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I was late for an interview this week, and it’s all Lake Superior’s fault.

The appointment was in Silver Bay, the day was sunny and calm, Highway 61 was clear, and I figured this was a great excuse to get out of the office. Maybe, I thought, if I were lucky, I’d find something to photograph along the way. The interview was at 10:30, so I left at 9:45 to drive the 28 miles.

Inside my purse was the Canon PowerShot I take everywhere with me, my first digital, the one that takes fantastic close-ups, and whose digital zoom gets remarkably clear photos even though the pros warn us against that extreme range.

On the seat next to me was the Nikon D40, the camera I stepped up to only a few months after getting that first one. It’s lightweight, easy to use, a great price. I’m lusting after a longer lens, but that’s for later.

So, I was armed. Ostensibly, I was heading out on assignment. But I knew, and the cameras knew, and I think even Mother Nature knew, that I was really going hunting.

Working my way up the highway at 55 miles an hour, sometimes dropping more slowly since no one was behind me, I cast hopeful glances lakeside every now and then. It was an ore boat, far out on the horizon, that attracted my attention enough to take my foot off the gas. Sometimes, a boat on the lake, with the sun reflecting just right, can make a memorable moment. My secret spot along the way was just ahead, I was running early, and I pulled off.

I crunched through winter’s snowy remnants, hurrying because the boat was moving fast, climbing to the edge of the bluff for a hawk’s eye view—and when I came out into the open, everything changed. The boat was forgotten. The lake itself became the game.

Now and then I see what I saw then, and always with amazement: the air still, no wind to speak of, the lake looking calm in the distance--but huge breakers appearing seemingly out of nowhere near the shore, rising up in power and might, curling and twisting and throwing themselves against the rocks below.

Splayed against those rocks like castaways clinging to solid land, they were nevertheless sucked back into the lake depths, the action creating a void below, exposing lake bottom that glistened with foam. But only for a moment before the next assault was launched. Swirling, eddying, rearing against each other in a wild mating embrace that cast spray 50 feet into the air, wilting, falling, scrambling toward shore with a white froth that melted into simple, slurpy ripples—the lake was in the throes of some kind of drama that had its origins under the surface, miles out, far beyond my sight.

I stood on a point of land, as close to the edge as I could get without sliding off a snow-slicked dip. To my right, a drop-off; to my left a slope towards rocky beach. The action was different in each spot, and it took turns performing. Look here and be amazed. Look there and find new amazement.

I pulled the Nikon up and adjusted settings, not thinking too hard about it. ISO 200 because the sun was brilliant and right in my face. Aperture priority, and set at 14 so I could stop most of the action near and far. And thank goodness for exposure lock. I metered on the light spots, locked, turned, and shot. The darker underbellies of those waves could be lightened later, if necessary. As it turned out, it wasn’t. I still had to darken the highlights a bit. There’s nothing more blinding than sunshine on Gitchi Gami.

Now the lake began to play with me. With a thunderous burst it tossed foam and spray sky high, and I turned quickly—but too late. So, I waited, camera poised, while a similar maneuver was repeated—in the other direction. Turn, click, look up, look down, click, click. So glad there’s no film in this camera. Two rolls would already be gone.

New strategy required. A deep breath first, to steady the lake’s version of buck fever. Don’t look—feel. Feel the rhythm of the waves, rolling hard, harder, the speed of succession escalating with each foray toward the shore. Hear the deepening intensity, the wild, then wilder roar. Now look—and see it backing up in a slow windup, getting ready for that crescendoed pitch toward shore.
Now click, and click again. Move to one side, move to the other. Finally, finally, admit that it’s hopeless, that the show can never be caught in stills, that the images and sounds will best live on only in my own head.

Still, I bagged at least 150 promising shots—and a long culling session awaited me when I got home. I was late for my interview, but on time for a really great hunt.

Live Life Joyfully,
Monica Isley   

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