The Demise of the Old Man of the Mountain

May 3rd marked the 23rd anniversary of a sad day in New Hampshire history. Sometime in the overnight hours on that date in 2003, the iconic Old Man of the Mountain – a 40-foot-tall series of granite cliff ledges on Cannon Mountain in Franconia Notch, and long the state’s symbol – came crashing down to the ground from high above Profile Lake.

There were no direct witnesses to the Old Man's collapse; when daylight came, all that was left behind was a bare cliff with a wound in the spot where, for thousands of years, he had watched over the notch.

The “Great Stone Face” is on Granite State license plates and highway markers. He’s featured on New Hampshire’s commemorative statehood quarter. The Old Man was the face of the state. His loss was – and still is – mourned by many, including me. As do many Granite Staters, I refer to the Old Man as “he,” not “it.”

Bottom line, it was a big deal when the Old Man fell. He'd been a constant presence, a symbol of resilience, New Hampshire's defining image - and suddenly he was gone. All we had left were our memories and our photographs.

Landscape Photographers as Historians

In thinking about this, it occurred to me that landscape photographers are, in a way, historians.

Anyone who was ever lucky enough to make a photograph of the Old Man captured a piece of history. Current-day visitors to Franconia Notch in the White Mountains can’t see that iconic landmark, let alone pull out cameras and take his picture. Those opportunities are long gone.

While the collapse of the Great Stone Face represented an abrupt, significant and noticeable alteration of the landscape, subtle adjustments happen all the time. Change is always in the air; nothing remains static.

Every moment in time captured with a camera is unique and will never be repeated. While they won’t necessarily turn up in history books, these photos are visual records of specific, unrepeatable occurrences.

Some Changes are More Obvious Than Others

Certainly, landscapes containing man-made structures can – and often do – transform noticeably over time. I think of the old, abandoned barns and farmhouses which used to dot Idaho’s Teton Valley. Many were built early in the last century. In various states of disrepair, over the years I’ve enjoyed visiting many of them time and time again.

As these structures inevitably fall, taking with them little snippets of history, the valley changes. It will never again look the same.

The one pictured below was my favorite. I captured it over a period of roughly eight years. On the day I made this photo, it had been an active afternoon in terms of monsoonal activity. When I arrived just prior to sunset, another storm was on the way. The ominous sky paired nicely with this poor little house, now on its last legs but defiantly prepared to hold its own against the rough weather approaching.

It didn’t survive through the next winter. My photographs of the farmhouse in its various stages of deterioration are now a historical record.

Subtle Change is Still Change

Of course, many landscapes feature subject matter that we think of as more permanent: mountain ranges, forests, lakes, the ocean.

Still, nature is always changeable. From year to year, season to season, month to month, day to day – even from one hour to the next, nothing remains the same. The light is different. The weather shifts. Shadows move. Fog creeps. Add to that the variable of the photographer’s point of view, which injects uniqueness to the composition.

The photographs we make of these moments in time are captured pieces of history.

The Echo in the Image

We often fall into the trap of believing that the mountains are eternal and the plains are fixed. But as any photographer who has waited for the "right light" knows, the landscape is a moving target. We aren't just taking pictures of rocks and trees; we are documenting the ephemeral relationship between geology and time.

When a landmark like the Old Man of the Mountain falls, we feel a collective gasp because a piece of our visual identity has vanished. In that moment, photographs transition from being "art" to being "evidence." They - and our memories - become the only bridge left between what was and what is.

This realization brings a certain weight to the act of releasing the shutter. We are the keepers of the "now," preserving the face of the world before it shifts again.

It reminds me of the legend that defined the White Mountains long before the granite fell—the story of a boy, a prophecy, and a stone face that represented the very best of human character.

As Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote in his classic tale, the image of the mountain was never just about the stone; it was about what we saw reflected in it.