Thirteen years ago, during that same Tasmanian photographic trip, Joel and I ventured up Mount Wellington. What awaited us at the summit was something neither of us had quite bargained for — a heavy fall of snow, turning the mountain into a world of white.
Joel, the poor lad, bravely drove us higher and higher along that winding mountain road, without a single chain on the tyres. The road was slippery, the bends seemed endless, and the car occasionally skidded beneath us. I remember thinking, somewhere between one corner and the next, that this was probably how a perfectly good photographic expedition might come to a rather unfortunate end. I was nearly having a heart attack.
And then, having survived the ascent, we discovered that we had prepared ourselves beautifully for photography, but almost completely neglected the small matter of winter clothing. We stood there in the snow, cameras in hand, shivering like two fools who had wandered into the wrong season.
Eventually, there was little choice but to huddle together for warmth. Two grown men, somewhere near the summit of Mount Wellington, cuddling simply because neither had thought to bring a proper coat. It was hardly the heroic mountain adventure we had imagined.
For the next two days, we both wandered around with dripping noses, nursing the consequences of our alpine enthusiasm. At the time, it was cold, uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous.
Now, thirteen years later, it has become one of those memories that makes me smile.
Perhaps that is what time does to travel memories. The fear fades, the discomfort disappears, and even the foolishness becomes part of the charm. What remains is the laughter, the companionship, and the strange little stories that photographs alone can never quite tell.
These are the images I took that day, preserved from those early days when photography was still a simple adventure for the two of us. Joel also made a panorama from the mountain, which I eventually had printed. It has since found a permanent place on the wall of my home in Bendigo.
Every time I look at it, I see more than a snowy Tasmanian mountain. I see two younger men, an unprepared winter expedition, a terrifying drive up a winding road, two frozen photographers huddling together for warmth — and, somehow, a very good day.
Thirteen years have passed, but the snow is still there on my wall, quietly keeping the memory alive.
Canon 6D
EF 70-200mm f2.8
Linking Sunday Best
