Once more, into the night, I set off. I’m no stranger to the world after sundown, and the transition of dancing shadows into the time of darkness is alluring to me. The quietness that creeps in as the rest of the world heads to sleep sings loudly in my soul. I hear, I listen, I embrace the darkness, and I revel in the land without light. In the depths of winter, the Alaskan nights are pierced and dispelled by the dazzling displays of the Aurora Borealis—the famed northern lights.
My adventures in Alaska have been, to say the least, amazing. I’ve photographed majestic bald eagles and been inspired by their grace and intensity. While bushwhacking along unarmed streams on an uninhabited island I’ve encountered bears that I was searching for. And I’ve even chartered a boat to sail the waters of the Inner Passage allowing me to be up close with the phenomenal humpback whales.
Yet, these daytime adventures are only part of my Alaska experience—the Northern Lights are an adventure in and of themselves.
On the surface, photographing the northern lights is as easy as it gets. All you need to do is wait for nighttime. Then, stand in front of a decent foreground. Finally, snap a picture of the lights. What could be easier? You’ll have the perfect snapshot with no effort at all, and you’ll wonder what all the fuss is about.
Until, of course, it comes time to actually do that. Reality has a way of crashing the party.
And so does discouragement, whom we’ll meet in a while.
You can see the northern lights in many places—Iceland and Norway spring to mind, but Alaska is my preferred location. The lights can appear any time of the year, too. However, summer nights are the shortest nights, and in the northern latitudes, the least dark. Winter nights are the longest and the darkest. So, we’ve narrowed it down to Alaska in the winter. Which also happens to be the most difficult time of the year because, well, it’s winter. And winter means cold.
The Alaskan cold is nothing to take lightly. It’s not a cold you can shrug off. You need to be prepared for it, to embrace it, and to come to terms with it. It’s not for the faint of heart. The Alaskan nights are brutal, and photographing the lights will push you to, and beyond, your limits.
Well, OK. You can be comfortable seeing the lights. There are resorts with heated glass domes where you can see the Aurora Borealis if it appears. You can even have someone wake you up, too, so you don’t have to stay awake. But—that doesn’t work for me. I cannot, and will not, photograph from inside a dome. I need to be where there are no artificial lights spoiling the darkness. Vast landscapes are not found within a city or resort. No, I need to be miles and miles away from everything, alone in the Alaskan night, hunting the northern lights on my terms.
For me, there is no other way.
As much as I complain about being cold—and I frequently whine about cold weather—I am prepared for it. My parka is as warm as they come, my gloves and mittens are top-notch, and the rest of my gear is up to the challenge. Alaska has taught me, if nothing else, what the true meaning of cold is.
Standing still in a snowbank in the middle of a February night in howling wind and sub-zero temperatures tends to be a good teacher.
I’ve learned many lessons. There is more to be learned, of course, but I feel I am on the right track.
This was the set up for my first grand northern lights photograph, River’s Aurora. I was north of Fairbanks out along the Steese Highway. The Steese is a favorite haunt of mine, thanks to it being paved for a long way and heading out into the remote wilderness. Plus, it has some staggeringly good foregrounds and views, too. Perfect!
River’s Aurora was made along the Steese. That night, although the sky was perfect, the lights had decided to take the night off. There’s never a guarantee you’ll see the lights on any given night. Usually, you have a good chance of seeing them. But that’s a chance, not a certainty. They might appear directly overhead or miles away. They might hang out all night, or you might see them for only a moment. You never know, but the only way to photograph them is to be out there waiting.
That means standing in the cold, watching. There is no better way to be cold than standing still, too. When the wind is blowing, well, that just adds to the cold. Believe me when I say this is some of the most intense cold you are likely to encounter. There is nothing for it but to endure it, waiting, hoping the lights will appear.
They will or they won’t. But you will be crazily cold, either way.
So, back to River’s Aurora. The windy night, despite perfectly clear skies, was shaping up to be a bust. No sign at of the lights. Several times, I thought they might be appearing, but it was just my mind playing tricks on me. I persevered, though, and continued my vigil. I was going to outlast the Alaskan nights!
And, remarkably, I did.
Just after 2:30am the lights danced out of nowhere. They swirled and whirled across the sky, racing to their own secret destination. They appeared to be emanating from one point, though, and I realized that by standing in a snowbank over a frozen river, I could create this composition. I now waited, more impatiently than ever, for the exact right moment. I shivered. The lights danced.
And then it happened. The exact right moment came together as I willed my frozen fingers to life. River’s Aurora is that result.
