Photograph by Joe Rector
It was a cool, perfect afternoon with fluffy clouds floating over Upper St. Regis Lake. My plan was to spend the day rowing my guideboat around the lake in search of a sunset composition for a photograph I had etched in my mind. I had borrowed a lantern from a friend, and brought along a red-and-black checkered wool blanket I had found on the back side of Colvin Mountain.
I determined the sun would set behind St. Regis Mountain. Then I located a cluster of islands with windswept pines framing the scene. All set. I lit the lantern, and bobbed about waiting for the sunbeam on the water to come to the lantern light. I held my breath, squeezed off 30 or 40 shots in hope that one image would not have boat-motion in it. I was lucky. One shot made the cut. I rowed back happy, ready to sleep inside my truck where there was a sleeping bag, pillow, and heat if needed, as I had plans for early morning photographs as well.
When I arrived at the landing it was nearly dark. Earlier I had somehow locked my keys and phone inside my truck. No one was around. Lights twinkled across the lake from people snug in their camps having dinner, probably a fire blazing in a stone hearth. Temperatures fell into the low 40s. It was a long night lying in the bed of my truck, shivering in that wool blanket, a camera bag for a pillow.
At daybreak, a caretaker for one of the Great Camps arrived at the landing. I used his phone to call my wife. An hour later, I was pacing the main road when my wife drove up. She rolled down the window, laughing at the blanket-attire hanging from my head to my knees, then handed me the spare keys, shook her head, and drove away.
When I got home and edited the photograph, the long night was well worth it. (See the cover of this magazine.) All in all, I secretly enjoyed my little venture, especially when loons were calling throughout the night, and there were a billion stars looking down at me.
