The Light Show
The Light Show; 20 February, 2021
I hate getting the same shot as everyone else.
Okay, maybe not hate it, but I’m usually pretty disappointed in the lack of originality in a shot taken from a popular vista. I don’t find them as compelling, or as creative, so I don’t share those shots often. And I utterly loathe being in a crowd, especially a crowd of photographers.
Enter Yosemite’s ephemeral darling: Horsetail Fall. Every February, if conditions are right, the waterfall (if it’s flowing) lights up in the setting sun. I mentioned this in my first story, and you can find more information about this event on the National Park Service page about it, or even on their own blog post. The hype around it is staggering; everyone seems to catch Firefall Fever. Photographers flock to the Park. Social media floods with images, and people who didn’t know about it two days ago suddenly have plans to make their way in to see it. Everyone wants an opportunity to see nature’s spectacular, rare, limited-time show.
When I moved to Yosemite in 2016, I had known about the phenomenon for a year or two but couldn’t make it to the Park at that time of year. But now? Now I lived here. I had all the opportunity in the world!
And so on 13 February, 2017, I drove out with my husband (boyfriend then) after work and though we couldn’t park, we could see it from the car, and it was amazing. It really is a fantastic spectacle. The waterfall really glows. Often, those of us who live here become numbed; we see this overwhelming beauty every day and, while I wouldn’t say we’re bored of it, we definitely roll our eyes at people getting excited about it. But if we remember what it was like when we first saw it, if we can feel even an inkling of our original excitement, we become more sympathetic—and if I focus on my first sight of Horsetail, I understand why people packed onto Northside cheer loudly enough to hear a mile away when the sun hits the right spot.
Early in the short “Firefall” season, it’s definitely more of a light, angelic yellow; and later in the season it begins to get closer to the lava orange-red that you see most pictures trying to show. But that early viewing was no less impressive. I went back twice more that year to see it. The next time was the very next day, Valentine’s, with some of the best friends I could hope for; and the next time was with a visiting friend who was a photographer, and though that one was a bust, I like to recall that time because my friend had some good advice about being a photographer that I didn’t think applied to me, but I try to keep in mind often now.
Crowding in with everyone on Northside or Southside (which was allowed at the time and is now closed to viewing) was not a big deal for me then. But in 2019, I’d been living in the Park for nearly three years; I had become significantly less fond of crowds; and I had my first DSLR. I’d become more familiar with the phenomenon and how everyone seemed to have the same photo of it. I didn’t have an overwhelming push to get a unique shot, but I had the drive to be away from people, so I went with now-Husband to a spot along the Valley Loop Trail, with only a handful of other people. A very enjoyable viewing with a surprisingly great shot as a result.
And now, 2021.
As I’ve become more involved in photography, it’s harder to resist being jaded over this event. Since a week into February I’ve seen an oversaturation of Horsetail Fall “Firefall” photos on my Yosemite and California and Landscape photography groups. Edits across the spectrum, from dull to realistic to impossibly vibrant or incorrectly coloured, mostly the same close-cropped shot or a slightly wider view without much of interest in the frame around it. Everyone hyped up on Firefall Fever. Beyond that, almost every post about it had some person talking about the “real” or “original” Firefall.
Let’s pause a second to address that. The “Firefall” being referenced by those commenters was an event held jointly between Glacier Point and Camp Curry on a nightly basis for 95 years from the late 1800s to the late 1900s. This event consisted of a bonfire burning at Glacier Point and, when signaled, the tenders of the fire would push the still-burning ashes over the cliff edge to the forest below. People who witnessed this event (it ended in 1968) like to come out of the woodwork and reminisce about it when Horsetail photos are posted. I get it, it’s a memory for you. But I take issue with it. First of all, they were pouring fire into a forest.
Fire.
Into a Forest.
Just…just think for a second about why that’s a bad idea, then let’s move on.
But what really gets me is that people call it “the Real Firefall” or “the Original Firefall”. It blows my mind because it was a manmade spectacle. It was fake. And furthermore, just because humans didn’t really “know” about what Horsetail was doing in February until the 1970s doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening for ages and ages before we “discovered” it. Pretty sure the sun has been setting in that area around that time of the year for, oh, I don’t know, centuries. I think Mother Nature’s “Firefall” is the original and real one. It was going before we got here, it’ll be there after we’re gone.
Moving back to the Firefall of 2021, I got bored early on of the shots being shared. It made it really difficult to work up any hype to go out and see it myself. I knew that if I did go out for it, I would not be in the crowd on Northside. I don’t think you could pay me to be out there. I’d already shot from the Valley Loop Trail, and I wanted a higher perspective. So, off-trail it was.
I struck out on 20 February, 2021, with a vague idea of where I wanted to end up. I’d scoped a place nearby about a year prior, and deemed it too far East; but it was a good starting point. I went with the intention of scouting the new area, and the notion that if I did shoot it, I’d shoot the same photo as everyone else—the close-cropped portrait of the waterfall and the rocks immediately around it, and nothing else. I’d shoot it just to have it. It wasn’t an inspiring notion, but I reasoned that it was to prepare for the next time, and to make sure I didn’t squander an opportunity others would do some questionable things to experience.
And then, as we were going, I kept my eye on the clouds. I was very nearly convinced they would block the sun and we’d get nothing at all.
When we finally cleared the trees and found a spot, there were about a dozen other people there. It was a Saturday, after all, so I wasn’t entirely surprised, but the notion of a more rare perspective was dashed on-site. Other photos have been taken from that area, so it was never going to be completely unique and original; but it wouldn’t be the same-old, same-old. Alas. Tired and cutting it close to showtime, I took my place, figuring it’d be good practise, at any rate.
My plans changed the moment I surveyed the scene. The clouds had thinned out on the horizon, but were still dominant in the sky, promising the potential for a colourful sunset. I couldn’t ignore that. I set up for a wide shot and held my breath.
The sun took a few minutes to sink below the cloud cover. As it peeked through, the bottom of the fall lit up, and the glow slowly seeped upward until this little sliver on the rock was a brilliant streak of yellow-orange light. As the minutes ticked by, the the sun began to dye the clouds too, and a beam of light shooting through the hazy atmosphere over the mountains directly at El Capitan deepened to nearly a rosy red. I could hardly believe the light show playing out on the scene before me. It was more of a sunset than I’d dared to hope for; the kind of scene I could only dream of. The oranges became darker and more vibrant as the show became more intense while the evening began to wane.
And then, twenty minutes on, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the show was done.
…
A couple of others have posted their photos from that day, from the area I was perched. Again with the array of edits—dull, realistic, over-vibrant. Some of them were even crooked. So I’ve been very hesitant to share my photo. Concerns it would get lost in the shuffle and ignored as I’ve been ignoring many of the photos recently, due to burnout from Firefall Fever, and over all that, the lack of excitement of it being anything like a unique shot.
I didn’t have the heart to try and process my photo when I got back that night, and the next day I drove out to Death Valley for a week. On my way out, I passed Valley View. I have never seen that viewpoint so massively overcrowded. The parking was three cars deep and no room for more, and an overwhelming amount of tripod-manning photographers had completely covered the riverbank. Not a stone left to stand on. The story at Tunnel View was much the same. It made me shudder to think about what Northside Drive had looked like the previous night, and made me grateful for my comparatively sparsely-populated perch.
When I got home and looked at my shot again, I felt a little bit more motivation to process it. The orange that evening was so vibrant it was almost unrealistic; and I hope I’ve managed to ride that line of unbelievability that nature set forth. I am grateful my home continues to bless me with the unexpected, and I’ll treasure this experience, unexpected as it was.