Ice
Where I live in southwest England, it has to be said, winters are a sad disappointment. Grey, windy and wet – they’ll never catch on. I grew up in Canada, and childhood memories are of a winter wonderland between November and April. I miss those crisp snowy days with the fresh snow hanging from the trees in sparkling winter light – I just don’t get enough of them photographically. I took them for granted back in Ontario; I’d give my eye-teeth for a few of them every winter now. So, the only answer is to head north, or back to Canada.
Of course like all environments there are some particular challenges to working in icy climes. I’m not your grandmother so I won’t implore you to wrap up warmly, but it goes without saying that if you’re not prepared the photography will suffer. This game can involve long periods of inactivity waiting for the perfect conditions for exposure. Battery consumption in the cold is also something to be aware of. It’s shocking how quickly standard alkaline batteries will run down in sub-zero temperatures. To be precise, a set of alkaline AAs will last for approximately 3,000 pictures at 20°C, at -10°C you get just 300. I use lithium batteries in winter, which will last much longer. Also consider keeping your camera body inside your jacket for warmth while waiting. That’s not really an option with the panoramic as it’s a serious beast of a camera. As it’s totally manual, batteries aren’t the issue but leaf shutters don’t like the cold and can stick.
Banff National Park, Alberta, Canada
We’re spending Christmas in Banff, except the unthinkable has happened, there’s no snow! Large areas of ugly brown streak the hillsides, what is the world coming to? Finally, up the Bow Valley near Lake Louise I’ve found a patch where fresh snow is hanging from the trees. Except this morning the whole region sits under a bank of dense, low cloud. I’m standing waiting for the light with frozen toes, wishing I’d bought the thermal boots. Finally there are traces of blue above and the Rockies just start to appear through the clearing mists. I’m balancing the exposure between the sunlit mountains and the foreground with a 0.9 ND graduated filter and for my exposure readings I’m alternating between spot meter readings of the snow in the foreground and the trees in the middle distance. For the snow readings I open up 1½–2 stops on the indicated exposure. The two different methods seem to corroborate each other so I can’t be far out. Eventually the sun burns off all the cloud, but I suspect the shots with the first hints of the peaks looming through will be subtler.
• Fuji GX617, 90mm lens
Berctesgarten, Bavarian Alps, Germany
I’ve got all hot and sweaty trudging up the hill, my boots crunching in the snow; now I’m standing, waiting for the light and cooling rapidly. The picture I have in mind is a straightforward image (the best always are) with the first light of day striking the peaks. Calculating your exposures with a lot of snow around can be tricky, but taking a reading from a mid-tone will always work. The trick is to know what your mid-tone is; in this case I took a spot meter reading off the trees by the Alpine chalet in mid-distance.
• Fuji GX617, 105mm lens
“Exposing for snow is all about considering how much texture you want in the surface”
Eilean Donan Castle, Loch Alsh, Scotland
On our last night the snow fell, giving perfect conditions over the Scottish Highlands just as we have to head south. It’s a deeply painful experience, having to drive away from here now. I’m ruing the deadlines and commitments that clutter up life, making this departure necessary. As we cross the bridge from Skye the first sunlight beams along Loch Alsh, taking our breath away. A few minutes later we’re passing Eilean Donan Castle. This is too much. Not only is there fresh snow but perfect reflections for this classic Scottish scene. I just can’t resist – I pull in and dive for my gear. Stuff the timetable.
• Nikon F5, 17–35mm lens
Winter light can be so dramatic. Days are short and the sun never gets very high in the sky, meaning photography is possible all of the daylight hours. Making exposures with so much light bouncing around – off the snow, ice or water – can be tricky. What do you expose for? Where are the mid-tones? Exposing for snow is all about considering how much texture you want in the surface. Overexpose and the whites blow out, underexpose and the snow looks like a dirty grey mass. Ideally, every crystal and ripple in the snow will be visible. How you tackle this will depend a lot on what kit you’re using. In the old days, and still now with my panoramic camera, I take multiple spot readings off the surface of the snow with a hand-held exposure meter and open up about 1½–2 stops on the indicated reading. Shooting digitally the brightness histogram display becomes an especially useful aid after a test exposure in these situations, to ensure that highlights aren’t being lost. But here again, as with most aspects of photography, experimentation is rewarded. Do tests, note what you’re doing in terms of how you’re exposing, analyse the results carefully, learn from your mistakes and enjoy a warm glow of satisfaction from the winners. With all the technology in the world, trial and error still remains the only way to consistently improve your photography.
