03/20/2025
When planning 🇳🇴 trip, there was one image I truly hoped to capture—a scene my good friend had beautifully documented. A moody composition of a snow-covered bridge, a pointy peak, and the aurora dancing above. I prayed to witness it just as Jon had. Nada - not enough snow!
That night, the skies were clear, and aurora forecasts looked promising. As I parked and walked to the spot, I realized I had it entirely to myself—a rare luxury for a composition that barely fits two tripods. No snow, but maybe a timelapse could still work? I set up my camera, shooting at 3-second intervals, as the first hints of green light appeared elsewhere in the sky. My excitement grew—this might actually come together.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a minibus pull up, parking almost in the middle of the road. A group of ten photographers spilled out, making their way toward me. I focused on the sky, but soon, they crowded behind me, watching over my shoulder. One tapped my tripod while trying to squeeze theirs underneath mine; another climbed onto the bridge. I stopped them and politely asked to finish my sequence—20 more minutes. They weren’t having it. “Five minit,” their leader barked.
I shot through the grace period as they maneuvered around me, setting up as if I didn’t exist. The aurora hadn’t yet reached my frame, but the pressure was overwhelming. I gave up the spot and stepped aside. Instantly, they flooded the area like it was their birthright to the spot. Almost on cue, the northern lights finally reached the mountain. I snapped a few frames from the side, hoping to create a composite.
Before leaving, I took one last look at the scene and wondered what my time-lapse could have been. Some in the group had pulled out their phones, excitedly comparing something on their screens to the view before them. I didn’t understand their language, but clearly heard two words: “Jon” and “Engele”
