The Tetons
Throughout most of my life, the Teton Mountains have been a prominent landmark standing as a sentinel on the eastern horizon. As a young child, whenever we would go fishing or somewhere outdoors, “Who can see the Tetons first?” was a common game. Searching for and finding the Tetons is a comforting, consistent reminder to me of home and place. Sometimes they are obscured by foothills or groves of trees. Sometimes, just the tip of the Grand Teton would be visible. Often, driving around a bend in the road would bring the Tetons into full dramatic view. The Idaho side has miles and miles of rolling farm fields of wheat and potatoes cultivated up to near the foothills of the Tetons. The Wyoming side gives a closer, more easily accessible, dramatic view of the scale of the mountain range. I moved away from Idaho many years ago. Whenever I come back, I always look to the East and try to find the Teton Mountains. It is comforting to see them unchanged despite the changing world.
The Tetons One Last Time
My photographer friend Joe called, “Hey, let’s go to the Tetons and Yellowstone,” he said. We talked about it and decided to do a quick trip the first weekend in October. His health had seriously declined. He had a severe reaction to a COVID-19 vaccine a few years before and almost died from the complications. He had to have both knees replaced and could barely get around. He was having heart complications and was taking more medications than I could count. When we were younger, we would hike through the desert canyons of Southern Utah or climb to a high mountain lake in Wyoming to camp out. For many years, we photographed Yellowstone and the Tetons several times a year. Countless miles driven and hiked, with camera bags over our shoulders and tripods on our backs. It was painful to see him not able to get around like he once did.
I picked him up at his house, loaded his gear, and helped him get into the seat of my SUV. His feet were swollen and wrapped in bandages, and they couldn’t fit into his shoes very well. We drove the familiar road from Utah to Jackson Hole and then on to the Tetons. We had made this drive many times over the years. The conversation was almost the same as it had always been in the past. We talked about photography and the wildlife we hoped to see and get some good photos of. Where to find that secret new angle on the Tetons that no one had photographed before. We talked about the decline of our commercial businesses and wondered how photographers were making a living now, and the newest gear coming out. Then our conversation turned, and he talked about death. He admitted he wished that he had died when his health had gotten bad. “I’m not scared to die,” he said with a slight laugh. “I believe we live on after we die, and I can probably watch the sunrise on the Tetons anytime I want from the other side.”
We drove the short dirt road and pulled into the Schwabachers Landing parking lot an hour before the sun started to rise. It had become a favorite place to photograph the sunrise on the Tetons. When we first started to come here many years ago, there were hardly any other people. Now, if you don’t get here extra early, it is difficult to find a place to park. In the cold morning air, I helped Joe hobble to the place he wanted to photograph and set up his tripod for him. He got his camera mounted and ready for the sunrise. It was a favorite spot for him to photograph. Despite his pain and health issues, he wanted to be here. He usually liked this angle with a telephoto lens and would stay in one spot for the sunrise. I usually prefer a wider shot and to shoot from several different locations. I moved off with my gear a short walk away to shoot the reflection of the moon in the water with the Tetons in the background. The morning sun started to rise, and I made several photographs as the light rays made their way onto the mountain peaks. I have photographed this scene for over 35 years, and it never seems to get old. A moment of connection, becoming a part of the symphony of nature. I hold my breath for a few seconds, close my eyes to feel the moment, and then, as I let my breath out and open my eyes again. Mist from my breath rises into the cold morning air and slowly drifts away with the breeze, sunlight now shining on the mountaintops. I moved to a few different locations, working my way around groups of excited people making photographs, reverently talking like they were in church. I smiled to myself, watching everyone. There were big, expensive cameras secured on big, expensive tripods, with the photographers wearing just the right fashionable outfits. There were others with a flimsy tripod and lower end digital camera, and still others with their phone held up to frame the mountains. It would be easy to get annoyed at all the people who have come to this location to make photographs, taking away from the uniqueness. But I was just amused watching them, listening for how many different languages I could make out. I was intrigued and photographed the people for a while. I made my way back to where Joe was. He was in deep conversation with a man. I noticed tears on the man’s face. “This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he said. He explained that he had saved his money and traveled from Korea to see this. I was moved by his emotion. The sunrise happens all over the world. 2 hours ago, the buildings in New York had the first rays of sunshine hitting them. An hour ago, some random place in the middle of the country. Why was that sunrise so different than this, here, now? How can something so simple as a sunrise be so moving? The sun rises every day. Here, however, at this place, with the ever-present Tetons, we stopped, and we allowed ourselves to connect to something deeper and feel.
Joe died a few weeks later from heart failure. I was glad to have been able to take one last trip with my friend. I returned to the Tetons the next year, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was watching the sunrise as I stood there with my daughter, the sunshine slowly making its way onto the peaks of the Tetons.