As with deserts, the craftsmanship of Mother Nature’s sculptures in snow and ice provides us with endless inspiration. The biggest challenge really of this type of work is finding those perfect icy landscapes – the combination of fresh snow and sparkling light is a rare one.
ALEXANDRA FJORD, ELLESMERE ISLAND, CANADIAN ARCTIC
27 July:
We’re on the first plane in to fog-bound Resolute for ten days, embarking on a sea kayaking expedition in the Canadian Arctic. There’s just one problem; no kayaks. Apparently they’re following on another plane. So, we wait.
28 July:
We’re still awaiting the kayaks, so we’re sampling the joys of Resolute. If Canada had political prisoners this is where they’d be sent. Forget any notions of pristine Arctic landscapes. In the dense fog and biting cold this is a grey, bleak dump; a collection of pre-fab huts that is the jumping off point for many polar explorations. But we’re buzzing at the start of our Arctic Adventure. After all the books we’ve read on the quest for the Northwest Passage we’re here, on Cornwallis Island, and hopefully tomorrow we’re heading further north; to the very edge of the permanent ice-pack, to Alexandra Fjord on Ellesmere Island, off the north shore of Greenland, so far north it’s off the top of most maps. Maybe. Nothing is for sure in the high Arctic.
29 July:
The kayaks have arrived, and so we’re taking off in a Twin Otter with all our gear for two weeks at the top of the world. We fly for two-and-a-half hours in a complete whiteout before bursting out into the sun glinting off the unspeakably spectacular glaciers, peaks, bays and ice flows of Ellesmere Island. It is such a contrast to Resolute. Landing on a vaguely level and straight strip of tundra we set up camp on the edge of a bay crammed with the most beautifully shaped ice. I walk along the shore in the evening; in fact it’s more like midnight, but with 24-hour daylight here time becomes elastic.
30 July:
As we assemble our kayaks, I’m looking at the amount of kit we’ve got to get in. It doesn’t seem possible, even before I consider the photographic stuff; a full Nikon 35mm system, tripod, and the panoramic camera. No way!
31 July:
Finally we’re ready. Our two-man kayaks are crammed full of all we’ll need for a fortnight – camping kit, food and water, all sealed in waterproof sacks. I have no idea how we’ve managed to cram it all in. We’re wearing trendy bright yellow survival suits in case of immersion in the freezing water, and on the foredeck of our vessel I’ve got my camera kit. And so finally we’re off, paddling down Alexandra Fjord on glassy waters amongst the ice floes. Bearded seal occasionally pop up to track our progress. There’s a walrus hauled out on the ice ahead so we spend 15 minutes hiding; they have been known to get inquisitive with kayaks, even amorous. Being tipped into these black icy waters by a humping walrus doesn’t really appeal.
1 August:
With the sun behind thick cloud and a wind blowing off the ice the temperature plummets, and we’re wearing every layer we have. This is the Arctic summer, which lasts for a few weeks at most. You’ve got to wonder what the dark winters are like. Our camp is on an island in the fjord; our tent is definitely a Room with a View. Some time in the afternoon/evening/night (who knows) the wind drops and the clouds part, revealing the most perfect scene of Arctic splendour – flat calm waters mirroring the rippled clouds, floating ice and the sweep of the fjord beyond. This trip has been in the back of my mind for so long, a personal ambition that has finally come to fruition. If I don’t manage to shoot one more picture here it will have been worthwhile, for this.
