There are certain phrases in life that should immediately make you suspicious.
“Trust me.”
“This won’t hurt.”
“I’ll only be five minutes.”
And, if you happen to be traveling with a group of photographers:
“Hey guys, wanna stop and take some pictures of the moon?”
The voice belonged to Don Toothaker.
Naturally.
We had been up since before dawn.
Not at dawn.
Before dawn.
At an hour when sensible people are asleep, coffee hasn’t yet fulfilled its contractual obligations, and even the wildlife is looking at you as if to say, What the hell are YOU doing here?
We had photographed all day.
Wildlife.
Landscapes.
More wildlife.
More landscapes.
Things standing still.
Things running.
Things flying.
Things that had been standing still until precisely the moment we got our cameras focused on them.
We had carried cameras, lenses, tripods, backpacks, batteries, water bottles, snacks, and enough photographic equipment to document the Second Coming from six different focal lengths.
We were done.
Finished.
Spent.
The hotel was calling.
A shower.
A drink.
A chair.
Possibly unconsciousness.
And then Don saw the moon.
“Hey guys, wanna stop and take some pictures of the moon?”
There was a brief silence.
Perhaps half a second.
Then, collectively:
“HELL YEAH!”
And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how you identify a group of photography addicts.
No hesitation.
No discussion.
No one said, “You know, Don, we’ve been photographing for fourteen hours.”
Nobody pointed out the rather obvious astronomical fact that the moon would probably be back tomorrow.
Nope.
The van might as well have been filled with Labrador retrievers who had just heard someone yell:
“WHO WANTS TO GO FOR A RIDE?”
Suddenly we were rejuvenated.
Doors opened.
Tripods came out.
Cameras appeared.
Lenses were mounted.
People who five minutes earlier could barely form complete sentences were now conducting advanced technical seminars on the side of the road.
“What aperture are you using?”
“What’s your ISO?”
“Shutter speed?”
“You bracketing?”
“Are you exposing for the moon?”
“Try another stop.”
“Anybody got a wider lens?”
Apparently exhaustion can be completely cured by pointing a Nikon at something interesting.
Medical science should investigate this.
And there she was.
The moon.
Floating above the darkening forest, suspended between layers of blue-gray clouds. Beneath it, the last pink remnants of daylight stretched across the horizon while the pines settled into shadow.
Even the road seemed to participate, curving quietly into the trees as if it knew exactly where this photograph was going.
And suddenly I understood why Don had stopped.
Because this wasn’t really about photographing the moon.
We could photograph the moon anywhere.
It was about photographing this moon.
On this evening.
With these people.
After this day.
That’s the thing about a Hunt’s Photo Adventure.
You don’t punch out.
There is no whistle.
Nature doesn’t announce:
Attention photographers. Today’s photographic opportunities have now concluded. Please return to your hotel.
You’re all in.
And when Don says there’s one more photograph out there, apparently we follow him.
One for all and all for Don!
So we shot for the moon.
Or shot the moon.
Or photographed the moon.
Whatever.
Considering our condition, it’s remarkable we didn’t just stand there staring at it.
Eventually, we packed everything away.
Again.
Collapsed the tripods.
Again.
Put the cameras back in the bags.
Again.
And headed toward the hotel.
Again.
But this time we were smiling.
Because we knew we’d gotten something.
Not just photographs.
A memory.
That’s what I see when I look at this image now.
I remember the tripods along the roadside.
The questions flying back and forth.
The laughter.
The excitement.
The ridiculous enthusiasm of grown adults who had spent an entire day taking photographs and somehow couldn’t resist taking just one more.
Most of all, I remember the camaraderie.
We weren’t tired anymore.
We were photographers.
And photographers apparently suffer from a very peculiar medical condition:
We can always stop.
Right after…
one more shot.
And Don?
He stood there watching all of us—cameras clicking, settings being debated, grown adults suddenly behaving like kids who’d been allowed to stay out after dark.
Just soaking it all in.
Naturally.
Because I have a sneaking suspicion Don knew something the rest of us were only beginning to understand.
He hadn’t really stopped the van for the moon.
He stopped it for the moment.
And I’m awfully glad he did.
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