Let’s fast forward a couple of years later and push out further away from Fairbanks. We’re getting into very remote areas which means the darkest possible skies you can find anywhere. There are no humans, no artificial lights, and nothing at all for mile upon countless mile. This. This is Alaska.
Up at the top of a pass there exists a panoramic view that captivates me. There’s something about this view that I can’t put my finger on. The mountains are far from the tallest I’ve ever photographed—far, far from that. The peaks, such as they are, are low and rounded. There are empty fields with a few trees scattered here and there. In so many other places it is a decidedly unremarkable view. Yet here, at night, the mundane transcends into the sublime.
Mountain’s Aurora is the fruit of patience. Not only did I wait for the Aurora Borealis to appear over a night, I waited it out over several nights over several years. I knew, deep in my heart, that a magical photograph was possible. I just had to go back, time and again, year after year, waiting for the moment.
That in itself isn’t easy. I go out early in the evening, waiting for full dark to envelop me. My heart is full of hope as I wonder what awaits me. I might see a faint display or perhaps even a simple sheet of color. As the night drags on, though, and no magic happens, it becomes harder and harder to keep the faith. Discouragement creeps up alongside me and wraps itself around me, keeping me company. As dawn begins to make itself known, it’s time to pack up. The drive back is three, maybe ten, times as long as it was on the way out.
Then I do that again the next night. This time, Discouragement is there ahead of me. I try to keep it at bay, but before long we’re best friends again.
The cycle repeats. The nights become colder.
It would be easy to say “No, not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.” But that’s giving in to temptation. Faith requires strength, and so I gird myself to face the cold once again. I make the trek back to the mountaintop and defy the cold. Discouragement is there, waiting for me, but I tell it we can no longer see each other. It slinks away as the sky dance begins, off in the distance.
It’s different this time. Very different.
The lights are not faint. They are bright. They are not a single sheet of green. Not only that, but they are defined bands. And they’re colorful. Bright. Vibrant. Lighting the heavens above and my heart within. Discouragement takes a glance at the sky and runs for cover, knowing it has been vanquished.
Mountain’s Aurora comes to life! There is no cold nor discomfort. There is only light and color cascading across the sky. One awesome moment is transcended by the next, and it’s challenging to know which is the best moment to make the photograph because they are all amazing. I choose the best one, though.
Looking back on that experience, just one of the many Alaskan nights, I don’t really remember the cold nor discomfort. I only recall the elation I felt and how inspiring the display was. I can remember exactly when I made this photograph, and I can recall precisely how I felt as I did. The entire moment is seared into my memory. And I think that comes through in this photograph.
I could go on forever, but I think we’ll begin to draw this adventure to a close. Next, we’re heading several hours south of Fairbanks because there is one photograph I wanted to make. It doesn’t involve soaring mountains. Instead, I wanted the aurora over water and ice, and I knew just the place to go.
There is a small, intimate beach next to a river that showed excellent promise. “Beach” is more of a euphemism, I suppose, because it’s not a traditional sandy beach you might think of. It’s more of a way to access the river, but “beach” is as good a word as any to describe it.
Interestingly, on my drive there I saw Discouragement hitchhiking along the road. It had its thumb up and was trying to grab a ride with me. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even slow down. In fact, I sped up and pointedly ignored it. It had no place with me tonight.
From the small beach I had a safe and easy way to photograph over the water. All I needed was the aurora. I began to set up my gear, carefully preparing it. I bundled into my warm parka, fussed with my mittens and gloves, and generally got everything ready. Furthermore, I was so focused on preparing for the wait that I forgot to look at the sky.
A glint caught the corner of my eye, and I glanced upward. I almost fainted. The aurora was out tonight, and was it spectacular!
It held itself poised, waiting. It curled and whirled, unwinding itself as I approached my camera. I framed the photograph, and just as I was ready to create the photograph, the aurora exploded into the most incredible display!
My parka was even fully zipped as I made Aurora’s Glory, but I never felt the cold. Now I had the photograph I wanted. It’s as if it saved a special treat just for me. Sometimes, everything comes together just as you planned it, and sometimes, like tonight, it comes together even better than you hoped for!
There are so many more Alaskan nights to share, but this is a good place to stop for now. Occasionally, it takes patience and the willingness to be mightily uncomfortable to create the photograph I want. Other times, circumstances come together seemingly on their own to create it. The results, though, speak for themselves. I’ll be back in Alaska, both in the daylight and after dark. There are more adventures waiting for me!
Oh! And Discouragement? I saw it on the way back as it was still looking for a ride. Too bad. It’s just not for me.
Bring the Journey Home
You don’t have to stand in the cold to enjoy the Northern Lights! Mountain’s Aurora can be created, just for you.
