PHOTOGRAPHY IN THE ARCTIC
THERE is no country in which an anastigmatic lens is of more use to the
photographer than Alaska, and every camera with which it is hoped to
take winter scenes should have this equipment. During two or three
months in the year it makes the difference in practice between getting
photographs and getting none. In theory one may always set up a tripod
and increase length of exposure as light diminishes. But the most
interesting scenes, the most attractive effects often present themselves
under the severest conditions of weather, and he must be an enthusiast,
indeed, who will get his tripod from the sled, pull out its telescoped
tubes, set it up and adjust it for a picture with the thermometer at 40 deg.
or 50 deg. below zero; and when he is done he is very likely to be a frozen
enthusiast.
With an anastigmatic lens working at, say f. 6-3, and with a "speed"
film (glass plates are utterly out of the question on the trail), it is
possible to make a snap-shot at one twenty-fifth of a second on a clear
day, around noon, even in the dead of winter, in any part of Alaska that
the writer has travelled in. There are those who write that they can
always hold a camera still enough to get a sharp negative at even one
tenth of a second. Probably the personal equation counts largely in
such a matter, and a man of very decided phlegmatic temperament may have
advantage over his more sanguine and nervous brother. The thing may be
done; the writer has done it himself; but the point is it cannot be
depended on; at this speed three out of four of his exposures will be
blurred, whereas at one twenty-fifth of a second a sharp, clear negative
may always be secured.
It may be admitted at once that at extremely low temperatures the
working of any shutter becomes doubtful, and most of them go out of any
reliable action altogether. After trying and failing completely with
three or four of the more expensive makes of shutters, the writer has
for the last few years used a "Volute" with general satisfaction, though
in the great cold even that shutter (from which all trace of grease or
oil was carefully removed by the makers) is somewhat slowed up, so that
a rare exposure at 50 deg. or 60 deg. below zero would be made at an indicated
speed of one fiftieth rather than at one twenty-fifth, taking the chance
of an under-exposed rather than a blurred negative. To wish for a
shutter of absolute correctness and of absolute dependability under all
circumstances, arranged for exposures of one fifteenth and one twentieth
as well as one tenth and one twenty-fifth, is probably to wish for the
unobtainable.
[Sidenote: CARE OF FILMS AND CAMERAS]
The care of the camera and the films, exposed and unexposed, the winter
through, when travelling on the Alaskan trail, is a very important and
very simple matter, though not generally learned until many negatives
have been spoiled and sometimes lenses injured. It may be summed up in
one general rule--keep instrument and films always outdoors.
One unfamiliar with arctic conditions would not suppose that much
trouble would be caused by that arch-enemy of all photographic
preparations and apparatus--damp, in a country where the thermometer
rarely goes above freezing the winter through; and that is a just
conclusion provided such things be kept in the natural temperature,
outdoors. But consider the great range of temperature when the
thermometer stands at -50 deg. outdoors, and, say, 75 deg. indoors. Here is a
difference of 125 deg.. Anything wooden or metallic, especially anything
metallic, brought into the house immediately condenses the moisture with
which the warm interior atmosphere is laden and becomes in a few moments
covered with frost. Gradually, as the article assumes the temperature of
the room, the frost melts, the water is absorbed, and the damage is done
as surely as though it had been soused in a bucket. If it be necessary
to take camera and films indoors for an interior view--which one does
somewhat reluctantly--the films must be taken at once to the stove and
the camera only very gradually; leaving the latter on the floor, the
coldest part of the room, for a while and shifting its position nearer
and nearer until the frost it has accumulated begins to melt, whereupon
it should be placed close to the heat that the water may evaporate as
fast as it forms.
Outdoors, camera and films alike are perfectly safe, however intense the
cold. Indeed, films keep almost indefinitely in the cold and do not
deteriorate at all. One learns, by and by, to have all films sent
sealed up in tin cans, _and to put them back and seal them up again when
exposed_, despite the maker's instructions not to do so. The maker knows
the rules, but the user learns the exceptions. When films are thus
protected they may be taken indoors or left out indifferently, as no
moist air can get to them.
The rule given is one that all men in this country follow with firearms.
They are always left outdoors, and no iron will rust outdoors in the
winter. Unless a man intend to take his gun to pieces and clean it
thoroughly, he never brings it in the house. The writer has on several
occasions removed an exposed film and inserted a new one outdoors, using
the loaded sled for a table, at 50 deg. below zero; taking the chance of
freezing his fingers rather than of ruining the film. It is an
interesting exercise in dexterity of manipulation. Everything that can
be done with the mittened hand is done, the material is placed within
easy reach--then off with the mittens and gloves, and make the change as
quickly as may be!
There is just one brief season in the year when high speeds of shutters
may be used: in the month of April, when a new flurry of snow has put a
mantle of dazzling whiteness upon the earth and the sun mounts
comparatively high in the heavens. Under such circumstances there is
almost, if not quite, tropical illumination. Here is a picture of native
football at the Allakaket, just north of the Arctic Circle, made late in
April with a Graflex, fitted with a lens working at f. 4.5, at the full
speed of its focal-plane shutter--one one-thousandth of a second. In
five years' use that was the only time when that speed was used, or any
speed above one two-hundred-and-fiftieth. Commonly, even in summer, many
more exposures are made with it at one fiftieth than at one
one-hundredth, for this is not a brightly lit country in summer, and
nearly all visitors and tourists find their negatives much under-timed.
