BEHIND THE CAMERA

BY KELLY KRAMER BEHIND THE CAMERA

Every month, we showcase the artwork of the best photographers in the business the stuff in front of the camera. This month, we shine some light on the other side on the photographers themselves. Although photography is often thought of as glamorous, it's actually hard work that requires patience, persistence, dumb luck and, sometimes, the risk of life and limb. What follows are just some of the back stories we hear on a regular basis. From close encounters with bears and UFOs to sleeping on a ledge in the Grand Canyon, our photographers have been there, done that.EDITOR'S NOTE: As much as we would have liked having these anecdotes documented on film, it doesn't work that way. We rarely have photographers shooting photographers. So, to illustrate this feature, we challenged the men and women in the piece to create self-portraits related to their favorite pastimes, not including photography. We aren't giving out prizes, but you can judge for yourself who came up with the winning shot.

GREAT LENGTHS

Photographer: Kerrick James; Mesa, Arizona When Arizona Highways assigned Kerrick James to canyoneer Cibecue Canyon with Apache guides for the May 2002 issue of the magazine, he wasn't daunted in the least. He had, after all, been on countless shoots that involved backpacking, hiking and a heavy dose of adventure. But as James soon learned, canyoneering is an entirely different beast."I hadn't really completed an assignment that involved both a lot of hiking and a lot of wet conditions," James says. "This assignment was on fairly short notice, but I knew I had to be prepared for puddles, ponds, deep pools of water and plenty of trekking through mud." He packed a surplus, two-person raft and dry bags to protect his cameras, and along with the guides and writer Peter Aleshire, James commenced canyoneering. "We started high, then worked our way down through forested areas, then through the canyon to a road that runs alongside the Salt River," James remembers. "We used gravity to guide us, and did a fair amount of rappelling, bouldering and scrambling. At one point, we had to rappel down and through an 80-foot waterfall, and I had to shoot at the same time. I realized it was going to be a very interesting three days. I had to find a way to shoot great images and survive the experience." Just below the waterfall, the group came upon a flat canyon, narrow and deep at several points and several hundred feet from the rim. There were plenty of patches of water, too. "I shot with one leg in water and one leg on the side of the canyon, up on the wall, and I was toting a backpack and a camera,” James says. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but we were just caked with mud — mud up to our backsides. I sacrificed a pair of hiking boots.” Then came the assignment’s real challenge: James and Aleshire had to rappel from the rim down into the canyon, directly into a pool of water. The feat required two ropes, one of which was for James, who had to hang in space and photograph Aleshire as he rappelled down. “I felt almost weightless,” James says, “as though I were a spider. I was trying not to make a wrong move, and of course I wanted the right light. In place at last at the end of the rope, a huge cloud moved in and blocked the sun. After waiting interminably in space for the sun to clear the cloud, Aleshire finally descended and ended up water-drenched.” Although James dangled for approximately 15 minutes, he says he had total confidence in his Apache guides, who were experts at rig-ging. He shot through dry bags, using a 35 mm camera and a 6x7, both of which he operated with one hand. “I shot and prayed,” he says. “I knew I wasn’t coming back to reshoot anything. At the end of the trip, I donated the raft to one of the guides, and Idefinitely should have bronzed those hiking boots.”

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE URSINE KIND

Photographer: Nick Berezenko; Pine, Arizona Nick Berezenko knows better — at least he does now. That is, he knows better than to tick off a bear.

Two decades ago, when he was just starting out as a photographer, Berezenko was scouting the Mazatzal Wilderness for a possible Arizona Highways proposal. One morning —7 miles deep into the wilderness— he found himself alone. Sort of. “I’d camped the night before on the divide by Mazatzal Peak,” Berezenko says. “I was going to do an eight-day loop around the western side of the Mazatzals.” He had a heavy backpack, in spite of being camera-free — his 4x5 was in the shop — and a “very light” but sturdy, self-made agave hiking stick. “I started dropping down into a pretty, little, steep canyon,”

