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Getting the shot in the middle of a Rainy Pass nighttime blizzard

RAINY PASS -- With Steve Perrins II of Rainy Pass Lodge in the Alaska Range as snowmachine driver, we approached the summit of Rainy Pass, closing in on another musher. Light snow began falling.

We stayed well behind to keep engine noise from distracting the dogs. The long incline to the pass slowed the teams down considerably, and this section of trail was too narrow to allow a pass without running right next to the dogs -- something I never do without the musher's permission.

Rainy Pass Lake was coming up soon, and this would be our chance to get around him. Steve increased speed and got close behind. I was getting nervous as dusk closed in. After all, I had a plan and this wasn't it. We were supposed to be on the summit at least an hour ago to set up remote strobes for a night shot.

At first opportunity, Steve gunned the machine and we made a wide berth around the team, quickly getting to 20 mph on the flat lake ice. I hollered in Steve's ear, "Fast as you can to the top." I desperately want to set up at the summit and shoot this team. Being a mile away and with even steeper terrain to slow the team, I might just have a chance.

We bounced up the trail, and Steve did his best to go fast without tossing us off the machine, all the while I was looking around for "the spot." I noted that this year's trail across the summit did not take its normal course. The shot I envisioned wouldn't be there. Trail conditions, weather, and dogs -- you can't control them.

I would have to adapt, and adapt quickly. We were near the top in no time and I directed Steve to park off the left side of the trail.

I went into "auto-photog mode." Creative adrenaline zipped through my body. I unlashed my camera pack from the back of the machine. The snow was caked on and required deliberate, hard brushing before the zippers could be opened. The light snow was increasing. Steve said he wanted to leave me to shoot while he went back to the Rainy Pass lake hunting cabin, to start a fire. He'd be back in 90 minutes. I agreed and continued getting my strobe gear and tripod ready.

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"Before you go, would you please drive down to the trail and let me take a couple test photos?" I asked. I only had one strobe ready — the one on my camera. The first shot was bad ... way too bright. I fiddled for a few minutes, adjusting strobe output, shutter speeds, f-stops, ISO, shooting more test shots after each change was made. I was thankful again for digital photography; so much easier than film. Finally, after about 10 adjustments, I felt the exposure was dialed in correctly.

"Dog team!" Steve yelled.

"Go, go, go!" I yelled back. "See you in 90!"

Steve was out of the frame as the team slowly came up and by me. I got off only two shots, because the strobe was using so much energy, it took the battery a full two seconds to recycle.

My screen showed an OK image. Not exactly what I had in mind but OK. Without knowing how long I had until the next team, I stayed near the spot but decided to set up the remote strobe, figuring it would make the image look more three-dimensional by lighting the rocks and snow in the background.

As I worked, I kept checking the trail for a team. I hooked up the strobe to the stand, battery to strobe, and strobe to remote receiver as the snow continued falling. Would the snow create a short circuit? I hoped not. A test confirmed that the remote was working.

I moved down the trail and placed the strobe, then returned to my designated spot. It was darker yet. I shot a test photo. Something was not right. I heard a light jingling sound, but saw nothing down the trail. It has to be a team, I thought. I shot another test. Dang. I'd planned this for months and now the remote strobe wasn't working.

Being a "professional" photographer, I did what we all do. Faked it. Made it work somehow. I again tested and quickly adjusted the on-camera strobe by pointing it nearly straight up to avoid an overexposed foreground and did my best to pre-focus on where the team would be. I didn't want to chance the auto-focus in this low light and perhaps miss the shot. Now I could hear dogs panting and spotted them 100 yards off. As the team ran through the pre-determined and pre-focused area, I shot just one frame, then one more for good measure. This time the LCD screen showed the image looked even better. The lower ambient light combined with the strobe made the image pop better.

I shot several teams in this spot, as they were coming one right after the other, but it wasn't until I got to Nome that I actually figured out who the musher was that was in the best of those images -- Martin Buser of Big Lake in his white coat.

Anxiety, error, hope, and a dose of "let's try this." At last, I had gotten the shot.

This story is an excerpt from Jeff Schultz's new book: "Chasing Dogs – My Adventures as the Official Photographer of Alaska's Iditarod®". It continues some of Schultz's favorite images as the Iditarod's official photographer since 1982. The soft-cover book is available at bookstores in Anchorage and online at: www.iditarodphotos.com

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