Viewfinder: Texas Aurora – An Unexpected Opportunity

Last week I was in Uncertain, Texas - yes, that’s the real name, supposedly chosen because  nobody was certain what to call the town when the first maps were drawn – co-leading my  annual photography workshop at Caddo Lake. After four years of visiting, the place has  become familiar, but never ordinary. The bayou stretches out in a maze of slow, still, dark  water, lined with ancient bald cypress trees draped in long strands of Spanish moss. It’s a world that feels half-wild, half-mythic, and completely its own entity. What I didn’t expect was that it would become the backdrop for one of the most unique photographic opportunities I’ve ever had. 

My co-leader Alyce Bender and I had wrapped up our day and were ready to turn in. We  had an early morning ahead, and the humid Texas air had drained what energy we had left, especially for this Oregonian. I checked my phone one last time and noticed photographer friends across the country posting spectacular northern lights photos. Half-joking, I wondered aloud if it might be visible from East Texas. Alyce laughed. An aurora that far south? Not likely. 

Still, I told her I wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I checked. I grabbed my camera and tripod and went looking for a dark place with a clear view to the north. As soon as I found a break  in the trees, I saw a faint red glow with my naked eye - something I never expected to  witness at that latitude. A few test shots confirmed it. The preview screen showed a true aurora over the bayou. 

I rushed back to the lodge, apparently with the kind of wide-eyed look that doesn’t require  explanation. Alyce took one glance at me and knew. I showed her the photos, and within minutes we had a map spread out on the table, marking places where we might have a clear northern view. We headed to Caddo Lake State Park, where we photographed the aurora reflecting off the still water between the cypress trees. It was surreal - the southern swamps lit by a northern sky. 

Word spread that the aurora might return the following night, possibly even stronger. We knew we had to be ready. We hired a local guide named Todd, who grew up on the lake and navigates those waters the way most of us walk a familiar trail. He arrived in a jon boat with  a mud motor built for shallow channels and submerged roots. Our goal was to get out onto the open water to photograph the cypress silhouettes with a clean horizon. 

The second night’s display was weaker, but it still appeared. We drifted through the  darkness, cameras and tripods ready, surrounded by moss-covered cypress rising from the still surface. The night was calm and quiet except for the hum of the motor. Todd positioned us in front of a lone tree and held us in place with a pole while we set our tripods directly into the shallow lake. With our cameras just a foot above the water, we watched the scene unfold and captured the images we had envisioned. 

On the way back, Todd swept his spotlight along the banks, hoping to show us a pair of  glowing alligator eyes. Their eyes shine red at night, he said, though we didn’t find any. That  was probably for the best. The bayou at night has enough atmosphere without reptilian company. 

What we did come back with were photographs and memories we never expected when we  packed for Texas. The surprise of the aurora, the scramble for the perfect vantage point, the slow glide through the dark waters - all of it reminded us that even a familiar workshop can  lead to something extraordinary. Even without the aurora, a night on the bayou with  someone who knows every bend, every stump, every sound, is unforgettable. 

That’s the thing about Caddo Lake and small towns like Uncertain. Wonder has a way of  showing up when you least expect it. Sometimes you just have to step outside, look up, and  keep your camera close.