Berezenko remembers. “I was making good time it was just a gorgeous morning and then something caught my attention off right, about 30 feet away. When I looked, all I saw was a big, downed log.” Then, part of the dark log moved. “A shape stood up and it was a bear; a good-sized black bear rearing up on its haunches. I was naïve in those days about bears and thought, Here I am, camera-less, and, without the pressure to photograph, 1 have this wonderful opportunity to commune with the bear.” Berezenko rested his chin atop his folded hands on the hiking stick and stared the bear straight in its eyes, which nestled inside a big, basketball-sized head. “The eyes looked like little black marbles,” Berezenko adds. “I was thinking these really sweet thoughts: You’re a wild bear. It’s so nice to meet you in your wilderness. You love being here. I love being here, too.” The bear didn’t feel the same way. Slowly it growled, sniffed at the air, then jumped the log and ran at Berezenko, stopping a mere 10 feet away. Berezenko was so surprised by the bluff charge that he didn’t think to move away. “Just my standing there stopped him,” Berezenko says. “After he stopped, the bear was visibly upset. He was growling and walking back and forth. At that point, I started edging away. He charged again, and something just kicked into me. I raised my hiking stick above me and yelled at him, ‘Get back.’ That stopped him again. We were in a stalemate. The bear continued to pace in one spot. I moved very slowly at first, then started to pick up speed, going sideways, watching him the whole time. After a few seconds, I saw he was following me again.” “I felt so defenseless without a weapon,” Berezenko says. But then he thought of the penknife in his pack. “It wasn’t much,” he says. “But it was still three inches of steel.” He flipped off his pack behind a tree, quickly unzipped a side pocket, and retrieved the knife. And when the bear came loping around the tree, Berezenko, with penknife in one hand and hiking stick in the other, charged the animal instead. “I let out this atavistic scream, and that stopped him dead in his tracks, totally amazed. Then he just lumbered off, resuming his pacing in the distance.” “I thought it was over,” Berezenko says. “That I had put him in his place.” But the bear wasn’t finished.

Berezenko grabbed his backpack and quickly hot-footed it down the trail. After a mile, he topped out in a sunny grove of manzanita, where he stopped to rest. He thought he’d left the bear far behind, but after a few seconds of silence he heard a loud shimmering in the bushes. It was the bear, coming like a freight train through the man-zanita.

“That was it,” Berezenko says. “I thought, This bear isn’t going to give up on me. I’m 8 or 9 miles from the nearest civilization. It’s his territory and he’s going to get me. And I actually said aloud, ‘Time to fight for your life.’” Luckily, there were plenty of rocks in the area, and just as the bear burst into the clearing, Berezenko began chucking loaf-sized rocks at it, hitting it on the shoulder and causing it to veer off into the man-zanita. The bear continued to retreat, and Berezenko, instead of continuing deeper into the wilderness, made the decision to pack it up and head home.

Ultimately, he returned to the wilderness, and the photos he shot there became part of his first portfolio for Arizona Highways. Although he encountered several more bears on subsequent forays into the Mazatzals, he refrained from staring one in the eyes. Lesson learned.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE E.T. KIND

Photographer: Claire Curran; Santa Ana, California In the early 1990s, Claire Curran was often on assignment, scouring the state for subjects to fill her lens and her growing portfolio. Thus she found herself one night, on a lonely dirt road on the Navajo Nation, heading in the direction of Red Lake.

“I remember it was one of those nights when the moon was almost full,” Curran says. “The sky was broken up by countless silvery clouds, and the 9 o'clock news had just come on the radio.” As she drove, Curran looked up and noticed something that didn't belong.

“At first I thought it was the moon,” she says. “Then I said, 'Wait a minute - that doesn't belong. It wasn't the moon.” The object moved out from behind the clouds and into an open spot in the sky. There, it hovered.

“It looked like a stereotypical flying saucer,” Curran says. “It almost looked like the planet Saturn, and it was just gigantic in the sky - like the size of a mountain. It hovered for about two seconds, flashing all bright lights and colors, and then it took off faster than anything I'd ever seen.

“I don't drink and I don't take drugs and I've never hallucinated,” she continues, “but that experience left me wondering if I'd really seen what I thought I had.”

DUMB LUCK

Photographer: Marty Cordano; Anchorage, Alaska As a frequent wildlife photography contributor to Arizona Highways, Audubon, Field & Stream and Birder's World, Marty Cordano is no stranger to fauna that flies. Here, in his own words, he describes a close, lucky encounter with one of the state's speediest swifts.

