I was already being cautious: still walking with a limp, I have to be careful with every step, especially when walking in snow. If a path is well-trod, I'm pretty good as long as the snow is hard-packed, but the natural unevenness still gives me pause, makes me plan my steps well.
If I'm simply following in another's footsteps, it can be trickier and I'm more susceptible to losing my balance. After last week's trial and error, I've decided to avoid walking in snow this way.
Last Saturday couldn't have been more beautiful. Plenty of sunshine and warm enough that you could endure the outdoors without wearing mittens or gloves—for a short duration, anyway. I had the added privilege of exploring a lovely and peaceful site in the Ottawa Valley, the Blakeney Rapids, in Mississippi Mills.
Being a member of the Ottawa Photography Meetup group, I joined a handful of photographers and converged on this spot. We met on the narrow bridge that spans the Mississippi River and worked our way over the trails that follow the flow of the river, northward.
I shared some of my photos yesterday, in my Wordless Wednesday post.
I stuck to the main trails, only following the worn paths as far as they would get me to the river. I never ventured beyond these paths: there was no telling where the land ended and covered water began. Still, many of the trails took us close enough to the water where you wouldn't want to trip.
The air may have been mild: the water certainly was not.
One of the photographers in our group, I noticed, would often stray from the paths and get closer to moving water. She moved below a wooden footbridge to capture a sliver of water, surrounded by snow and ice. Often, she'd get low, to get as close as possible to pearls of ice that amassed near the water.
On a couple of occasions, she got right against the edge of the Mississippi, right at the rapids. I couldn't tell if she was on an ice shelf or on land, but she made me nervous. I feared that the snow upon which she lay would collapse and would send her into the swift current.
"Please be careful," I advised, "you're making my heart race."
My heart was just slowing after I had my own scare, moments before. For this photo walk, I brought my small camera bag and travel tripod. I planned to shoot my first set of photos with my Nikkor 24–70mm zoom lens and then swap over to my super-wide Sigma 10–20mm lens. I had attached a diffuser filter to my Nikkor lens so that, with my tripod, I could slow and smooth out the movement of the water.
At the base of the rapids, which could almost be called waterfalls, I decided to switch my lenses so that I could capture as much of the river as possible. I was on a side trail that had me only a couple of metres away from the water but was about two or three metres above the water's surface. Between me and the drop was an untouched bank of fresh snow: behind me were trees. The trail upon which I stood sloped downward, following the river.
I set my tripod down, to my right, on the slope that was slightly above from where I stood. I had pushed the legs so that they sunk into the path, hopefully giving it more stability. I then proceeded to unscrew the filter from my Nikkor lens and return it to its case. With the filter removed, I could reattach the hood that cuts lens flare and (more importantly, in my opinion) protects the glass. I removed the base cap from my Sigma lens and then unmounted my Nikkor lens from the camera body.
I could just see it in the extreme-most of my peripheral: my tripod was beginning to tip over. Not toward the slope of the path, which would have had it rest against my right leg, but outward, towards the slope that led to the river.
I tend to pride myself on my fast reflexes. Even DW seems in awe of them.
My camera bag has a sash-type strap that allows it to be slung over one shoulder and can be swung in front of me. I like this feature, because I can open the bag and change lenses in a way that, should I drop something, that object will simply fall into the bag. So here I was, with my camera body in the bag and my Nikkor lens in my right hand, just above the body.
But when my tripod started to fall, my reflexes took over. I swung my torso to the right, made to move the lens to my left hand, and with my right hand, I scooped up my tripod before it tumbled down the embankment and possibly into the Mississippi.
Only, my left hand didn't have a firm grip on my lens because I was also holding the base cap in it. And because I twisted my torso to the right, my left hand was no longer over my camera bag. My $2,000 lens slipped from my grasp and fell, lens hood first, into the snow bank, right where it sloped down to the rapids.
Several things happened at once. I yelped. My left hand stuffed the base cap into the camera bag and closed the lid, holding it in place. My right hand, which had already caught the tripod, stuffed the tripod deep into the soft snowbank and then dove for the lens, which was half-buried.
I picked up my lens and straightened myself so that I was once again directly over the camera bag. I retrieved the base cap and twisted it on to the back of the lens. I then turned the lens over to assess the damage to the front of the lens.
The hood had acted as a scoop and all I could see was snow. I removed it from the lens and shook it off. It was wet but undamaged. The lens was also wet, with some snow remaining around the edges of the glass. I blew it away and immediately fogged the glass. I attached the front lens cap and added to the bag, and then mounted the Sigma lens onto the body.
It would be my lens for the rest of my walk.
When I finished sorting myself out, including breathing slowly and steadily to slow my pulse, I resumed taking photos. It was at this point that I noticed the other photographer, a little further down the river, right against the water's edge.
My heart rate increased again.
She was prone, lying on her stomach and closing in on ice formations above the torrent of river. She seemed oblivious to the dangerous position in which she had placed herself. I was certain that she was on an ice shelf, not on terra firma.
She was going to capture some fabulous closeups. Assuming she survived.
"Please be careful," I advised, "you're making my heart race."
"Oh, it's okay," she replied, "I'm a kayaker." Her blasé statement immediately ranked among the stupidest ones that I've ever heard.
"I've used kayaks many times, myself," I said in a bewildered tone. "I've also canoed rapids not unlike these. But I sure wouldn't want to fall into the water today. And I certainly wouldn't want to have to go in after you, if that ice gives way."
She seemed undeterred.
I decided to resolve my concern in the best way that I could control: I captured a few more images and then moved on. The best way to stay dry, I told myself, was to remove myself from any situation that would have me jumping into the frigid Mississippi River.
And besides, I had left my kayak at home. (I don't own a kayak.)
My Nikkor lens is fine, by the way.
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