Christmas Photos
Christmas photos are optical illusions.
The smiling, colour coordinated, matchy-matchy people pictured might not be as happy as they look. At least that’s my experience. What goes into creating these beautiful photos is sometimes akin to torture.
As a child, I recall the collective groan my brothers and I would let out when Mum told us it was Christmas photo time. I remember thinking we were victims – kids forced to wear itchy matching handknit sweaters, forced to smile, forced to wait patiently as photo after photo was taken. Now it occurs to me that maybe my parents were the victims! Orchestrating the Christmas photos might be even worse than simply having to submit to having a photo (or many) taken.
Before our first Christmas in the north, I convinced C that taking festive photos for holiday cards was a good, nay, a great idea. At the same time, our friend’s girlfriend was in the process of coaxing our friend to pose for photos, too. When she and I discovered we were in the same boat, we joined forces. C and our friend didn’t stand a chance. Together, we headed out to a beautiful lookout and took turns posing and acting as photographer. The pictures were great, and, surprisingly, it was a relatively painless experience.
The following year, while snowshoeing near Haines, Alaska, we managed to use our autotimer to capture a family photo. C, Chilli, and I stood in the foreground, with a stunning snowy vista behind us. We didn’t intend it to be a Christmas photo, but that’s what it became. Easy-peasy.
Having had two years of luck on our side when I’d expected an excruciating experience both times with terrible photo after terrible photo in the effort to capture that *perfect* shot, I expected the same luck to be with us last year.
This weekend, last year, I told C it was the perfect day for the Christmas photo. The sky was blue, the sun was out. The snow glistened. It was cold, but not frigid. “Let’s make a day of it”, I said. I’d pack a picnic lunch, fixings for hot chocolate, and our little stove. We’d drive up to a lookout, with Chilli in tow and get some great shots as a bonus. C was not convinced, but he agreed, reluctantly.
I love the opportunity to get dressed up. I planned my outfit, and C’s (much to his chagrin). I carefully applied make-up, curled my hair, and donned my plaid apparel. It was cold enough for us to need our unintentionally matching parkas. Chilli wore a bandana, and I packed our picnic in a basket. Olives, chocolate truffles, cheese, meats, and crackers. Hot chocolate, Baileys, and marshmallows. It had all the workings of a perfect afternoon together. Or so I thought.
We headed out along the Alaska Highway. I had an idea of where we could go, and when we arrived, we thought we’d check one more spot: Mount Dave. Mount Dave is hardly a mountain, but with several hundred metres of elevation over 4 or so kilometres, it’s as close to a mountain as we have in flat ol’ Beaver Creek. Although we spend more time at Mount Dave in the summer, we’ve often snowshoed up in the winter. Last winter was different, though. By November, we’d already had record snowfall. The road up Mount Dave might ordinarily have snowmobile tracks up it, but that November day a year ago, there were wolf and lynx tracks but not much more.
Long story short, we ended up getting very stuck in that deep snow.
Ok, we thought, it could be worse. We had all our emergency gear with us as we do whenever we head out in our truck, plus we had our picnic. We’d shovel our way out, get the photo, and have a fantastic and well-deserved afternoon.
But our shoveling didn’t help. The Tacoma wouldn’t budge.
I followed the animal tracks up Mount Dave a short while, to a spot where I knew we’d get the faintest cell phone signal. We’d brought our inReach with us, but a text message would send more quickly. I typed out a note to our friend and sheepishly confessed that we’d gotten stuck, and we needed a lift. “I have homemade chocolate truffles.”, I typed, hoping it might sweeten the request for help. Folks in the north are quick to give a helping hand, and he was no different. “I’m on my way.”, he replied.
In the meantime, C and I decided to start walking in the direction of home. Home was 30 km away, but at least we’d be moving, and our friend wouldn’t have to drive quite as far. I want to paint the scene for you: C, Chilli, and I are walking along the Alaska Highway. We are silent. Frustrated. Annoyed. Marching along with terse expressions. I’m carrying a basket full of picnic fixings, and C holds Chilli’s leash. We’re practically matching: parkas, Sorels, and plaid. And just to add to the melodrama, I’m in a full face of make-up. We look ridiculous.
If only I could have taken a photo of that moment! It would have been perfect. It would have been hilarious. And there would have been the story to go with it. But, you can imagine, in the moment, neither of us was in the mindset of “photo!”
We made it home via two rides rather than one, someone checking traplines spotting us and our dog and basket passed us before our friend did. After a good long laugh at our expense, he drove us until we saw our friend.
There was no actual Christmas photo last year. Instead, we used an old photo and no one was any the wiser. And this year, so far, I haven’t brought it up.
Still. I’m conflicted. I love photos and C and I have so few of us together. Christmas photos can be a kind of marker. An opportunity for an annual shot of the family. But at the same time, it is an effort and it feels, somehow, contrived. I wonder whether these staged photos are any more valuable than the silly selfies, the candid photos, and the self-timer fail photos in my digital photo album? We didn’t get a photo last year, but what we did get was a memory that I wager neither of us will forget. It was far from funny at the time, but looking back, it was hilarious and perfectly imperfect. Just the way I like it.
