Red Light On

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself in the saddle on the back of a stunning strawberry roan, a few friends and their horses strung out before and behind me. The western sun was dipping, the air warm and cool at once beneath the long shadows of giant Ponderosas. We came to a small stream crossing a green meadow, the cold water gurgling as the horses splashed through, our eyes blinded by a million sun sparkles.

One of those perfect moments you couldn’t engineer if you tried. At least not like that.

I was frantically piloting a drone somewhere above us, holding a camera in my other hand, and trying to guide the horse with my fingertips on the leather reins. Thankfully he was experienced and gentle enough to manage without much help. I had to chuckle. There I was scrambling to capture the moment—but I was the one captured by it.

I’m in Idaho on a short trip, filming parts of the story of the place I spent much of my childhood. My family and friends have built a remarkably vibrant community and local economy here, all set within some of the most beautiful geography I know. The days have been long and full, up around 4:30 to catch sunrise (which comes before 5am this time of year), falling into bed around midnight each night.

And for months now, since getting serious on learning how to make films, I’ve been living inside this acute tension: trying to capture something beautifully without affecting or disturbing it by doing so.

I get it wrong a lot more times than right.

There are many moments when I’m just juggling too much. Trying to capture everything, all the right angles, with all the right gear. And actually capturing nothing, at least nothing real. Let alone the experience. Then I know it’s time to put the camera away and simply be there. But at other times, I feel compelled by something deep inside. It’s hard to explain.

I feel a little like David in Saul’s armor. This trip I brought three cameras, a drone, gimbal, and several lenses. But this is the way you learn—by doing. It sure would be easier to put it all away and just enjoy life unencumbered, or maybe just film with my iphone. No settings, gear, or self-consciousness. No endless thought processes trying to plan the perfect shot or sequence.

On Saturday I spent hours lugging my cameras around The Pie Safe and Gathered, my mom’s quilting and handcrafts shop. Travelers lined out the door of the bakery, the kitchen staff scrambling to keep up with orders. I do not enjoy being “that guy with the camera” in public spaces. But I’m so proud of what the community here has built. I know it could inspire others, because I know it already has.

But there’s a special reward, and I’ve tasted it a few times already.

First, when you stumble on the perfect light and the perfect moment, and you’re on it. Red light on, camera rolling, holding your breath to keep it steady. It happened just this morning. Second, you’re deep in the edit, hours into cuts and decisions. You hit play on that little section and something stirs inside. You feel a little hope that maybe someone else will feel it too. And then a stranger messages you to say it did, and changed something for them. It happened just the other day.

Still, most of the time I’m shooting I battle doubt.

This trip, I did something I’ve dreamed of doing since becoming a dad. I brought Lucas along and we surprised his grandparents. I caught the moment on my phone.

The next morning we stopped in at Grandma Jan’s new cottage, which my brothers just finished building for her. Grandma loves log cabins, and they even incorporated old hand-hewn logs we salvaged last summer from the collapsing shed up at Palouse Meadows. She opened the door and I followed Lucas through, the camera quietly rolling. I planned to turn it off, but Grandma hardly noticed. Her eyes lit up with his, showing him around the new space. He joyously noticed the toy fire truck and all the signature “Grandma Jannie” things. So I just let her shine, silently following them for a few minutes, the camera mostly disregarded—but rolling.

I have a feeling that someday that footage is going to appreciate dramatically in value, at least for our family.

I fondly remember both my grandfathers, Papa Byron and Papa Lynn, filming family trips and times together with their big, blocky, state-of-the-art camcorders. It wasn’t all the time, just sometimes. It was who they were, and part of why I love them. And the footage is a gift to me.

Maybe I can be like them. That feels like a good north star. The red light on—just for the right moments. Not more, not less.