Monday 1:30 pm, somewhere at 35,000 feet...
I'm looking out the window of the Boeing 757 at a "wrinkle" in the air.
Over the years I've seen it maybe a couple dozen times, but I finally grab
the OM-2S and snap a picture. Sitting in my preferred window exit seat
(more leg room), I notice this strange anomaly in the air. Is it a shock
wave, or a "hole" in the air caused by the extreme rarification over the
wing? Focusing on the anomaly I finally determine that it is approximately
5-6 feet (2 meters) outside of my window and moves back and forth with the
slight variations in speed/movement of the jet. The strange "wavefront"
even casts a shadow on the wing.
I enjoy the challenge of identifying where I am at when flying. Iowa is
easy to identify from the air with its contoured farmland and near-perfect
1-mile grid system of roads. Michigan is so unique in shape that you must
marvel at the apparent humor of the creator in designing a mitten shaped
landscape surrounded by water. New York, with the fingered-lakes region is
cute from cruising altitude whereas Pennsylvania's repeating patterns of
mountainous wrinkles leave little to identify just where you are at.
Flying westward in the USA becomes more interesting than the middle and
southern sections of the country as there are mountains visible for
hundreds of miles in each direction. From the sky you are able to see
erosion and Earth's reshaping on a grand scale. Nebraska's isolated
reaches blend with Wyoming's landscape in such a way that the usual
"boundries", although political and civil in nature show up from the air in
subtle ways, are notibly missing. Somewhere a giant "bullseye" is visible,
a vestage from a geologicaly active time when a "bubble" rose from beneath
the surface and later retreated leaving a fresnel lens shaped structure
behind.
I'm distracted from reading my Tom Clancy book "Shadow Watch" with the
Montana landscape stretching out before me. The barren landscape is
interrupted with an east-west mountain range snowcapped and overlooking a
hundred miles of dry riverbeds and scrub. Soon the spires of the Rockies
become visible and in the distant haze the peaks of Glacier are visible.
Looking downward, the landscape is resembling a sheet of aluminum foil that
had been crumpled and then straightened back out. The thousands of ridges,
hills and mountain are sometimes white topped, but the forests are not
green from this altitude but some shade of deep burgandy.
My mind drifts to the memories of hiking into these same mountains in the
Bob Marshall Wilderness on a solo journey to discover a sunrise on some
remote mountain lake--only to discover not only the beauty of nature, but
the strength and willpower to overcome fear and deadly dehydration.
As the flight passes over Idaho, and into Oregon, the valleys are covered
by a cloud layer resembling a lake--A lake of clouds gently lapping against
the shoreline of mountain ramparts. An occasional "island" of a mountain
interrupts the mirage and makes you visualize a fishing boat floating in a
cove next to the island. The false imagery gives way occasionally to your
brain gently reminding you of the reality of the scene, but you desire to
hold onto the dreamscape instead. Over eastern Oregon the cloud layer is
moving to the west, flowing over and around mountains and hills. It now
has all the appearance of a wild river flowing over boulders in its
insistant march downhill. A roller, complete with "spray" appears, with
eddies behind. The waves and breakers look frozen in time, with their
movement measured in minutes and hours. As the flight continues west we
fly past these frozen waves and I am transported into some virtual reality
world where I view a rampaging river caught in a timewarp.
Mount Rainier sticks above the landscape like some teenager's hideously
ripe pimple and is the introduction to the Pacific Northwest. Mount Hood,
perfectly shaped is contrasted with the ragged blown apartness of Mount
Saint Helens. Miles of snowy landscape reflect where complete devestation
occured not so many years ago. A mountain nearly disappeared in seconds.
The rolling clouds seem to be funnelling down some canyon. The Columbia
River Gorge soon becomes visible as the clouds wisp away in the warmer air.
It seems as though the cloud cover that blankets the eastern half of
Washington and Oregon is being drained down the Columbia. Whitecaps are
visible from 10,000 feet and it is quite apparant that the gorge is being
thrashed by some severe wind. Later in the evening I watch the news and
the cold air WAS being funnelled down the gorge and winds were exceeding 80
MPH some areas.
In the rental car, two hours later, I am driving over the mountain pass by
Mount Hood. Ignoring the warnings about having chains for the tires I am
pleased that no appreciable snowfall has occured for several days leaving
the road clear. Driving to the east, I suddenly encounter the cloud bank
that I saw from the airplane. With the setting sun behind me and the road
decending straight into the cloud bank, the car ahead of me was instantly
swallowed up when driven into the wall of cloud. In the opposing lane a
truck appeared out of nowhere. I am transfixed by the site of the sharp
outline of trees and hills superimposed on the clouds. The snow and ice
covered trees create a texture in the scene that resembled an ink drawing.
All too soon I was swallowed by the cloud.
I reach my destination just after dark. Flight delays prevented me from
getting to the client's office in time that day, but I retired to my hotel
room to reflect upon the blessings of the day.
I am so thankful for sight and for the ability to enjoy visual blessings
such as what I experienced. I pursued photography with fervency to be able
to share moments like these with those who were not able to be there.
Successfully bringing these moments to others has been more difficult as
the photographs rarely bring the sounds, smells and raw emotions to others
who haven't had similar experiences. An Ansel Adams print is usually
nothing more than a postcard to those who haven't felt the exhileration of
breathing the clean crisp mountain air, hearing an eagle, or listening to
the distant roar of a waterfall. Not all wonders can be recreated by
Disney and displayed in technicolor on IMAX. Did I take many photographs
Monday? Does it matter? Are words enough?
Can words ever be enough? Can pictures ever be enough? A picture may be
"worth a thousand words" but maybe the thousand words are able to bring an
additional emotional experience out that the mere visual image cannot.
Successful photographs often tell a story--although usually not the true
story. A photograph can present a framework for the mind to fill in the
missing details. Like an old Alfred Hitchcock B&W movie, it isn't what is
on the screen that scares you, but what isn't on the screen. We sometimes
so desperately want our photographs to tell the whole story that we put too
many facts into the picture which conflict with the mental image being
generated by the viewer.
Awaking this morning, I was greated by a snowy/icy landscape illuminated by
the rising sun. The freezing fog during the night had covered everything
with a purifying whiteness that erased the blemishes of human
industrialization.
Ken Norton
Image66
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