On the campsite table sat two cameras, a bottle of water, and a newly opened box of Weet-Bix. That wasn’t the packing list for my photography road trip. It was the hierarchy. Photo before responsibility.
The Photography Road Trip
One Tuesday morning, I woke with the idea to drive to the Snowy River. I needed to make work for the upcoming Open Studios Exhibition. That was the practical reason. The real reason was less tidy: I wanted the adventure story.
There was a complication. My car was in the repair shop. The only option was a hire car I’d been warned explicitly not to damage. They love making you fear the wrath of returning a scratched car. It was a polite little hybrid Corolla with impressive fuel economy and an enthusiasm for safety features that felt slightly at odds with cliff edges.
The road to McKillop’s Bridge is often described as one of Australia’s most dangerous. Narrow in parts, single-lane in others, with long stretches where, if another vehicle appears, one of you will be reversing toward a bend you’d rather not examine too closely.
On Tuesday, the idea felt ambitious. On Wednesday, the photography road trip felt inevitable.
I asked a question online, half joking, half seeking permission: “Should I do it? Should I drive over 12 hours just to see a bridge?” The response came back quickly, “The old Steve would.”
It’s interesting, the identities we create for ourselves. The old version. The now more responsible version. The version that stays home and answers emails. But that’s not the life I built. Loop is open only three days a week because it’s a studio that feels more like a living room than a production house. I did that deliberately. Not because I dislike work, but because I distrust the way work expands to fill whatever space you give it.
What is needed for a road trip for photography?
By Wednesday morning, the decision was made. I loaded the car: film camera, video camera, two digital bodies, a phone, spare batteries, a tent, a sleeping mat, and a large bottle of water. What I didn’t pack – which I realised roughly five hours into the drive – was a sleeping bag. Or spare clothes. Or, ummm, food.
The cameras, though, were fully charged with plenty of film in the bag.
It would be easy to call that irresponsible. And perhaps it is. But there is another way to see it. We prepare carefully for the things we value most. In that moment, comfort ranked below creativity.
The drive in was slow and deliberate. The Corolla objected frequently, beeping, correcting, intervening. At one point, a safety feature reacted to who-knows-what near a bend and steered with such conviction that it nearly introduced us to the cliff edge it was designed to protect me from. Protection, I was reminded, can sometimes feel like control, and I’ve never before felt so out of control in a car.
McKillop’s Bridge itself is a 255-metre steel truss spanning the Snowy River. When it first neared completion in 1934, a flood destroyed it so the engineers rebuilt it 15 feet higher for it to open in 1936.
Standing beneath it, I thought about that. About how often the first version of something fails. About how sometimes we have to rebuild our lives slightly higher than before. (this touches on the work I’m trying to create for the Open Studios show)
The river, despite the name, was warm. Summer also lowered it enough that I could walk across sections I hadn’t expected to reach. I climbed over rocks, stepped through small rapids, edged closer to larger ones. A few months ago, I fell into a river and destroyed expensive gear. The memory was present, but it didn’t dominate. Fear acknowledged, not obeyed.
How does this make you feel?
Alone, under the bridge that night (or more accurately, at the designated campsite just beside it) I felt something I recognise from many of these trips: alignment. It’s difficult to describe, but easy to know. It’s the feeling of acting in accordance with who you are.
People often talk about work-life balance as though the two are opponents. I don’t see it that way. Work is meaningful. I care deeply about what I make and what I contribute. But I also know this: if I allow work to decide when I’m permitted to feel alive, I might eventually forget how.
Unfortunate, or fortunate?
I wondered if this mindset is fortunate or unfortunate? Suppose it depends on the metric.
It disrupted routine. It ignored minor obligations. It exposed me to narrow roads and questionable planning. But it affirmed something more important; that I am still willing to follow an idea and live my life.
We don’t all need twelve-hour drives or precarious bridges to live adventurously. Most adventures are smaller. A sunrise we’ve postponed. A creative risk we’ve delayed. A class we’ve considered but not booked.
Oh, nudge nudge, we’re heading out for a Waterfalls Workshop soon. Far less danger, but just as much life.
If you’ve been waiting for a practical reason to go somewhere beautiful and make something meaningful, consider this one.
Work will always demand more from you.
Adventure only ever offers to give you more life.
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