by Ansel Adams
The caverns did not prove successful for the mural project, however. Obviously, there is no natural light in caves. At Carlsbad, their illumination by the National Park Service was for theatrical, not cave effect. I decided I would need much more artificial lighting than I had brought to achieve a sense of the immense caves, and I resolved to return at a later date.
The processed films for the Potash Company arrived; I opened the package with trembling fingers and found the pictures highly successful. I proudly carried them to the manager’s office and presented them with unabashed pride.
He looked at some and said, “Wonderful! Congratulations!” then got to the largest and most important group of pictures, those of the miners on their platforms drilling into the beautiful crystalline rock. The color was gorgeous, the exposures perfect.
He stared at them and then said, “What in hell were you doing putting those men on wooden planks instead of the mandatory metal supports? This violates government and company regulations; we’d lose our ass if we released these pictures!”
I was in despair. I was obligated to redo the job, and this would mean ordering more film and flashlamps and about a week’s delay. I reminded him I had the assistant superintendent of the mines with me at all times because I wanted the pictures to be correct in all particulars.
He called the unhappy man to his office and spared no words. He telephoned the head office in New York and repeated the outrage while glaring at the assistant whose only defense was, “I didn’t think they would show in the photographs.”
The manager turned to me and said, “Do them over, double the bill, it’s not your fault.” I repeated the particular picture session with success. This was another learning experience—check everything possible well in advance.
In 1942 I continued my national park travels, describing them to Nancy:
En Route, Wyoming, June 11th, 1942
Dear Nancy,
Wish you were right here on this train going north through a very beautiful, but very arid country. Will arrive at Billings, Montana, tonight, then to Yellowstone, then to Glacier, then on west to Rainier and Crater Lake, then home. Have been getting some perfectly swell negatives; developing them in National Park Service darkrooms and am immensely pleased. Got a superb picture of the Never Summer Range west of Rocky Mountain National Park—great snow-covered mountains with shaded, snow-covered hills in the foreground and a very nostalgic sky—well, wait and see, I will send some on.
We are roughing it through a deep canyon; can just see the tops of the walls from the Pullman window. Green, grassy slopes, yellow-cream rocks, sagebrush. Just passed about fifty miles of snowy mountains—so many mountains here there is no chance to remember what they are.
… I’ll take a government car to Yellowstone. Tell old Jackson I will be thinking of him. [Note: The great expedition photographer of the American West, William Henry Jackson, was living in New York City at the age of ninety-nine. He died later that same year.] He might have had a portable darkroom and a 2o×24-inch camera, but I got 280 pounds of baggage and cameras and tripods and typewriters and am having a hell of a time without the old station wagon!!
Just passed an acre of blue lupine with snow peaks in the distance… it’s almost too much.
If your old man has come back from feeding the cat (or worse) give him my best. Same to you.
Yours ever,
Ansel
Next address: c/o Superintendent, Glacier National Park
I quickly became enamored of the geysers of Yellowstone. It is difficult to conceive of any substance in nature more impressively brilliant than the spurting plumes of white waters in sunlight against a deep blue sky. I was delighted photographically with the geysers at dawn, as well as at sunset. The subject matter of Mount Rainier did not lend itself to murals, but rather to photographic interpretations of nature in intimate contact with the world. I was pleased with my quiet studies of leaves and ferns.
Exciting as the mural project was, I soon regretted that I had no prior experience in programs supervised by a bureaucracy. I kept all receipts and submitted a diary describing each day in the field with every hour accounted for, carefully excluding time spent on other projects. I traveled by rail to the parks outside California, and this demanded careful routing simply to be sure I was moving about with minimum mileage and expense to the government. As it was, every one of my travel vouchers was routinely inspected and compared to railroad timetables. All were cleared but one. When I left Rocky Mountain National Park for Glacier National Park, I discovered the shortest bus trip to the next railroad station had been discontinued and I had to take a longer route. A few months later a man with a bulky briefcase visited me in my San Francisco studio with a claim against me for three dollars and eighty cents that represented an over-minimum cost for the bus trip. I explained the situation. It was apparent that his office worked from an out-of-date timetable and did not know of the cancellation. He looked most disconsolate and, pointing to his inch-thick file, said, “Look what we went through for three dollars and eighty cents!” In the spirit of patriotic generosity I wrote him a check for the full amount. He said, “Washington thanks you,” and departed.
Unfortunately the mural project was terminated on July 1, 1942, because of the pressures of World War II. It was not renewed after the war, and the murals for the Interior Department were never made.
In 1945 I submitted an application to the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation for a fellowship to allow my return to photograph the national parks and monuments. I was determined to continue the project that I had begun only four years earlier, not now with the intent of making murals for government walls, but as my own personal creative project. I was granted a Guggenheim in 1946, and it was renewed in 1948. The book My Camera in the National Parks and my second portfolio, The National Parks and Monuments, both appeared in 1950, projects directly related to my Guggenheim Fellowships.
