FIRST LIGHT

Sometimes I ask myself, why would anyone get up at 2:00 a.m., drive three hours in the dark then wade through dew laden, tall grass, soaked to the thighs, just to take a photograph. I don’t dwell on it, don’t really have an answer; it doesn’t matter. I do it; I just do it. On M22, up the shore from Glen Arbor, Michigan you pass old farms that date back to the 1850’s, restored and maintained by the Sleeping Bear National Lake Shore. It’s like a National Park with Park Rangers and Visitors Center, more like a National Monument in that it doesn’t require an act of congress to create one. The Dechow Farm sits less than a mile from Lake Michigan on the south side of the two-lane with sloping meadows that rise up to the south. I discovered it in 1997, been going back with my camera ever since.

The farm house is used to house seasonal employees through the summer then closed in winter. On several occasions I have been invited inside to sleep on the sofa; I didn’t have to get up so early those times or drive so far. So why such a fuss? First Light is an astronomical term that has to do with telescopes but artists and photographers in particular refer to the time of day when gray on the horizon uncovers a darkened landscape, shortly followed by day break and sunshine. Just before and shortly after daybreak the low angle of light splays on the sides of things rather than shining down. It gives everything a different look, one that is treasured by people with cameras. So I want to be exactly where I need to be to get that first light/daybreak view of the meadow. You have to get the shots and move quickly, up to a quarter mile to get the next, best shot; then you keep moving until you’ve done all you can do. It doesn’t last long, maybe three quarters of an hour. The flash of sun light on tree tops while the grass is still covered with haze and mist, it only lasts a few minutes. The fact that you are soaked from the waist down and your mosquito repellent will lose its punch before you finish might dampen the spirit but it is a choice you make and I choose. It comes as close to prayer as I can manage. If there really is a God, I believe this must be where he throws his feet out of bed in the morning, over the drumlins and eskers to the east, illuminating the high meadow first, then the lower meadow and the old barn. Some people go to church, I come here. This morning my feet squished like sponges; I listend to loons waking up in the backwater across the highway and figured, 'If that's not God speaking to me then he doesn't speak at all.' In translation it comes out, 'You are exactly where you are supposed to be.'

This morning was perfect; a few high, citrus clouds and plenty of sky. A little after eight o’clock, Art’s Tavern in Glen Arbor, I ordered eggs and toast along with tourists who had just risen for the day. I changed from soaked jeans and tennis shoes to shorts and sandals in the men’s room and went back to my table where my food was waiting. Outside, everything had turned dark. Pennants stretched across the street and flags over store fronts were straight out in the wind and giant rain drops began to pelt the windows. It lasted half an hour, torrents were running in the gutters and everyone in town thought Art’s was the only dry spot. I gave up my table shortly and waited by the door. Couldn’t help thinking how lucky I was. The weather report had mentioned, possible chance of showers but this was a frog strangler.  I got my work done before the squall blew in off the lake. Good fortune has favored me recently. I was back in Grand Rapids early afternoon with a couple of hundred photos to sort, cull and edit. My first shot of the day may be the best.