It wasn’t until I was rejected from nearly every outlet I approached, and recognized that this did nothing to deter me from the urge to complete and publish this story, did I truly understand the meaning of a “Passion Project”.
LOCATION
Ouray, CO
STORY
Dragon’s Breath
collaborators
Ouray Ice Farmers
It had been an idea that was floating around my mind since I lived in Telluride - a photo essay highlighting the ice farmers of the Ouray Ice Park. As a patron of the park, I had celebrated, and complained, about the conditions of the Park, but had little to no understanding of the science, work, and tradition that went into the hanging sheets of ice lining the canyon walls. This story, and the time, would be devoted to understanding both the culture, the individuals, and their craft.
It would be three years later when the project would be approved for publication and would appear in “Ascent”. The world would finally see this story.
In March of 2020.
It would sit on the shelves, while the world quarantined.
So, years after the concept was considered, the photos were made, and the magazine printed I find myself still feeling inspired to celebrate this community, and their traditions.
I still feel the passion for this project, after all these years.
IT WAS EARLY
It always is.
There were few lights illuminating the room. There wasn’t a rounded edge to be seen, only edges
and points and teeth. Shadows fell everywhere into historic darkness. It was my first day with the farmers and trust towards me hadn’t been built yet, so the room was full of an awkward
air. Nothing that could be construed as impolite, but for all intents and purposes, I was a stranger coming into a tight community. A community built on the kind of trust only developed when you put your life in another’s hands, day after day.
It was also cold. Foot stamping cold.
But you’d be a fool to show any discomfort. We were, after all, inside. Sure it wasn’t well heated, but it provided the kind of psychological warmth you get when keeping your clothes on while swimming in freezing water. I also couldn’t help but view it as a judgement of my character:
What would the cold force me to reveal about myself?
Was I comfortable?
I found myself shaking, but out of excitement.
Even with a familiarity and comfort in ice climbing, access is limited.
This is part of what makes this story necessary. Technical skill is the initial gatekeeper.
Safety is next.
Fear, somewhere amongst It all.
I watched from across the canyon as he lowered himself off the edge, weighed down by two ropes, positioned as saddlebags and an axe, all hanging off of this harness.
It wasn’t an ice axe. It was an axe.
While it may seem uncontrolled when you are standing in the bottom of the canyon, looking up at weeks of water formed to ice, it is actually a precisely considered arrangement, manicured and encouraged to form in a manner that is both climbable, and safe. In order to ensure the latter, some ice needs to be managed aggressively.
This is where the axe comes in. They called it dagger mitigation.
Hanging off a single rope, attached to an anchor high above, he was positioned just below the manufactured structure used for competition, and just above the natural rock
formation of the canyon. Between the two, a hanging sheet of ice. To the untrained eye, this sheet looks the same as the ice surrounding it, but to the farmers it was a serious safety concern and needed to be removed.
From this position, high above the canyon floor, he unsecured the axe from his harness, dug the frontpoints of his crampons into the ice below his feet, and began taking baseball bat sized swings into the sheet of hanging ice.
After half a dozen swings, a small portion
of the ice cracks and separates from the larger portion. A small cheer from the farmers accompanies the ice as it drops chaotically into the icy water at the base of the canyon. Repositioning himself, he begins to swing again, until the unexpected happens.
The crack is as audible as the silence succeeding it.
Three feet above where he was swinging, the ice violently cracks, and a sheet of ice, easily six by four feet in size detaches. All eyes are on the farmer and the ice, as we momentarily hold our breath and wait.
Only the ice falls, and we all take a collective breath.
I often wonder what is going through the minds of the farmers.
There are jobs that allow for a lack of presence. As an outsider looking in, this is not one of those professions.
I can accept there are moments throughout the day that allow for a mental respite, but so much of the day is built around safety, how can one actually disassociate?
The sun was just beginning to fall behind the mountains and ushering in the shadows. Due to the steepness of the canyon walls, sunlight is a premium, and the absence of it a key ingredient to developing ice.
The sun will disappear, and the farmers will emerge to start the slow spray of water that will accumulate into a cascade of ice.
The confluence of art and engineering and mother nature and humanity.
We were balancing on a large pipe.
that ran along the edge of the canyon. Perhaps I was balancing, while he looked completely at ease.
Half an inch or less separated the end of the spicket and the start of the ice. Each night the water would be turned on and the pressure adjusted according to the change that was necessary in the ice below.
