Outside Adventure to the Max: Timothy O'Sullivan

“Trust your own instinct. Your mistakes might as well be your own, instead of someone else’s.” --- Billy Wilder

I'm that guy who likes to bring on camera on every outing on the water. After working as a photojournalist most of life it just seemed natural for me to tote along with a camera and document my time on the river or lake. When I first started paddling, I would pick out my favorite image for my paddling journals. When social media blew up, I jumped on board and shared pictures with my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram pages. For me, it's been a fun and easy way to look back on my experiences on the water. But along with was that, came that underlining worry that was always out there circling my kayak like a shark or crocodile.

Current Adventures 50+ Kayaking Class

Anybody and everybody who knows anything about photography knows that cameras and water just don't mix. These days most DSLRs can handle a few drops of rain, but a torrential downpour or an accidental drop into the lake can turn that once expensive piece of Japanese electronics and mechanization into one soggy piece of junk.

In the advent of outdoor adventure photography, Timothy O'Sullivan one of the better Civil War photographers went west after the war to document US government explorations expeditions of Isthmus of Darien (Panama) and the Grand Canyon. Using large-format cameras, glass plates, and wagon loads of darkroom equipment and chemicals, O’Sullivan hauled them up and over mountains, across deserts, through jungles, and down rapids while producing a classic and memorable volume work that are sill uninfluential to this day.

Conditions were brutal, as O’Sullivan faced extreme heat and bitter cold, dense jungle and dangerous swift rivers. In today's Panama, on an expedition in search of a canal route, he encountered dismal photographic conditions due to heavy rain. While disaster struck on an 1871 voyage down the Grand Canyon when O'Sullivan lost all the three hundred negatives glass plates he made when several of the expedition's boats capsized in the Colorado River.

Lake Natoma

In a quote attributed to him, O'Sullivan said, "Place and people are made familiar to us by means of the camera in the hands of skillful operators, who, vying with each other in the excellence of their productions, avail themselves of every opportunity to visit interesting points, and to take care to lose no good chance to scour the country in search of new fields for photographic labor."

Since the invention of the camera, scouring of the earth in search of those interesting points and majestic places has been a labor for photographers everywhere. As Ansel Adams said, "“A good photograph is knowing where to stand.”

Clean up paddle on Lake Natoma with Bayside Adventure Sports

And for that reason alone, I have strived throughout my photographic career to make my great pictures by putting my camera into interesting as well as usual places. During my TV and newspaper days, I followed the mantra of legendary photographer Bob Capa who said, "If your pictures aren't good enough, you aren't close enough."

When I got into paddling, my camera always came along in a gallon-size plastic bag. Those were in the days before I knew what dry bags were. I can remember on my first canoe trips carefully taking the camera and lens out the plastic bag, shooting a few pictures from the bow and carefully stowing it back into the bag and then into my backpack in the hull of the boat.

Lake Natoma with Bayside Adventure Sports

Thank goodness technology sped along and gave me a rugged and affordable waterproof camera that shoots both pictures and video but could also survive all kinds of tough and watery environments that I could dish out for it. Compact enough without ditching quality, it fit perfectly under my PFD making it easy to pull out and photograph others with me on my adventures, while simple enough to use to position it in a tree or on a rock to recorded my outing while alone.

In a recent report published in the Journal of Family Medicine and Primary Care found that 259 people died between 2011 and 2017 while stepping in front of the camera in an often dangerous destination. To achieve that dramatic shots, in most of these incidents shot these selfie-risk takers defy their personal safety to get that photo, that is until that would-be photographer slips and tumbles down over the cliff into a ravine or body water. Drowning, falling from a moving vehicle or high location was found to be the most common cause in leading to their deaths.

"It’s easy to write off these tragedies as catastrophically bad judgment," wrote Kathryn Miles in Outside Magazine Online, "Armchair internet commentators have had a field day with each reported death. For every lament of young lives, lost...you’ll find an equal number of comments about how the two were “surprisingly stupid,” “coddled,” “careless,” or “self-obsessed."

While I don't condone the high-risk selfies culture in any way and my heart goes out all these young victims families. Nevertheless, in a way I can see what they were hoping to achieve by putting themselves and their cameras in a distinctive and different position and away from the so-called standard shot despite the threat of peril.

A bobcat along the shore of Lake Natoma

Last month, to avoid that conventional and traditional and somewhat standard over the bow shot, I haphazardly station my camera on that slippery slope of peril and paid for it. Now I've done this many times before in other places and have had great results. I would put the camera with a float strap on a flat rock and set the timer to shoot a picture every few seconds or more and would paddle out into the water making a few passes in front of the lens.

As I paddled away, I could only watch in horror as the camera slipped off its perch into the water. Float strap stayed above the surface for only a moment, but the attached carabiner weighed it down. Who knows, I might have made things worst as reached out with my paddle in an effort to scoop it up. It sank even more.

In the clear water of the American River, I could, now only watch helplessly from my kayak as the camera, float strap and carabiner made a spinning slow-motion dive into the dark deep of the river. My heart sank as I watched the camera faded out of sight while relearning an old lesson that I always knew. Cameras sink.