WC Bean Photography

The nights leading up to the weekend photo session were restless for the most part and as the time drew nearer I became more and more anxious. Was this thing going to eat me? Chew me beyond recognition? I'd seen deer and elk that were cougar kills and as an illustration of a cat's power and ability I've even seen a housecat kill a rabbit in one swift motion. The power per pound of these animals is awesome. It took all my will power and resolve to avoid picking up the phone and calling to cancel. But I was strong!

Saturday morning dawned clear and beautiful on the plains, the first rays of the sun lighting up the Front Range in my rear view mirror on the drive. That served to calm me a bit, but I was still more nervous than I'd been in a while. The orientation speech Michael gave did little to bolster my confidence. "Whatever you do don't run or show any signs of fear. These maybe pets but they're still wild animals." That's code for "they will kill and eat you if you're not careful."

Okay, done with the speeches, tripods and lenses set up, film loaded, and my shooting site selected. The cat is released by one of Michael's assistants and comes over the hill about 100 yards away headed for Michael and the tidbits of meat he offers as incentive to behave. Right away I notice that the beast seems to be fixated on me. His eyes meet mine over the distance and I immediately look away. ("….don't make eye contact, they think it's a challenge.") The cat, Cheyenne, lopes up to me then walks in a slow circle around me giving me the once over. "Relax" Michael says, "he just likes your deodorant." (which by now has failed miserably)

Finally after 10 seconds which seemed like 10 minutes, the cat comes closer and drags his tongue up the side of my head then plops down to rest about 5 feet from my camera. I could have tugged his tail if I'd been so inclined. Check out the Critters portfolio and you'll see the results.

ESSAY# 2

The Grand Scheme of Things

I've always been a mountains and oceans kind of guy. In the past when a family vacation/photo trip was planned it almost always ended up somewhere in the mountains or near water of some kind. A few years ago, though, we planned a family trip to the desert and from the first sunrise at Arches National Park near Moab, Utah, I've been captivated. A short trip to Lake Powell on that same trip solidified my newfound love of the desert areas of Southern Utah and Northern Arizona.

It's a magical area with vistas ranging from the sandstone formations of Arches and Canyonlands National Parks to the mystical slot formations of Upper and Lower Antelope Canyon near Page, Arizona. While squeezing between the rock formations in Lower Antelope Canyon, it's almost possible to feel the hands of ancient Native American peoples on your shoulder. I've experienced that feeling before in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Very spiritual, soothing, and ethereal. No small coincidence that my recent photo sojourns have been to the desert.

Does that mean I've forsaken my beloved Rocky Mountains? Not a chance! In fact as Autumn draws near I'm starting to tingle in anticipation of seeing some of the huge bull elk that frequent the Morraine Park area of Rocky Mountain National Park when the rut starts in September. And who can forget the glory of the mountains when the aspens are turning? No way I'm ever going to forget about the mountains. There are just too many things here that I haven't photographed or need to see again.

And therein lies the problem. Desert or Mountains? Lake Powell or Puget Sound? Who's to say where the next "favorite" photo op will occur? Add to the mix a request from some dear friends to visit their part of the country. I hear the Great Lakes truly are Great. The Canadian Rockies? Majestic as all get out or so I remember from a trip long ago before I was interested in photography. Majestic enough that a trip there is in the near future. Look for the goofy guy with the tripod. That will most likely be me.

ESSAY# 3

Better Lucky than Good

An old saying, maybe, but one that's all too frequently accurate as was displayed during my first trip to the desert in 1997. An incident that occurred while photographing in Lower Antelope Canyon near Page, Arizona brought home to me the absolute truth of that saying..

The trip started innocently enough in Moab, Utah. It was my first photo excursion to the desert and I was a bit overwhelmed by all the subject matter I encountered the first morning in Arches National Park. I shot some film, but had no clear idea what I was trying to accomplish so it ended up being mostly documentary snapshots. A terrific reason to return someday. One day there then on to our next stop, Halls Crossing on Lake Powell where we had reserved a 3 bedroom trailer and speedboat for a day on the lake.

Lake Powell was all it was billed to be, Jewel of the Desert. The day dawned clear and sunny and after getting the once over on our rented powerboat we were off to explore with some water skiing also on the agenda. Got my first glimpse of some Anasazi dwellings, the Defiance House ruin in Forgotten Canyon. The lake was truly astounding, capturing my attention seemingly at every bend. I knew I'd be back to this place many times. A great day on the lake followed by a wonderful night's sleep and up the next morning on our way to the next destination, Page, Arizona.

