milky Way to work at the bottom of Grand Canyon.
If I determine that tonight’s campsite does have a good view of the Milky Way, at some point (usually at dinner) I give group the night’s Milky Way plan: where it will appear, when it will appear, and the best place to photograph it. I also give a basic Milky Way photography primer (focus, composition, and exposure tips), lecture them about the damage flashlights will do to everyone’s shots (especially red lights!), then make myself available for the inevitable, “Which lens…?,” “How do I get my camera to do…?” questions. By bedtime, most people who hope to photograph the Milky Way are ready (-ish). And of course they know where I’ll be set up if they have problems (but they’ll need to come me, because it’s too dark to safely move around to everyone).
All of my Grand Canyon night shoots are no-host: I tell people where I’ll be and roughly when I’ll be there. In May the earliest the Milky Way rises into view is around 1:30, but to avoid disturbing people who value their sleep more than I do, I never set an alarm because that might disturb those nearby who would rather sleep. Fortunately, I have no problem waking myself up at a specific time, give or take 15 minutes.
There are six nights on this trip. The way the trip usually unfolds, our best chances for the Milky Way are the first two nights, and (if we’re very lucky) the fourth night. On our first night of this trip, we ended up at a spot beneath a wall that blocked the lower half of the Milky Way, but the few of us went for it and did okay—but I knew we could do much better.
Not wanting to hang all our hopes on getting the very nice but difficult to secure campsite on night four, I felt very motivated to make the second night work. But as the afternoon wore on and we continued to encounter good campsites that were already taken, we just floated on. And there comes a point where you just have to take whatever is available so we can start the business of setting up camp and making dinner before it gets too dark. Which is why the guides were actually relieved as we floated up to Rattlesnake camp and found it open, Milky Way be damned. The first thing I did when we landed was pull out my phone and check the compass to find south, and as feared, the S-needle pointed right at a towering wall. Oh well…
But after setting up my campsite, I got my (iPhone) compass out and went exploring. My eye was on a bend in the river a few hundred yards downstream, and I wondered if it might bend far enough to the south to provide a view to the southern sky, and whether it was even possible to get down that far.
As I moved downstream, the route along the river got rockier, eventually turning into a series of sandstone ledges with a steep drop straight to the water. Each time it looked like I couldn’t go any farther downstream, I found a I found a route that got me a little farther. I was at least a quarter mile downstream before reaching a spot where I could go no farther without climbing. (A quarter mile doesn’t sound very far, but in total darkness and without a trail, it feels like forever.) Looking downstream, I saw that this vantage point still didn’t face due south as I’d hoped, but it did provide a clear view southwest. Hmmm—not ideal, but… maybe?
Checking (and re-checking) my astronomy app, I guessed (crossed my fingers) that we might have about a 45-minute window from the time the Milky Way rotated out from behind the canyon wall, until the sky started to brighten enough that we’d start losing essential contrast. And the longer I took in the entire view, the more I liked the river scene we’d be able to put with the Milky Way. If it worked.
Walking back, I took special note of the route, identifying distinctive rocks and shrubs I might be able to use as landmarks in the dark. At camp, I told my group what I’d found, and that the window of opportunity is very small (even the slightest miscalculation on my part could make a difference). I also warned the that the route out there, while only slightly treacherous in daylight, would be exponentially more-so in virtually total darkness. I also told them I’d be going for it. I finished by encouraging anyone even considering going out there in the dark to scout it and make a route plan now.
Before crawling into my sleeping bag, I got my camera and lens combo set up on my tripod and stood it next to my cot. The last thing I did before closing my eyes was set my mental alarm clock for 3 a.m.
I woke up a little before 3:00, grabbed my tripod, and made my way out. Because other people might be either shooting or sleeping, I try not to use any kind of flashlight or headlamp when walking around at night, but using only my cell phone screen to illuminate my next step, I didn’t really have much trouble finding the way, one step (as far as I could see) at time until I was there.
I was surprised and pleased to see how many people were already out there—on this trip I have a lot of non-photographers who join photographer friends and loved-ones, but I’d guess close to a third of the group was there already, and a few more joined shortly after I arrived. With no light, I poked around on the sandstone until my eyes to completely adjusted, and eventually edged my way out to the farthest ledge. Then I went to work.
I did my usual vertical (first) and horizontal composition mix, trying different ISO and shutter speed settings to give myself more processing options. I also moved around a little, eventually photographing from three different positions within about a 30-foot radius. From my first frame to my last was only 25 minutes, but by the time I’d finished, I knew I’d had a Milky Way success I so wanted on my final trip.
Eloquent Images by Gary Hart 
The inaugural trip in 2014 is one of my favorite adventures of all time. The river and the camaraderie combined to create a dazzling adventure. And my Milky Way image from the trip is still a personal favorite.
WOW