If you’re raifanning in 2016, chances are you know someone who has taken the plunge and purchased a drone.
Just last week, after seeing yet another friend buy a drone and capture spectacular images, I went online to look at one. After seeing the price, I promptly shut my computer (Let’s be honest, journalists aren’t exactly swimming in cash). But besides the cost, there’s another reason I have yet to take my railroad photography to new altitudes with a drone.
Railroad photographers have been seeking higher angles since the beginning. For decades, that has usually meant putting in a little sweat equity. Take the “dean” of western railroad photography, the legendary Richard Steinheimer. From Donner Pass to the wilds of Montana and Idaho, Steinheimer never shied away from climbing over the next ridge to take in the view and the results were almost always spectacular.
Another photographer who frequently seeks out higher ground the old fashioned way is my father, Tim Franz, although it’s gotten him in trouble on a few occasions.
When I was a kid, I’d often join my Dad trackside and on one summer day in the early 1990s we chased an Alco-powered freight on the Maine Coast Railroad. Damariscotta is one of the classic locations on the former Maine Central Rockland Branch and we got there well ahead of the train to scope out a spot. As we waited, my Dad looked up at a nearby tree and realized an even better view could be had if we just climbed up a few branches. Dad swung his camera over one shoulder and his pre-school aged son over the other and started climbing. A few minutes later, the train rolled by and a classic view of New England railroading was captured forever.
But that wasn’t the end of the story. A few days later, my parents and I went on a Sunday drive and we passed the tree we had scaled earlier in the week. As we drove by, I excitedly yelled from the backseat, “Mommy, that’s the tree we climbed for a picture!” As you can imagine, Mom was less than excited about that revelation.
A decade after the incident at Damariscotta, my Dad and I found ourselves in northern Maine shooting the Canadian American Railroad. A favorite spot of ours was called Camp 12, where the railroad went through a series of rock cuts and passed a massive cliff that offered some great panoramic views of the railroad.
On a cold day in March 2000, my Dad, our friend Mike and I were at the bottom of the cliff looking up at its rocky, icy mass. Mike and I had reservations about climbing the ledge in the snowy conditions, but my Dad thought nothing of it, and the results were spectacular (you can see the shot in the book Railroads of the Pine Tree State Vol. 2). While I often wish I had mustered up the guts to scale the cliff too, my Dad was thankful that Mike and I stayed below since we had to help guide him down (“It was a heck of a lot easier going up than coming down,” my Dad said later).
Had my Dad owned a drone it’s likely he could have gotten both shots in a much safer manner than he did, but the backstory behind each of the images would be a lot less interesting.
Now, I’ll admit that there are many spots a drone can climb where a human simply cannot go (an absolutely stunning photo of the Alaska Railroad recently posted on Railpictures.net proved that). But I think there’s something to be said for putting in a little sweat equity to earn that stunning shot when you can, just like my old man has done for years.
I often think about those early adventures with my Dad when I’m climbing the hills of Glacier National Park, along BNSF Railway’s Marias Pass route. With a camera slung over my shoulder and a cold wind blowing in my face, I always feel a sense of adventure when climbing over that next ridge. For my money, the effort to get a great photo is almost as important as the image itself, and I don’t think I’d get that same sense of excitement from holding a remote control.
For now, I’ll keep seeking higher ground the old fashioned way.
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