“When Arizona Highways Editor Bob Early phoned and asked if I wanted to tackle an assignment to shoot a white-throated swift, I was eager for the work and a chance to prove myself as a skilled andproductive wildlife photographer.

Did You Know?

On March 13, 1997, one of the most widely reported UFO sightings occurred in the skies over Arizona, from Hoover Dam to Tucson. The “Phoenix Lights,” as they became known, were a triangleshaped formation of six lights that whistled through the night sky and were reported by countless Arizona residents, perhaps the most notable of which was then-Governor Fife Symington.

“I began scouting the mountains near my home in Southeastern Arizona for white-throated swifts, but only occasionally glimpsed a bird that might be my quarry. I panicked and went home to do some research.

“What I learned was somewhat unsettling. White-throated swifts are possibly North America's fastest-flying bird, reaching speeds estimated at more than 200 mph. They eat on the wing, mate on the wing, bathe on the wing, fly all day long, covering 500 to 600 miles, and spend more hours in flight than any other land bird. Worse still, when these feathered missiles do decide to touch down, they do so in the most inaccessible cliff crevices they can find.

“Swell! Things were looking bleak, and reality was setting in. To complete this 'mission impossible' assignment was going to take a miracle. But, I had an ace up my sleeve. My friend Linda Searles, who owns and operates Southwest Wildlife Rehab in Scottsdale, thought she might have a swift she was trying to nurse back to health.

“I called her. She not only didn't have one at the rehab facility, but she had never had one come through in 20 years of operation. Bleak. Bleak. Bleak.

“Two days later, at the depth of my depression, the phone rang and it was Linda. 'You owe me big time, she began. Turns out, the day before, two nuns were walking among the glass-sided skyscrapers in downtown Phoenix when a small bird crashed into one of the windows and spiraled down to the sidewalk, just inches from the nuns. “The bird was still alive, but dazed and unable to fly. The nuns gath-ered it up and delivered it to Linda for some TLC. Once the swift was back on its wings, Linda and I drove it to a remote location outside of Phoenix and released it. I was able to shoot up a roll of film on it before it oriented itself and flew off its rocky perch, never to be seen again.

"Call it what you will - dumb luck or divine intervention - but the editor was impressed and, for a time, the assignments rolled in. Especially the tough ones."

DRY RUN

Sometimes photographers have the distinct challenge of stepping into the shoes of their subjects. In this case, Christine Keith wore her own shoes, but had to keep pace with renowned wilderness runner, author and photographer John Annerino.

Keith photographed three of his historic multi-day, long-distance runs in the spring of 1980, 1981 and 1982. Annerino had set out, on foot, to trace ancient Indian trade routes that connected villages both above and below the rim of the Grand Canyon. A small group of Annerino's friends acted as a resupply team, while Keith served as photographer, hiking up and down trails to meet him, and sometimes running short-to-marathon distances to get the pictures she needed to document his longer adventures.

"I was photographing the final leg of Annerino's 210-mile Hopi-to-Havasupai run," Keith says. The jaunt began at Oraibi Wash and was to end at Havasu Springs, six-and-a-half days later. Wilderness professional Dave Ganci and Keith joined Annerino at Anita Station on the Coconino Plateau, on the western edge of the Grand Canyon. Together they ventured into Moqui Trail Canyon.

"We intended to take two days and one night to reach our resupply crew at Havasu Springs," Keith remembers. "We were covering 18-plus miles, so the three of us were dressed for running and carried only basic survival gear."

Eventually, the narrow trail they were following turned into a series of hoof prints mashed into a 45-degree slope. Then, it began to grow dark. "We ended up rim-rocked on a desert bighorn sheep trail," Keith says. "We had only enough water and food to get us where we needed to go. We didn't have time to be stranded." But, given the looming darkness, the trio had little choice but to hunker down for the night. "We came to a widening of the trail-perhaps 2.5 to 3 feet wide - and the three of us spooned together in our footsteps so we wouldn't fall off the sheer Coconino sandstone wall," she adds.

"We stretched Annerino's blanket across the three of us and held on." Slipping off the ledge wouldhave meant a 300-foot plunge into the Canyon.