The Graflex, though unapproached in its own sphere, is not a good
all-round camera, despite confident assertions to the contrary. It is
too bulky to carry at all in the winter, and its mechanism is apt to
refuse duty in the cold. The 3A Graflex cannot be turned to make a
perpendicular photograph, but must always be used with the greatest
dimension horizontal. Except in brilliant sunshine it is difficult to
get a sharp focus, and, even though the focus appear sharp on the ground
glass, the negative may prove blurred. Then the instrument is a great
dust catcher and seems to have been constructed with a perverse
ingenuity so as to make it as difficult as possible to clean.
The writer uses his Graflex almost solely for native portraits and
studies, for which purpose it is admirable, and has enabled him to
secure negatives that he could not have obtained with any other hand
camera. Even in the summer, however, he always carries his 3A Folding
Pocket Kodak as well, and uses it instead of the Graflex for landscapes
and large groups. If he had to choose between the two instruments and
confine himself to one, he would unhesitatingly choose the Folding
Pocket Kodak.
The difficulties of winter photography in Alaska do not end with the
making of the exposure. All water must be brought up in a bucket from a
water-hole in the river, and though it be clear water when it is dipped
up from under the ice, it is chiefly ice by the time it reaches the
house, during any cold spell. One learns to be very economical of water
when it is procured with such difficulty, learns to dry prints with
blotting-paper between the successive washings, which is the best way of
washing with the minimum of water. Blotting-paper is decidedly cheaper
than water under some circumstances.
While the rivers run perfectly clear and bright under the ice in the
winter, in summer the turbid water of nearly all our large streams
introduces another difficulty, and photographic operation must sometimes
be deferred for weeks, unless the rain barrels be full or enough ice be
found in the ice-house, over and above the domestic needs, to serve.
[Sidenote: EFFECT OF COLD ON EMULSIONS]
It seems certain that the speed of the sensitive emulsions with which
the films are covered is reduced in very cold weather. To determine
whether or not this was so, the following experiments were resorted to.
The camera was brought out of the house half an hour before noon, at 50 deg.
below zero, and an exposure made immediately. Then the camera was left
in position for an hour and another exposure made. There was little
difference in the strength of the negatives, and what difference there
was seemed in favour of the second exposure. Evidently, if the emulsion
had slowed, the shutter had slowed also; so opportunity was awaited to
make a more decisive test. When there remained but one exposure on a
roll of film, the camera was set outdoors at a temperature of 55 deg. below
zero and left for an hour. Then an exposure was made and the film wound
up and withdrawn; while a new film, just brought from the house, was as
quickly as possible inserted in its place and a second exposure made.
The latter was appreciably stronger. Even this test is, of course, not
entirely conclusive; one would have to be quite sure that the emulsions
were identical; but it confirms the writer's impression that extreme
cold slows the film. It would be an easy matter for the manufacturers to
settle this point beyond question in a modern laboratory, and it is
certainly worth doing.
There is much sameness about winter scenes in Alaska, as the reader has
doubtless already remarked; yet the sameness is more due to a lack of
alertness in the photographer than to an absence of variety. If the
traveller had nothing to think about but his camera, if all other
considerations could be subordinated to the securing of negatives, then,
here as elsewhere, the average merit of pictures would be greater.
Sometimes the most interesting scenes occur in the midst of stress of
difficult travel when there is opportunity for no more than a fleeting
recognition of their pictorial interest. "Tight places" often make
attractive pictures, but most commonly do not get made into pictures at
all. The study of the aspects of nature is likely to languish amidst the
severe weather of the Northern winter, and the bright, clear, mild day
gets photographed into undue prominence. Snow is more or less white and
spruce-trees in the mass are more or less black; one dog team is very
like another; a native village has to be known very well, indeed, to be
distinguishable from another native village. Yet there is individuality,
there is distinction, there is variety, there is contrast, if a man have
but the grace to recognise them and the zeal to record them. Snow itself
has infinite variety; trees, all of them, have characters of their own.
Dogs differ as widely as men and Indians as widely as white men.
[Sidenote: INDIANS AND PHOTOGRAPHS]
The fear of the camera, or the dislike of the camera, that used to
affect the native mind is gone now, save, perhaps, in certain remote
quarters, and these interesting people are generally quite willing to
stand still and be snapped. They ask for a print, and upon one's next
visit there is clamorous demand for "picter, picter." A famous French
physician said that his dread of the world to come lay in his
expectation that the souls he met would reproach him for not having
cured a certain obstinate malady that he had much repute in dealing
with; so the travelling amateur in photography sometimes feels his
conscience heavy under a load of promised pictures that he has forgotten
or has been unable to make. He feels that his native friends whom he
shall meet in the world to come will assuredly greet him with "where's
my picture?" The burden increases all the time, and the Indian never
forgets. It avails nothing even to explain that the exposure was a
failure. A picture was promised; no picture has been given; that is as
far as the native gets. And the making of extra prints, in the cases
where it is possible to make them, is itself quite a tax upon time and
material.
Just as it is true that to be well informed on any subject a man must
read a great deal and be content not to have use for a great deal that
he reads, so to secure good photographs of spots and scenes of note as
he travels, he must make many negatives and be content to destroy many.
The records of a second visit in better weather or at a more favourable
season will supersede an earlier; typical groups more casual ones. The
standard that he exacts of himself rises and work he was content with
contents him no more. Sometimes one is tempted to think that the main
difference between an unsuccessful and a successful amateur photographer
is that the former hoards all his negatives while the latter
relentlessly burns those which do not come up to the mark--if not at
once, yet assuredly by and by. So the surprise that one feels at many of
the illustrations in modern books of arctic travel is not that the
travellers made such poor photographs but that they kept them and used
them; for there can be no question that poor photographs are worse than
none at all.