I’m taking less photos

I have been taking fewer photos since I went digital a few years back, almost none these days. For some reason the action seems to be less of a challenge now, and consequently less meaningful. This probably says more about me than it does about digital photography. I think what the problem is that, while digital technology has made taking photos easier, it has taken the pleasure away. Before my trusty SLR (Manual) suffered its untimely demise in the middle-east, I had a limited number of exposures available, and this made me think carefully about what I wanted to take a photo of, how that picture would be constructed, and what might be happening in the future. Some of my best photos were from the Snowman Trek in Bhutan where I had 360 exposures for 28 days – this focused my mind and made the challenge very enjoyable. The other thing about slide film is that it is a very honest medium – you get what you take. There is limited scope (at least for the amateur) of ‘fixing it up’ or adding effects.

Digital can be a lot more forgiving. Also, I think, the instant gratification of see your digital photo, takes away the anticipation and, in my view, devalues the image. Take one, delete it, take another, still not good enough, delete it etc. This also tends to make you spend your holidays looking through a lens rather than actually taking in the view. It doesn’t suit me, but then I did mention that this article may say more about me than digital photography. I seem to recall that there is some research to say that this is affecting people’s memory of their trips.

So, at the risk of appearing backward, and also grumpy, I have pretty much stopped taking photos. Perhaps I should see if I can get my old SLR fixed  – I think this is the only option, because I am intending to go to Antarctica and I think photos are essential, but I really would like to take film. I think there is at least one place here in Perth that still processes it. However, if push comes to shove, I will probably end up taking a digital camera, but I will be spending more time looking at Antarctica rather than taking photos, because at least then the images will be imprinted on my brain rather than a memory stick. Now I’m going to go back to my cave and start rubbing sticks together to make fire…anyhow, below are two of them photos from Bhutan

 

Lemon Tea

I think I wrote this on the Snowman Trek – it was at the top of a mountain pass somewhere

Lemon Tea

There is little oxygen up here
at five thousand metres,
just desiccated air,
but there is Lemon Tea
that pierces placid tongues.

I could reach out and touch Tibet,
sat here in glorious exhaustion;
just scoop snow from distant peaks,
but only after Lemon Tea,
so sharp, so slick, so sweet.

Chebise

I slumped by a lively mountain river in the murky evening light. We had climbed 1500 metres in three days. Our guide for the Snowman Trek, Pema, assured us that he would keep a close eye on us. And he did have a portable pressure bag if anybody became too sick. The books say you should only climb 300 metres in one day, but this is not an option at the beginning of this trek.

 Three days walking had brought me here, each one bringing a worse headache. It had been a long, hard slog – everybody was stooped, using walking poles for support. Thankfully, I would soon have the luxury of a campsite where I could spend a day acclimatising to the altitude. Perhaps half-an-hour and I’d be there.

One look up the valley reinvigorated me. The snow on Jhomalhari sparkled, vibrant against a still, clear sky. It was a beacon in the late evening gloom as all around the smaller mountains prematurely stole heat and daylight. Trekkers looked up at the magnificence, ‘Wow!’ I hadn’t seen them smile all day. We were all grateful for any opportunity to stop and rest.

That day I had passed people dry-retching because of the altitude; pale and weak they struggled on. There was no quitting without a good reason – a really good reason. All of us had paid to be tortured so. This was the trek to end all treks according to everyone I had talked to; the trek of a lifetime. The best trek in the Himalaya.

People die up here at 4000 metres. The altitude causes their bodies to seep water into their skulls, squeezing their brains, or into their lungs, stifling their blood. Experience has shown me that my body does the former. My headache starts as a dull pain at the base of my skull. It then crawls up and over my brain to a point behind my eyes, increasing in intensity as it goes, enveloping me in throbbing discomfort. That day my brain had been clamped, and some malign being was turning the screw every five minutes. Painkillers do not work. Pema gave me Diamox, which he said would help me get rid of the fluid.

I lay awake that night with my head propped up in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure. But my headache was getting worse, taking over my world. Jhomalhari loomed over me, unseen, like a stupendous tombstone. People die up here at 4000 metres; they go to sleep and never wake up.

I made it through to the next day; it felt like quite an achievement. That morning I sat in a chair eating a deep-fried sandwich, gazing up at the ever-present Jhomalhari, its peak some three kilometres above me.  The Bhutanese cook assured me that this food was good for my endurance, if not my heart. The residue of my headache persisted, but the sun now shone down on me. There was nothing to do for the day but sit listening to the rumble of invisible avalanches, watching the mountain play tag with the ephemeral wispy clouds that tickled its peak, and continue to acclimatise. Perhaps later I’d visit the ruins of the nearby 17^th century fort, but that would be the limit of my exertions.

Eleven high passes lay ahead of me, six of them over 5000 metres: three weeks walking through the most beautiful scenery in the world. I’d soon find out how well my body would cope. Pema said altitude sickness could strike without warning, strike at any time, but that I should now be over the worst of it.

A week later some members of our Bhutanese support crew were still suffering the effects and being treated, like me, with Diamox. At the same time a group one day behind us on the trail reached Chebisa. This is a gorgeous village nestled comfortably in a lush valley beneath a splendid waterfall. A 42-year old American woman was part of the group. Her lungs clogged, stifling her blood. She went to sleep and never woke up. This was the trek of a lifetime. A trek to end all treks.

On the Snowman Trek

Picture this…you’re 20 days into a magnificent trek, you’re climbing up 1000 metres to the top of the plateau at 5000 metres, you’re resting with great gulps of the thin air, and your guide still looks fresh as a daisy. I would have been grumpy if I hadn’t been so tired…but let’s get poetic here…

On the Snowman Trek – heading out of Chozo

‘How far…………to the pass?’

I asked,

while pinned down……. by a Yak’s stare.

‘Three-hundred metres to climb, said Sonam,
jumping easily past said yak.

Pain dulled

by the

magnificence

surrounding;

five-thousand

metres up,

charred lungs,

legs like lead,

enough said.

Onwards.