I walk up the steep slope in the deep snow. Two long weeks and 17 rolls of film. I have one last shot and want to find something different.
I walk up the large slope until I finally find a place flat and large enough for me to sit with my camera on its stand.
I try to settle in and set up my camera. I am too distracted in it to even look up and see where I sit.
Finally my camera is ready and I can finally change the lens so I can see where I am. I am looking through the sight to check the focus when I see where I am.
The mountains buried in the snow and ice stretch out below me. My eyes carry left and right to watch them disappear into the horizon. I clouds roll above my head casting shadows around and through the mountains.
I lean back from where I was on the mountain. My back presses into the snow and my head rests on the cliff side. I close my eyes just hearing the complete and utter silence of the mountains. There is no sound in the mountains, everything holding its breath.
I open my eyes again and finally look into my camera sigh and see the positioning of the lens.
The frame overlooks the snow and darkens the shadows of the dark clouds above. The sun is hidden behind the clouds showing the eerie edges of the sky.
The wind starts to pick up blowing the snow below me. It twists and twirls in small puffs and clouds. The fallen flakes cast small shadows as they dance over the ground. The winds starts to whistle past me along the mountain side.
I look through the lens on more time, trying to focus it to a certain point. My last shot of the roll then I will head back down the mountain and home to the warmer climate nearer to the equator.
I press my finger onto the shot button slightly, trying to find the location and focus of the shot, inside of the window allowed by my tripod.
A movement flashes across my vision as I click the button all the way down. I know that my shot was lost and I throw myself back against the cliff side in frustration.
I travel back down the mountain and home knowing that I lost my last perfect shot of the mountains.
I find my way to my office and into my dark room to develop my film from my long trip. They are all of the water and the falls. The snow against the rocks and the ice hanging from the trees. They are all picture perfect. They are exactly what I needed to find on my trip, but I didn’t have a perfect shot that screamed for attention. One that demanded to be looked at and that demanded to be seen against the white pages.
I finally reached that last shot. The last picture of the last roll. The one I tried to catch up on the cliff side.
I look at the developed film and I see it. There in my hand was the picture I went on the trip for. The one that would demand to be known. Not for me to be known, but to be known on its own. The one picture to be made for all pictures.
Finally I found the photograph from the mountain side.
