Magic Hour(Phil Penne) I set up my equipment in the first half of what is commonly known to landscape photographers as the “magic hour”. It is a period of sacred light beginning thirty minutes prior to sunrise, a fleeting blink of time unseen by the sleeping and largely ignored by those awake. It is during this time that the Earth opens one eye, inhales deeply of the unspoiled morning air, then yawns and stretches. I work quickly, knowing that I have time for only one shot before the Earth casts off her blanket of stars and begins the first furlong of yet another frantic race around her own axis.

The majority of photographers in this era use digital cameras - compact, impressive devices that perform feats of technological legerdemain. With the press of a single chrome button scurrying electrons are rounded up like binary cattle and assigned to a specific rank and file within a thumbnail-sized wafer of silicon. When display of the image is required the same electrons march dutifully out like children at a school fire drill and present themselves for inspection.

Amazing.

My camera is vastly different. The film is housed in a simple wooden box, constructed of store-bought red oak and quarter inch plywood salvaged from a piece of discarded furniture, all held together with yellow carpenter’s glue. A pinhole-sized aperture in the center of a brass sheet takes the place of a lens. The camera bears the scars of many adventures: a dented corner cap, when camera, photographer, a rocky river bank and gravity all coincided for one painful moment; and a gouge down one side, when a dullard who shall remain nameless neglected to tighten one leg of the tripod.

Exposure times for a digital camera can be measured in hummingbird wing beats; exposures for pinhole cameras are glacially slow by comparison. When I open the shutter at this time of the morning I have time to rummage through the army surplus backpack for my water bottle and beef jerky, scribble notes in a battered log book, finish a magazine article, and mutter a curse while swatting a bug, all before sauntering back to the camera and sliding the wooden shutter in front of the aperture.

Finished.

Now only time and chemistry will tell if the effort expended was worthwhile.

The latter half of magic hour begins as soon as the orange coin of the sun slips past the edge of the Earth, and lasts thirty minutes hence. Now the creatures of twilight begin to stir; they chirp, chitter and grunt as I ready my archaic equipment and once again perform the familiar photographic liturgy. As in the morning, I level the camera using the free-hanging clock hands mounted on the side and front of the contrivance, frame the shot using a set of brass brads nailed into the camera body, take a final look then slide open the shutter.

After the obligatory period of time-wasting I close the shutter and offer a silent prayer that everything has worked as planned.

It has to.

At these exposure times magic hour is unforgiving. I get one shot and one only. All that’s left to do now is to pack up my gear, listen for one final moment to the nocturnal symphony and whisper “Good night” to the moon.

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