Note to self: Never leave home without a camera
08/04/11 16:13
I have never been quite as mad at myself for not having a camera with me as I was a few weeks ago when I went up to Hawk Mountain to help clear the trails.
Let me start off by saying it wasn’t entirely my fault... The weather was temperate in Philadelphia; the last bits of snow had melted away several weeks previous. I was going up there to work, not shoot. And the rolling-hills-landscape view from Hawk Mountain isn’t really my cup of tea, when it comes to shooting anyway...
Well, as I drove up the mountain, I began to see snow on the ground. It got deeper the further up I drove. When I got to the visitors’ center, the air was crisp, and the wind was blowing, but the sun was out; it looked like it was going to be one of those beautiful, clear days one typically associates with the fall.
The tops of the trees were encased in ice, as if frozen during a rainfall. The sound of them hitting against each other was like a symphony. Absolutely beautiful. Because the sun was striking them, every once in a while, an ice tube would come crashing down, adding to the music the woods was creating.
As we hit the trails and emerged onto a lookout point, the sun was shining obliquely through the trees at a low angle, catching the ice and refracting and creating dramatic shadows. Now, I have been to some amazing places and photographed some amazing scenes, but I firmly believe that this sight, so humbly close to home, was one of the most breathtaking I have ever seen.
The ice tubes that had fallen from the treetops paved the trail in many spots, and that added to the feeling of enchantment Hawk Mountain held for me that day. As I touched a tree, I felt the smooth ice that was still clinging to its shady side. It’s as if the mountain was trying (and succeeding) in engaging all of my senses. I truly felt like I could breathe.
With all that beauty, and me without a camera to capture it, I couldn’t stand it for very long. After we’d cleared the trails for the springtime hikers, I had to leave. I couldn’t look at that intense beauty any longer, knowing that I couldn’t capture it and probably would never have the opportunity to again.
Let me start off by saying it wasn’t entirely my fault... The weather was temperate in Philadelphia; the last bits of snow had melted away several weeks previous. I was going up there to work, not shoot. And the rolling-hills-landscape view from Hawk Mountain isn’t really my cup of tea, when it comes to shooting anyway...
Well, as I drove up the mountain, I began to see snow on the ground. It got deeper the further up I drove. When I got to the visitors’ center, the air was crisp, and the wind was blowing, but the sun was out; it looked like it was going to be one of those beautiful, clear days one typically associates with the fall.
The tops of the trees were encased in ice, as if frozen during a rainfall. The sound of them hitting against each other was like a symphony. Absolutely beautiful. Because the sun was striking them, every once in a while, an ice tube would come crashing down, adding to the music the woods was creating.
As we hit the trails and emerged onto a lookout point, the sun was shining obliquely through the trees at a low angle, catching the ice and refracting and creating dramatic shadows. Now, I have been to some amazing places and photographed some amazing scenes, but I firmly believe that this sight, so humbly close to home, was one of the most breathtaking I have ever seen.
The ice tubes that had fallen from the treetops paved the trail in many spots, and that added to the feeling of enchantment Hawk Mountain held for me that day. As I touched a tree, I felt the smooth ice that was still clinging to its shady side. It’s as if the mountain was trying (and succeeding) in engaging all of my senses. I truly felt like I could breathe.
With all that beauty, and me without a camera to capture it, I couldn’t stand it for very long. After we’d cleared the trails for the springtime hikers, I had to leave. I couldn’t look at that intense beauty any longer, knowing that I couldn’t capture it and probably would never have the opportunity to again.