In the morning, after backtracking another 5 miles, Annerino and Ganci spotted an area that resembled the trail. "They announced we had little choice but to dig in our heels and head down a 40-degree, 300-foot talus slope. "At this point, I was scared," Keith says. "The two of them went ahead. I was sort of panicking, but I really had no choice but to follow them. We were running low on water, and we were way out on the western edge of the Grand Canyon. I really wanted to photograph the run, but I was really scared."

Eventually, the group cut their way through Moqui Trail Canyon,

then made their way into Cataract Canyon, where they had to spend another night. “Ganci had some aspirins that we shared,” Keith says. “We bartered, traded and rationed the small bits of food and water we carried between the three of us.” In the morning, Ganci and Annerino were looking under every living tree they saw, hoping to find a water source, but everything was dry. Then, the trio went from running low on water to basically out of water. “We had a few sips left,” Keith says. “Eventually, we saw horses, and Ganci and Annerino started to wonder....” Finally, they ran into a Havasupai wrangler, and they knew that they were close to the village — close, that is, to Annerino’s destination. “We spent two nights in the middle of nowhere,” Keith says. “I’ll never forget camping on that little ledge, rim-rocked over the Canyon.”

SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS

Photographer: Edward McCain; Tucson, Arizona Edward McCain admits that he’s not much of a skier, but with one caveat: “I can manage, especially when it comes to Nordic or cross-country skiing,” he says. So when McCain was assigned to shoot a story about a Nordic ski center on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, he didn’t flinch.

“The trip was quite an adventure,” McCain remembers. “To get into the area of the lodge, I could either take a Snowcat, or one of the guides had offered to take me on the back of a snowmobile. I went with the snowmobile.”

That proved interesting, as McCain had no choice but to shoot with one hand and hang on for dear life with the other. “It wasn’t easy,” he says. “I never knew when we were going to hit a bump or something.” When his group arrived at the lodge, another was preparing to ski out, and McCain knew he wanted a sunset shot from one of the overlooks. It would be a few miles to the overlook and a few miles back.

“It was my first night there, and I’m guessing the elevation was somewhere around 9,000 feet,” McCain says. “I got the shot, but on the way back, everyone was tired and hungry and they picked up the pace. My tongue was hanging down by my skis. I wasn’t used to the elevation or the pace of the skiing.” As it turned out, McCain spent the night with a wicked case of altitude sickness — the first and last time he ever battled soroche.

“I spent the entire night in the fetal position and pretty much miserable,” he says. “But I did manage to shake it off by the next morning.”

SHOTGUN GRANNY

Photographer: Don Stevenson; Tempe, Arizona Having shot for Arizona Highways since 1985, Don Stevenson has contributed photographs to more than 40 stories. Here, he describes an encounter with an unexpected gatekeeper.

“Shortly after joining Arizona Highways as a contributor 24 years ago, I headed off to Southern Arizona for a week of exploring and photographing what remained of a number of forgotten ghost towns.

“Years before, I’d read of a small village just north of the Mexican border called Sunnyside, which was established nearly a century ago as a utopian community. After a long search, I found a closed but unlocked gate across the deteriorating gravel road.

“I’d driven a short distance when I came upon a hand-painted sign that said, ‘Keep Out. So, as is my nature, I continued on another quartermile. I entered Sunnyside, parked my vehicle and stepped out with camera in hand, uncertain of just what or whom I’d find.

“Before I could take a step toward the various historic buildings, I heard a woman’s screaming voice coming from a hillside 50 yards to my right. I only had seconds to decide if I should hop back into my SUV and get out of there or face the consequences. Too late.

“Marching toward me with a shotgun aimed in my direction was a small, elderly woman so much like Granny of the Beverly Hillbillies TV series of the 1960s. My only thought was that no one knows where I am — other than in Southern Arizona — and they’ll never find my body. The woman approached. I was on one side of my SUV and she was on the other. The woman asked why I was there, and I nervously explained. The shotgun lowered, the woman came around to my side of the vehicle and said, ‘Welcome to Sunnyside.’ “She then shook my hand and barked out a command: ‘Follow me.’ Up the hillside we went to her hidden house. I learned of her life in this hidden paradise and how she was the sole remaining resident. She told me that she never had visitors anymore since a distant relative came by and put up the keep-out sign. We strolled through what remained of her utopia. For two hours I took pictures, and she never stopped talking. It was a great day. For both of us.”