3 August:
Another day spent dodging the walrus. The pack ice has closed ahead and we have to find a spot to camp before we’re stuck. We’re well into it now, paddling boldly in this pristine wilderness. Mind you, a shower and a malt whisky would be very welcome. But this is the business, it is the wildest, most remote place I have ever been.
4 August:
I’m on a hill looking down on a vista of ice and rock stretching to infinity. In the still air the sound of a barking walrus reverberates over the pack ice. The light from the northern horizon is low and golden. My watch tells me it’s 2am and I really should be getting some sleep, we’ve got another long paddle tomorrow, but I just can’t pull myself away from this scene. In the bay below the rest of the crew are huddled in their sleeping bags. Apart from them I doubt there’s a single other person for hundreds of miles. Certainly I know I am the sole human gazing out at this scene of utter tranquillity. It’s almost possible to believe all is well with the world.
5 August:
We’re floating amongst the ice on mirrored waters. Dipping our paddles into the perfect reflections seems a travesty. I’m grappling with my paddle, trying to get to my cameras without dripping salt water all over them. Kayaks are great ways of getting around these parts but not so good for photographing from. I think I’ve already lost a lens to the salty drips. But I’m not losing sleep about it.
6 August:
A long day, grey and windy. The tents are anchored down with rocks and the sleeping bag has never been so welcoming. I’m contemplating how the trip is going photographically. As usual, the worm of self-doubt turns in my gut. Have I made the most of this unique environment? We’ve seen some incredible sights on the water, but shooting from the canoes is a nightmare. Getting to the camera in a hurry is impossible, by the time I have it and have sorted out my composition without our paddles in the shot, attached a filter and exposed a few frames the rest of the group are way ahead, leaving us adrift in the ice flow. Still, if it were easy everyone would be doing it.
7 August:
We’re talking to Resolute on the radio, trying to coordinate our pick up from a bay to our north. But there are problems, they don’t think a plane can get in there, so we’ll have to head back to Alexandra Fjord.
9 August:
We’ve been camping on a headland north of Alexandra Fjord for two days, waiting for the winds to drop. The previously flat, calm waters are now raging grey seas with white horses and spindrift. There’s no way we can cross in these conditions, so we wait, spending long hours huddled in our tents. I’m reading a book about the early Arctic explorers being forced to spend winters trapped in the ice in these very parts. Hmmm. I’m not sure we’ve enough peanut butter for that. The brief summer is coming to a close, the sun is briefly dipping below the horizon at night and a layer of ice is visible on the waters close to shore. A plane is supposed to be picking us up tomorrow but unless the winds drop it won’t happen, and when one will be able to get in after that, no one knows. We’re all feeling a touch exposed.
10 August:
In the early hours the winds drop and we pack up for the crossing. By the time we’re ready the wind is back at full force, but we decide to go for it. Launching the kayaks over the ice shelf into the churning waters is … challenging. Actually, we’re all terrified. But by helping to stabilize each other’s kayaks we go for it, immediately pointing the bows into the 3ft-high waves. Grey icy water surges over the deck. Once we’re all launched we plough across the fjord, paddling like we’ve never done before, fear balanced by exhilaration. In the middle of the fjord the wind drops and we’re paddling through the bizarre ice shapes, buzzing with our adventure. Moods can change here in seconds – from bleak, icy danger to benign, tranquil beauty. As we haul the boats out for the final time on the south shore it starts snowing.
11 August:
Good news, a Twin Otter is on the way to pick us up. All our flight connections back to the real world have been missed, but who cares? The fresh snow on the mountains backdrops the approaching plane, it’s so beautiful – do I really want to leave? It seems I may not have an option. The pilot’s moaning about our load and says I have to leave my photographic gear for a subsequent plane to pick up. As I suspect that may not be until next summer I dig my heels in: if it can’t go, neither can I. A standoff ensues. Eventually my Canadian friend Jim manages to negotiate an agreement and I’m allowed on the plane clutching my salt-encrusted cameras. The plane labours into the air, heading south, as we peer out at the dramatic Arctic wilderness we are leaving behind.