Upon receiving the Guggenheim, I decided to travel to Glacier Bay and Mount McKinley (now called Denali) National Parks in Alaska. Since a trip to the state of Washington in 1942, I had sensed that this northwest country was only the threshold of a certain mystery: the dark evergreens, the northern haze, the shining summits of the Olympic Mountains to the west, and the soaring cone of Mount Rainier below the rising sun suggested further grandeurs to the north. Imaginatively inclined, I felt Alaska might be close to the wilderness perfection I continuously sought.
Michael, now fourteen, accompanied me to Alaska in 1947. Planning our travels I faced a difficult decision. I preferred travel by car, accepted the train, but was frankly scared of flying. Several friends had experienced terminal misfortune in airplanes, and I rationalized that the air was a very unnatural environment for man. Even Edward Weston, the great distruster of technology, flew long before I did, and loved it. I knew when we reached Alaska we had to fly; it was the only practical way to visit many of the areas I wanted to photograph.
Michael and I transferred from train to ship in Seattle for the gorgeous voyage through the Inland Passage and along the Canadian coast to southeast Alaska. I was deeply affected by my first glimpse of the northern coasts and mountains. The rain did not depress me; it was clean and invigorating, and the occasional glimpses of far-off summits gave promise of marvels to come.
Ketchikan, Alaska’s southernmost town, was our first stop. At a distance it reminded me of a New England settlement. As we came closer, an appalling array of junk and disorder was revealed. The tide was low and the shoreline was a hideous gathering of filth of all description. The architecture of the town was “shackesque.”
We progressed up the Inland Passage to Juneau, Alaska’s capital, which was superior to the other towns of the region in its advanced “shackesque” character. Juneau’s setting is spectacular, crowded upon the narrow strip of land between Douglas Sound and the precipitous mountains that rise above the last streets and footpaths of civilization.
At that time Alaska was a territory whose g
overnor was appointed by the Secretary of the Interior. Ickes had written on my behalf to Alaskan Governor Ernest Gruening. We contacted him upon our arrival and on his warm invitation arrived at the governor’s mansion to meet a charming, informal man who quickly became a friend. He and his wife could not have been more helpful to us; we were many times at the mansion, where I met some fine and imaginative people. Alaska was not exactly an Athens, but many citizens were dedicated to it and its future.
Governor Gruening kindly arranged for us to go on the first wildlife and fishing patrol flight of the season; we were to see a good part of southeast Alaska from the air. The wildlife officer, his deputy, Michael, and I gathered at the dock at four in the morning to board the amphibious Grumman Goose. I was shaking, but Michael was ecstatic. We entered what at first looked like a tool shed, a completely noncosmeticized seaplane.
“Ever been on this plane before, mister?” asked the pilot. “Some call it the Flying Coffin, but it’s really a safe kite. We got new engines but the insides are a little crummy. As this is the first day of the fishing season, we check a lot of boats for licenses and catch. Just belt in and relax.”
The two engines were started, wheezing and rumbling from the wings above us, and then revved up with a horrendous roar. The plane had little sound insulation. It started out over slightly choppy water and at full throttle bounced up and away over the mountains. Michael’s eyes were popping out at the terrific noise and the mighty lurching of the old plane; I was transfixed with fear in a hard bucket seat with picks and shovels on one side and burlap and boxes on the other.
We first zoomed over a high meadow and could clearly see some large bears wandering about. Crossing the summit, we dropped swiftly to an inlet and taxied up to a fishing boat and checked on names and licenses. All was well, and we took off again to the south.
After hours of flying, landing, checking fishing boats, occasionally issuing citations, and taking off—all in the midst of incredible scenery and unusually good weather—we landed at Ketchikan. The pilot decided to use the wheels instead of the floats, and we headed for the airport. The plane came in gracefully enough, but it became obvious to the pilot that the right landing wheel was not holding its extension. He yelled for all of us to get over to the left side of the plane and belt up tightly. He brought the plane in on one wheel, balancing for as long as he could. The plane settled down on its wingtip tank and scraped along intermittently until we finally stopped. The only damage was a little paint scraped off the tank. Though nerve-racking, it was an example of excellent piloting.
After a late lunch, the pilot and his deputy had business to conduct, and we were turned loose on the town. I made a few pictures and Michael browsed through the fishing tackle shops. In the meantime the plane’s wheel-plunger was supposedly being serviced, but we found that the proper equipment was not available in Ketchikan. After expressing a few unprintable definitions of the state of the Alaskan airline industry, the pilot said, “Don’t worry, we can get off on one wheel. Just hug the left side.” We put all the movable weight on the left side and plastered ourselves against the frame. The pilot got help to turn the plane in the right direction. The motors roared, and we took off with the right wingtip lightly bouncing a few times on the runway—we were off into the wild blue yonder!
This unsettling adventure was soon forgotten as we flew over the sea and then turned east to the mountains. The pilot said, “I think we should see some nice country on the way home.” We crisscrossed the Coast Range many times, exploring deep valleys, lakes, passes, and peaks. The shadows lengthened and the golden light on the snowy mountains intensified. The pilot told us to crowd up front so that we could better see what was unfolding around us. It was a fantastic experience as we flew over the glaciers and among the craggy masses of mountains. I had no desire to photograph because I did not want to divert my passionate attention from the incredible sights developing around us. We landed in Juneau harbor on the pontoons. After locking up the plane, the pilot and I had a few drinks. A superb day!
