There we were: 21 amateur photography students in a convoy of four-wheel-drive vehicles in California's Sierra Nevada Mountains. We were following our mentor, the famed photojournalist Galen Rowell, over remote dirt roads, stopping to shoot high cirrus clouds, snap portraits of Indian petroglyphs, and climb through a massive boulder field for overview vistas.
Galen Rowell is known for his portraits of mountains -- high-altitude ice and snow -- but we were about to add fire. From the southern horizon, smoke billowed across the sky, a purple, then orange mass veiling the snowy Sierras.
We didn't stop until we reached the brushfire. It was late afternoon, but dark as night. We fanned out across the road, shooting film as fast as the fire burned. Galen mounted a Nikon F4 on a tripod near a barbed-wire fence, attached a zoom lens, and shot away. "Fill the frame. Zoom in tight!" he shouted.
It resembled a war-zone -- with trees bursting into fiery corpses, acrid smoke, and adrenaline filling the air. A fireman in a gas mask emerged from the smoke, telling us to turn back -- drive the hell away. Galen nodded: "Yes, O.K." but then continued shooting -- seizing the moment, following only his own impulses.
With a gleam in his eyes, he turned to the "class" and asked: "Should we go on through?"
"Yeah, let's go for it!" said a previously enfeebled fashion photographer from Beverly Hills.
Galen smiled, and the class dashed pell-mell back to their vehicles. R. and I jumped into our jeep, with R. insisting that we turn around -- break the security of the group, for she wanted to photograph an inferno further back down the road.
By the time she quickly shot a few frames -- the caravan was gone. We sped back into the black smoke, passing a fire truck and then screeched to a halt at a stop sign. Did they turn left or right?! We went right, started coughing; then couldn't breath at all as the wind shifted the fire -- burning the oxygen out of the air moments before flames roared over the jeep.
Most of my life flashed across the screen behind my eyes -- ending with R., my new love, and I dying before we even started. . . Somehow the jeep went in reverse -- back to life -- turning around. Reaching the stop sign again, clinging to it like castaways to an island.
Then ahead on the roadway, like mirages, we saw a crowd of men in yellow slickers. I drove over to them; R. rolled down the window and asked: "Could you please tell me how to go to town?"
The men all looked at each other and smiled. "Get out of that jeep and I'll show you how to 'go to town'!" one man said. "Hey, Baby. . ." another said, making an obscene gesture with the pole of his shovel.
"Get away from those men!" a fireman said running to us, waving a pistol. "They're convicts -- convicted felons -- and they haven't seen a woman in years!"
Fire to the right, aroused convicts to the left -- so we stayed in the middle -- R. pushing away fear by continuously pressing the shutter on her Nikon.
"Your best bet is to follow the fire truck. We're going through," said the warden. "Bishop is only two miles after that right turn. Stay right on our bumper. . ."
We made the end run -- following our interference. Clear of the fire we drove north on Highway 395, then followed a road up into the Sierras to the parking lot of the Rocky Creek Winter Lodge, where the photography seminar started. The rest of the group was there waiting.
Dazed and shaken, we walked away from the Jeep, wearing the smell of charred sagebrush amidst snowbanks and frigid, alpine air. Surrounded by the group, we groped for words to describe all we had seen.
"Did you get the shots?" Galen inquired.
R. and I put our arms around each other; nodded and smiled -- having come through our "baptism under fire" and knowing full-well the fear and addiction of being frontline photographers.
It was clear from the outset of this photo workshop that there would be no droll or boring lectures. At 9,373 feet, the rustic main Rocky Creek Lodge and 12 cabins were surrounded by towering, snowcapped mountains. A creek purled nearby, and a breeze moved through the pine forest, leaving the air fresh, as if newly minted. We were a world away -- a perfect setting in which to let go of pressing concerns and concentrate on photographing and enjoying the great outdoors.
In the early mornings we cross-country skied or snowshoed into the backcountry, photographing pristine landscapes under Rowell's tutelage. Early evenings we left the alpine lodge to wander down into the desert. On the eastern side of the Sierras the diversity is amazing: fire and ice, and only a few miles apart.
At midday we gathered in the main lodge and dimmed the lights, and then on a slide screen Galen critiqued out individual work publicly, so that we could learn from everyone's errors and accomplishments. Our common photographing foible was thinking small; the real picture was too often left "inside" the overall shot itself. We should have been closer to our subjects and simplified our compositions for dramatic impact. "One trick is to sweep your eye around the edges of the viewfinder," instructed Rowell, "and eliminate the extra, distracting elements before pressing the shutter."
Galen saved his own slides for last, showing both what he had taken alongside of us that day and images from his 10 books -- revealing exotic Himalayan scenes, Alaskan wildlife, and exquisite visions of the Sierras. "Don't be discouraged," he said. "Photography is the only art you can fail at so often and still be successful. When I'm on a magazine shoot I take eighty rolls of film. Maybe I end up with eight great shots."
The last morning we all awoke at 4 a.m. to ride the "snowcat" (some skied) down to our cars. We then headed to Mono Lake, famous for its tufa (similar to limestone) towers, formerly submerged but now standing on the recessed shores like surreal sculptures.
We arrived in the darkness. Before we all went separate ways to create "Mono Lake," Galen gave us some advice: "Most amateur photographers think of landscapes simply as objects to be photographed. They tend to forget that they are never photographing an object bur rather light itself. When there is no light, you'll have no picture; where there is remarkable light, you'll have a remarkable picture. . .
Look first for perfect light; then hunt for something earthbound to match it with."
A few minutes later the edge of the sun lifted above the ancient desert lake. The sky was pink, the water magenta; the tufa towers looked lit from within, glowing gold. Seeing true creation, we tried our best to capture it. The only sound for miles around was the concentrated click of shutters and the whir of film advancing.
Our experience of Mono Lake was the culmination of the trip. Relaxed by being away from day-to-day obligations and invigorated by the high alpine air, we applied the photographic philosophy that Galen Rowell had taught. Each of us, that morning, came close to capturing a masterpiece.
Even after we departed, our photo weekend continued its wondrous workings. We students often called one another to return to the Sierra sites -- and Galen was right. Each site was a new place in a different light.