A clear June night unfolded high above the Snake River, with a gentle breeze brushing against the canyon rim. My goal was simple: to photograph the Milky Way rising over the Snake River and the surrounding mountains. I set up my camera under the open sky, the Milky Way slowly emerging as dusk gave way to darkness. Far below, the soft lights of campers flickered and boats drifted quietly. The gorge hushed, and the stars took their place above the sleeping land.

Then the movement began. First it was headlights—cars and trucks winding up from the canyon, their beams flaring across my lens.  As my camera clicked through long exposures, I noticed headlights weaving up from the canyon, their beams briefly sweeping across my frame. More vehicles followed as the hours passed, and one truck eventually pulled up near my setup, idling in the dark. It lingered, then disappeared into the gorge, only to return later and park again—this time not alone.

Two trucks. Doors slammed. Voices rose. Four figures gathered. A heated exchange crackled through the silence. I watched from the safety of my vehicle, unsure of what might unfold. I stayed in my car, motionless, my heart racing. When two approached and shone a light toward me, I held still and silent. Tension gave way to departure, and eventually, the darkness reclaimed the land. I packed up and left, grateful for the stars, but more grateful still to be heading home.