The next evening the governor drove us to his cabin northwest of Juneau at Eagle Bay. On the way, being conversationally excited by a political opinion while rounding a sharp curve, we met head-on, though at slow speed, a large government truck. I was sitting in the passenger seat and my skull plowed into the windshield, causing me to see more stars than I would at a planetarium. It was a good bump but I quickly recovered. The two young men in the truck were terrified when they saw that they had collided with license plate “Alaska 1,” but the governor put them at ease, saying, “Nobody’s fault, boys—just an Alaskan event.” We arrived at the cabin and had a happy evening (the governor had no objection to a good party) and we returned to Juneau about midnight.
Our next flight was by scheduled plane from Juneau to Anchorage. The governor had asked the pilot to fly as close to Mounts St. Elias and Logan as regulations permitted. A gloriously clear day revealed a remarkable mountain vista; flying at ten thousand feet we were about midway between the glistening summits and the glaciers entering the sea. I suffered a disturbing headache en route, very unusual for me.
At Anchorage we were met by two representatives of the Alaskan Railway and driven to the yards where I was introduced to a motor-driven rail car by which we would travel to McKinley Park Station. This conveyance was an old stripped-down Plymouth with flanged railroad wheels. The steering wheel was removed but the post remained, a marvelous instrument for impalement.
Our companions were an official of the railroad, who served as our driver, and the railroad’s medical chief. As we headed east the doctor noted my forehead bump and asked, “What happened to you?” I told him about the car-truck encounter the previous evening. I said that I felt fine but that I had suffered a bad headache during the morning flight. He glared at me and said, “Don’t you know it could be fatal to fly after suffering a concussion?” I said I didn’t even know I had a concussion. He admonished me to take it very easy for the next few days. Of course, that was impossible.
The trip to Mount McKinley National Park was memorable. It rained most of the time and the driver of our makeshift rail car discovered that someone had failed to fill the brake sandboxes; applying the brakes without sand on the wet rails had very little effect. We saw a moose ahead and it was a miracle that we avoided him; he ambled off the track just in time! The driver, a bit shaken, decided he should look up the trains scheduled for the day, which might be coming our way on the single track. There were a few sidings we could turn off on, if we could stop. We slowed down to twenty miles per hour.
The driver said, “If you see a train coming, jump!” Then he announced, “In fact, we should be meeting a freight train in a few minutes.” When we saw a siding sign, the driver down-geared the car and it gradually slowed. The driver and the doctor nimbly jumped off and grabbed each side of the car, with considerable effort bringing it to a squeaking stop a few feet from the siding switch. We all then pushed the car off the main track. In about ten minutes the freight passed, our car was pushed back on the rails, and we were on our way. It was raining heavily. The rear wheels spun on the wet rails, but we finally achieved about thirty miles an hour. Fortunately, no other train coming toward us was scheduled for that day, though there was no published schedule for moose traffic.
The rain finally stopped, the rails dried, and the brakes worked. We passed several busy repair crews; the melting permafrost frequently causes the rails to sag, creating a continuous maintenance problem.
We arrived rather late at McKinley Station for a dull dinner and a night plagued with mosquitoes. The next morning we were driven by regular automobile the ninety varied and beautiful miles of park road to the ranger cabin at Wonder Lake, where we stayed for several days. We were near the land of the midnight sun, where it is no longer darker at midnight than early twilight in San Francisco. This region is quite colorful; the mountains to the north reminded me of those in Death Valley.
I was stunned by the vision of Mo
unt McKinley, which rises eighteen thousand feet above its immediate base to its summit of twenty thousand six hundred feet. It is a vast, magnificent mountain, presenting complex challenges to the photographer. Upon arrival, I photographed it, wreathed in clouds and with a glorious full moon setting behind its snowy peak. At about one-thirty A.M. the next morning, as the sun rose, the clouds lifted and the mountain glowed an incredible shade of pink. Laid out in front of Mount McKinley, Wonder Lake was pearlescent against the dark embracing arms of the shoreline. I made what I visualized as an inevitable image. The scale of this great mountain is hard to believe—the camera and I were thirty miles from McKinley’s base.
The weather did not continue to cooperate; it was most discouraging photographically. There were constant clouds about the summits, though we did not suffer the persistent drizzle of the coast. After several days we moved on to Fairbanks, where Michael and I found ourselves in a dust storm with temperatures of ninety-five degrees in the shade. I had always thought of Fairbanks as a below-zero town. In the northern summer, with many extra hours of sun, it can be a very hot place indeed. We returned to Juneau by air, with a stop at Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory. We crossed the famous Chilkoot Pass at an alarmingly low altitude. A heart patient had been put aboard at Whitehorse, and the pilot was asked to fly at as low an altitude as possible. He maneuvered the old DC-4 dexterously through the pass; I could see every blade of grass and wildflower. As we approached the coast, great panoramas of mountains and distant sea were revealed. We circled over the jagged, ice-thorned Mendenhall Glacier and made a safe landing at the airport northwest of Juneau.