It seems there’s a certain undeserved mystique that comes with being labeled “Professional Photographer.” I mean sometimes it feels like we’re viewed as creative savants who never make mistakes, when in reality we can struggle to make things happen, just like everyone else. Like you, I’ve checked my EXIF data and wondered what in the world I was thinking when I chose f/20 or ISO 1600; I’ve left locations too early and arrived too late, decided to leave the best lens at home, forgotten to charge a battery, clumsily fumbled a valuable piece of precision electronics, and so on.

Sony Artisan Gary Hart thought he had lost his camera and these irreplaceable images of the Milky Way in the Grand Canyon forever...

My latest, and arguably greatest, mishap happened just last year. Every May since 2014 I’ve lead a Colorado River raft trip through the Grand Canyon, missing only 2020 due to the pandemic. There are too many reasons for loving this trip to list, but of all the beautiful sights at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, seeing the Milky Way against a sky so dark it casts a shadow is probably the one I look forward to most.

Photographing the Milky Way in the Grand Canyon is so important to me that I always spend a significant percentage of the raft trip’s precious (and strictly enforced) weight budget on a camera body and lens that will be used for nothing but the Milky Way. Rather than lugging this night gear with my everyday camera gear on the trip’s daily hikes, my night camera and lens always go in a small padded bag that stays tucked safely in my duffle until I need it.

Given that photographing the Milky Way’s brilliant core from the bottom of the Grand Canyon requires an open view of the southern horizon, and most of the canyon’s towering walls run east-west, we don’t get to see the Milky Way every night. But my lead river guide and I have become pretty good at identifying the best spots, ensuring (weather permitting) multiple Milky Way opportunities in the week we’re on the river.

Last May’s Grand Canyon night setup was my brand new Sony Alpha 7S III and relatively new Sony 20mm f/1.8 G lens (my 14mm f/1.8 GM lens hadn’t arrived yet). I’d already enjoyed great success with the truly amazing 20mm G lens, but I was especially excited to try the Alpha 7S III in such a dark environment.

Between clouds and logistical priorities, my group didn’t get a good view of the Milky Way until the trip’s third night. But the opportunity proved worth the wait. Not only did that night’s campsite have an ideal view of the southern sky framed by the canyon walls, it was also on a bend in the river that created a large pool of still, reflective water for our foreground. We were also situated on a broad sandy beach that provided ample room for everyone to set up, an important consideration when a dozen or more sleep-deprived photographers are stumbling around in the dark.

After dinner I estimated the time and position of the Milky Way’s arrival, then just before bedtime planted my tripod and camera/lens on the beach (no need to worry about theft down here). I set my alarm for 2 a.m., but woke about 15 minutes early, just in time to see the Milky Way’s brilliant core cresting the canyon wall.

Between moonless darkness, a crystal clear sky, completely still air, and calm water, conditions for the Milky Way and its reflection couldn’t have been better. With about two hours until the first sign of daylight started to wash out the sky (visible to the camera before it’s visible to the eye), I was able to work slowly and methodically, playing with a variety of compositions and multiple exposures for each. Nevertheless, my group and I enjoyed the experience so much that our two hours of total darkness passed much too quickly.

Photo by Gary Hart. Sony Alpha 7S III. Sony 20mm f/1.8 G. 30-secs., f/1.8, ISO 6400

After just a little more sleep, I woke to the morning’s coffee call surprisingly exhilarated. To make sure I hadn’t dreamed the entire thing, I grabbed my camera and took a quick spin through my images. Ecstatic that they appeared as thrilling as I remembered, I returned my camera (still loaded with both Sony Extreme SD cards) and lens cards to their bag, carefully nestling everything in my duffle before breaking camp.

That day on the river was clear and hot, and the sun was still quite high when we arrived at that night’s campsite across from Deer Creek Fall. With no view of the southern sky and a strong desire for a full night’s sleep, there was no need for my night equipment here, but I couldn’t help pulling the camera out to marvel at my Milky Way images one more time. Returning the camera to its bag, I looked up and decided that given the abusive sun, it would be safer to shelter the night gear bag in the shade of a nearby rock.

As with most days, the next one started with a blur of activity as we ate breakfast, packed up the campsite, and hit the river. Hours later, while taking a swim in Havasu Creek about 30 miles downstream, it suddenly dawn on me that I had no memory of returning the night gear bag to my duffle—a thought that I quickly attributed to what I call the “garage door axiom”: Just because you don’t remember doing something, doesn’t mean you didn’t do it (how many times have you not remembered closing the garage door and u-turned home only to find it shut tight?).

Just to confirm that my concerns were unfounded, the first thing I did at camp that night was check my duffle—just in case. I was instantly reminded that no matter how many times you check a spot for something that you know should be there but isn’t, does not make that something appear.

My panic was eventually joined by embarrassment as my mind fully processed the ramifications. Not only were my Alpha 7S III and 20mm f/1.8 G gone, so were the SD cards containing the only copies of that special Milky Way night’s bounty. My camera gear is insured, but the images were irreplaceable. Since the Colorado River is a one-way juggernaut, going back was not an option. And with no connectivity at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, there would be no getting the word out until we returned to civilization.

It gets worse. The first thing I did upon returning to the land of connectivity was report the loss to my contact at the rafting company who puts together my Grand Canyon charter each year. The second thing I did was gather the information necessary to file an insurance claim. So imagine my surprise when I realized that I’d somehow forgotten to add my new Alpha 7S III to my insurance policy. Oops.

At first I tried to stay optimistic that some Good Samaritan would find my gear and do the right thing, but when two weeks passed with no word, my faith in humankind started to wane. Then, just as I’d about lost all hope, I got a text from my rafting company contact saying he’d heard that someone had just exited the canyon and posted online that someone was trying to find the rightful owner of a camera he’d found across from Deer Creek Fall. The next few days were a blur of online searching, messaging, effusive gratitude, shipping, tracking, and finally more effusive gratitude when I actually had my camera, lens, and SD cards in my possession.

The finder refused a reward, but requested a couple of prints instead. I gladly obliged, sending two of my Grand Canyon favorites, including a Milky Way image from that night. I don’t know if there’s a real moral to this story, other than it’s nice to be reminded that humans are generally good and most people will do the right thing when the opportunity presents itself. That, and I’m a pretty lucky guy.