Athalmer, B.C., 1979

Invariably, these miscellaneous moments, envisioned as quick and dirty posts, turn into hours of research and reverie. Such has been this exploration of a photograph made on a bitter day in February, 1979.

This morning, I opened the closest collection of film-based photographs — this one a tin storage box of slides (transparencies, positives, whichever you choose) still sitting on my work bench after a recent archive deep dive. The scanning part is relatively straightforward: load the image in the scanner, size, pre-scan, apply a marquee, make a few preliminary adjustments, and press the scan button. Then the fun begins.

With these colour transparencies, which are by themselves “finished” images, I endeavour to reproduce the digital facsimiles as close as possible to what I see on the slide, my colour adjustments, sharpening, etc. guided by the original. First, I digitally restore the image, using photoshop and a Wacom tablet. This is sort of the opposite procedure followed by some digital photographers today who use filters to introduce faded colours and artifacts meant to imitate dust and scratches on film-based images. I just can’t seem to kick the habit of reducing flaws.

Certainly, there is something alluring about the colour palette of this old Kodachrome. To think we used to consider it the most saturated and contrasty material available! And, if we were to compare the technical virtues of this image to the potential of today’s digital sensors and latest lenses, with their algorithmic corrections and rare earth coatings, the image would win no prizes.

For me, the photograph holds a universe of emotion. This is neither here nor there. To the observer, either it strikes a chord or it does not. It was made on my first return visit to the Kootenays following the 1977 break-up of a relationship and separation from my daughter, then four. I was living in an apartment in Vancouver’s Kitsilano neighbourhood — the top floor of an old house, shared with 3 others.

The beautiful Purcell Mountains (at my back in this view), where I’d made my first great climbs, still pulled on my heartstrings, as did the fractured remains of the family I was visiting as I learned to live with loss. In Vancouver, I had re-focussed my life on climbing, photography and cycling, in that order. I was working in the outdoor recreation industry.

But my brief history in these hills is an unremarkable snapshot compared to the extraordinary events that transpired on the arrival of British explorer David Thompson, on July 18, 1807. Working for the Northwest Company, he established Kootenae House trading post between Athalmer and Wilmer. Thompson’s expedition mapped the full length of the Columbia River, right down to what is today Astoria, Oregon. Thompson reached the partially-constructed Fort Astoria, established by the American Pacific Fur Company at the mouth of the Columbia, on 14 July 1811.

For those unfamiliar with the complex story, I recommend looking into how the British government, not wishing to risk a reprise of the War of 1812, relinquished its trade assets (by then owned by the Hudson’s Bay Company), the Oregon Country, and negotiated the border on the 49th Parallel (excepting Vancouver Island where we hang our butt over the line) under the terms of the Oregon Treaty, signed in 1846. Otherwise B.C. today might contain much more territory.

The great Google panopticon gives us access to the past, as well as the present (or when its wide-angle cameras made the last survey). We can go to that old neighbourhood where we lived a long time ago. I never lived in Athalmer, a cluster of homes and businesses on the banks of the Columbia River. Even to neighbouring Wilmer and Invermere, it is on the other side of the tracks, literally. Today, its industrial warehouses border new condos and fast-food restaurants built by outside money on the lure of Panorama Ski Resort. Looking at this photo, or the Street View below, my heartstrings still play an old song — perhaps Fleetwood Mac’s Never Going Back Again.