I had in mind to recreate the time and place to see that light first hit the tall east face of El Cap.
It can be pretty spectacular.
You will hear me use the phrase, “where the tripod marks are,” and this is one of those times I hunt for the tripod marks. The first time in this story, now that I think of it, but it is an ongoing quest and is old in origin..
Some of the photos I have of first light on on El Capitain at sunrise are exquisite. It is a torch of rock by shape, wide at the top. The utmost part of the ship’s prow is lit, and the contrast can be dramatic.
That was the view I was looking for.
The damn place is so overwhelmingly huge everywhere you look, when certain faces at certain times go light or dark against the backdrop, it allows one to single something out. If only one thing, that thing is singled out, and that helps deal with the overwhelmingness that is Yosemite.
There is probably an academic lesson in beauty there, but there are also wisdoms above such droll essays.
Like I said. I had seen excellent photos. I was not sure at all from which vantages those shots had been achieved, nor did I know what time of year or day.
I showed up in the meadow, awoke early, packed fast, and got moving well before any light hit the top edge of the cliff.
But I got skunked.
It was a gray morning all morning with no breaks in the clouds until mid-morning when the bright lighting was nevertheless flat and bland. Early, I may have gotten a few dark shots with river reflections at the bridge there though.
Sometimes my best shots are anecdotal at the time of their taking, yet iconic upon viewing. I have not looked. I am still in, “Write it all fast while it is fresh,” mode.
I was — the whole time since before camp — way to close.
I needed to move upcanyon some distance to get far enough back to get head, shoulders, midriff, knees, and feet in the shot. My sitter was tall.
I saw i had to walk what looked like a mile east to get The Capitan in wide angle frame. Since the light was flat and gray, I would use the time to get the framing. I’d find a camp too and get my shot tomorrow at dawn!
I did that.
In the genre of Dawn Wall shots, I would put my best one the next morning as less than middling. But it was the best I could get after two sunrises in the area. I would say I did my July 2024 best.
I got rained on good at the camp I found with the view of my model right on my front porch.
Getting that middling shot involved some discomfort.
From the road, I spotted a line of trees that looked like they might be near where the view I foresaw might lay. Ideally, my shot would be right out the front of my tent in the morning.
I then spent a long time looking for a camp that gave me easy access to the dawn photo, but also the river for washing and swimming. I wanted a camp out of view of any road or trails day or night too.
I did not quite succeed at the last. There was a family group walking by on the trail from the road to the river, and as I moved around when they went by, I saw a boy and a dad-aged man look over blandly. I was not anything odd in t landscape. I was only invisible if I was motionless.
They appeared to be building a new trail. It was much cleaner than a fire trail. I found my spot to one side. No one used it the whole time I was there. I got that part of my stealth camp right. I could easily be seen by anyone who used that route. But no one did. There had been no one walking it for weeks, by the tracks. The entrance I found was obscure, and the other end was equally uninviting.
All day, I had been seeing clouds gather, the sky darken, the clouds dissipate, and the sky brighten. I could hear thunder, but it was far distant, and the lightning, if visible, was not seen by me in the form of any flashes at all, even reflected by clouds.
I thought I was safe. The thunder was so distant. It was so warm.
By late=afternoon was so very tired, I wanted only sleep. Sleeping a lot to recuperate from the walking was part of the plan. I made and remade my camp there several times as I saw lines by which the camp could be seen. One of the nice things about free standing tents is you can pick them up and move them.
I had not set up the tarp. It was not stealthy enough. But I had strung the line, and I did have small cords attached to each corner of the tarp. I could get it ready fast.
Good thing I had done all that because I needed it fast.
As I lay their napping in my screen tent, it seemed the thunder was getting nearer and louder, but that was over an hour. I was so relaxed! I was so comfortable! I did not want to get up.
KEEE-RACK!
So near was the lightning, the flash of light and boom were simultaneous. Instantly, a deluge.
It was all I could do to sit up and gather my down sleep bag in my lap to keep it dry before the bottom of my tent was filled with water.
The waterproofing and way the design wrapped up seamlessly on the sides of the floor served better to keep water in that out. I found that out about that screen tent at that instant.
I said, above, “Instantly, a deluge.”
It was like being under a waterfall.
It turned to hail before I could even get the tent unzipped. I was clutching the warm bundle of my sleeping bag in my middle too, bent over to protect it. Goose down bags are useless when wet. I have had some near death experiences with cold nights. Yes, I protected that bag while I got my wits.
Ah. My dry bag. I am just waking up, you see. Not quite in the game yet. Two of them, actually in this packing arrangement. I stuff it in an empty one and place it carefully so as to not even get drops on the outside. And then my feet are am out of the tent, and I’m getting my sandals on.
On this trip, I carried both boots and sandals. The boots were being tested. I did not trust them. The sandals, I knew, despite their limitations, I could trust.
I got the tarp up. I made a dry zone. I got my groundcloth out, and it was soaked. I could not sit on it. I sat on my light foam pad on top of the ground cloth under the tarp with my pile of gear and pack.
If i could figure out a backrest, I could endure the night. All my stuff was being kept dry. I still had a whole underlayer of dry clothes in bag’s drybag.
WHEW!
I looked at my screen tent. What a thing of beauty! Gorgeous engineering. Even with the poles, it weighed only nine ounces more than my old “bivy” sack.*
I no longer liked it.
I wished I had left it home, along with those heavy boots and some other junk.
Just about the time I got everything safe, the rain let up.
The sun came out!
I picked up the screen tent and shook it all out, I set it in another area to dry. I watched the clouds. Yes, it was breaking up!
I moved out from under my then dripping tree cover out into an open area and spread my gear out to dry. With the exception on my bag and some light underclothes, everything I had was wet.
I spent the next hour and a-half before sunset moving everything around to dry it off. I succeeded well enough to go back to sleep,only waking again from rain in the night. But that time, I was ready, and I had my groundcloth and tarp at hand to throw over the screen tent this time.
It worked for light rain.
I slept well enough.
And then I was up and packed. I wanted that dawn wall shot! Another gray morning!
And then, one break in the clouds and one shot of the prow lit up.
That was all I got after two days of trying.
Sigh.
That screen tent, by the way, was not cheap. But I did not buy it. I found it left in a camp by Mt Shasta!
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* “Bivy,” pronounce “bih-vee” is shot for a French word, “bivouac.” It means, “sleeping in the open”; that is, no tent. A light sack, but long, usually, contains you and all your stuff overnight.