One of the reasons I'd included Page as a stop on this trip was my desire to photograph Antelope Canyon, perhaps the most famous slot canyon of all. It is situated about 5 miles outside Page on the Navajo Tribal Lands and appears in countless television commercials, tons of print ads, and just about every existing brochure detailing the virtues of this area.

Those of you that know me know I'm a research junkie. When I'm planning a trip to a location I've never seen I spend countless hours on the internet trying to get an idea of what to expect. That way I can previsualize to a certain extent what I'm going to photograph. My reading on slot canyons kept referring back to one thing: "If there is rain anywhere within 30 miles of the canyon, GET OUT!!! These canyons are natural funnels for water and a flash flood is something you don't want to endure in this confined space."

Two miles outside of Page is the entrance to Antelope Canyon. On one side of the highway a Navajo concessionaire takes your money and shows you the entrance to Lower Antelope Canyon. On the other side of the highway a Navajo concessionaire from another clan takes your money and drives you to the entrance of Upper Antelope Canyon. I chose Lower, paid my $5 and headed down the first in a series of ladders that take you to the heart of this slot canyon 60 feet below the surface. I took a brief look before heading underground and saw that there were some clouds on the horizon but nothing immediately threatening.

Once I reached the bottom of the canyon, it was apparent that this photo experience would be all I ever hoped. There were no bad compositions and changing the angle of view changed everything. It was marvelous. I was in photographer's Heaven for at least a little while. After about an hour of shooting, I began to notice some sand falling on my head and equipment. Obviously the wind on the surface had picked up. Then I noticed that my exposures were getting longer and longer. A glance upwards showed me that it was getting cloudy above my head. Then I noticed that the other people in the canyon were rushing past on their way to the surface and I could hear someone above me shouting something but I couldn't make out the words. I kept thinking "just a few more exposures….I don't know when I'll get this chance again."

All of a sudden, the little man in my head started screaming…"hey, it's cloudy on the surface….clouds equal rain….remember your research and get your dumb butt out of here." I packed up and started hustling to the surface noticing it was getting darker and darker. With about 3 ladders to go, I noticed raindrops starting to fall on me and increased my pace, finally climbing up the last pitch to the surface. I headed over to the parking lot where one of the other tourists asked if I'd seen the concessionaire or heard him shouting for me to get out of the canyon. I said no, but would go back to look for him. I met him after slogging through a torrential downpour to near where the first ladder was. He appeared happy to see me and said "didn't you hear me yelling for you to get out? If you'd been there 10 more minutes, we would have been fishing your body out of Lake Powell in the morning." I thought he was being overly dramatic until I could see the water blasting through the canyon below our feet. Everything I'd read was right….you DON'T want to be in a slot canyon when it's raining.

I made it out and got some marvelous shots, but 2 weeks later, a group of European tourists and their guide got caught in the canyon during a rainstorm and were swept to their deaths. 2 years later one of the bodies had never been found, a terrible testament to the power of a flash flood in a slot canyon. Sometimes it's much better to be lucky than good.

They just don't get it...

It's the kind of morning that city people can't understand. It begins when I wake in the half light that envelopes the world about 30 minutes before dawn and continues as I stand on the porch of a 100 year old farmhouse and watch the sun slide past the horizon. Maybe it's the way they steam rises off my first cup of coffee that tastes so good I could swear it's the nectar of the Gods. Perhaps it's the way the new sun glints off the spider webs in the field just beyond the mown area of lawn making them shine like a new silver coin in the sun. Personally, I believe it's the air.

The storms that moved through night before last and yesterday afternoon have scoured any impurities from the atmosphere and left behind air so pure and clean I'm sure if I take a breath I'll never be able to breathe city air again without choking. It's not quite like mountain air that sears the lungs when I take a breath and it's certainly not the filtered purity of a modern air-conditioned office where I spend most of my waking hours. No, this is something else entirely. A bit more humidity, remnants of the previous storms, but mainly it's the clarity that makes me feel this is what God had in mind when he designed mornings.

I am a photographer after all, and I spend a lot of time praying for mornings like this. When I create an image I try to convey the feelings I experienced when I saw a particular scene and it's almost impossible to make a bad photograph on this kind of day. But a photographer friend once told me the best images are often the ones you don't make so occasionally I leave the cameras in the case and just observe the magic.

I have a lot of friends that wonder why I never travel east to photograph their parts of the country. My wife nags me a lot to visit the cities of the east: New York, Boston, Washington. I'm sure the eastern landscapes are magnificent in their own right and the cities are spectacular but they hold no allure for me. I sometimes struggle to explain why I have no desire to visit any place in the east knowing that they just don't get it.

But I'm okay with that. Really I am. You see when I experience a morning like this I realize it just doesn't matter that they don't get it. The sun is shining on a fresh new world, the magic has begun…I get it.