P is for...

A purple poodle.

My 6th grade English teacher, Ms. Kopp, showed poodles in dog shows. Often considered the mean or scary teacher, something not helped by a voice made abrasive from years of smoking, she was disliked and/or feared by many students.

Come springtime, I finally mustered the courage to inquire about the mason jars sitting on the edge of her desk filled with colorful shards of homemade candy.

Turns out she brought it in for the students, but no one had ever asked.

Turns out she wasn't really mean.

Spotted in Richmond.

DeTOx, isn't dead.

During my first week of finals, an idea born from an almost forgotten conversation with BWmF on tattoos finally took shape.

Different than what I'd imagined, yet entirely what I'd wanted, it isn't just a logo for my blog, it's a logo for me.

Spending hours with our eyes glued to a 30" iMac screen in Herman B. Wells Library tediously manipulating proportion and dimension of two punctuation marks, at my behest, demands patience and a genuine understanding of how I operate.

I'm fastidious, detail oriented, arbitrarily particular, and absolutely principled. Usually.

Anyway, yo Pops, thanks for the logo.

Polished

Wet. Wipe. Wait. Dab. Wait. Brush. Buff. Wear.

It's mechanical, mindless, and meditative.

The Mac Method. Gospel.

An hour's work.

A clear mind.

Pop's Rocks

The leaves fell unexpectedly.

These days the light does the same.

Get Lost in Giles County

Thinking that my (increasingly) obsolete TomTom nicknamed "Gertrude" would have "The Cascades" stored in its memory bank, I didn't look up directions. It did. Sort of.

With three hours until sunset, there was just enough time to figure out where I was going, hike up to the falls, take some pictures, and head back. Wrong.

An hour later, likely distracted by the impressive foliage of Jefferson National Forest and an authoritative English accent, I blindly followed that deceitful Brit, Gertrude, off of 460 and onto a two-lane road winding its way up and into the forest.

Fifteen miles of asphalt leaves plenty of time to encounter a sign, another five miles of gravel does not.

Not near the Cascades.

Second attempt. Thinking back to the night before, I figured we had until 7:30 before it got dark. The sun's trajectory behind the mountains went unnoticed as we entered the park.

I frequently paused along the trail, recognizing my simultaneous desires to linger and return somewhere I'd only just arrived.

A lone fly fisherman stood along the far bank of the stream. Pulling line from the reel, he slowly drew the tip of the rod upwards. With a quick snap of his wrist, the tip shot downward, sending a loop of line rolling across the surface of the deep pool. The fly whipped around, briefly fluttering skyward before delicately landing.

Further upstream, a father waved as he watched his son skip stones.

Around the falls rose steep walls and our voices.

Taking our shoes off, we gingerly stepped into the cool water towards the center of the stream bed.

Setting up against the eastern wall, my tripod and I struggled to find steady footing in the stream, each with only one foot on dry ground. Perched only a foot above the water, I anxiously watched my camera, clicking the remote while the other hand remained open, ready to catch the tripod should it be swept downstream.

One minute and five frames later, I grabbed the whole setup and stood safely back on dry stone, unenthused with my results and the water level.

The fading light ushered us to put our shoes back on.

I paused briefly after crossing a bridge, remembering that I'd wanted to climb down to some fallen trees while hiking in. Resolving to just come back someday when we weren't rushed by the sun, I wearily continued onward.

"You don't know when you'll be back."

I turned around and climbed down from the trail in response to the frank words.

The following five minutes were expensive.

... and worth it.

It was dark at 7:15. Our eyes adjusted, reducing our surroundings to desaturated shades of grey. Just one mile down either trail separated us from the car. The lower trail, continuing just over a bridge, was essentially unnavigable in the dark and the easy upper trail was nowhere to be found. Oops.

Get outside. Get lost. It's good for you.

Back to the Other Quarry

Delaying dinner, I finally returned to the other quarry a few weeks ago.

The early October air was still warm, enticing me to make a jump I was ill-prepared for.

Fading.

I'll jump in the spring, when the water is warmer and I can pick apart shadows from boulders.

A Guardian in Brown County

Sometimes, there are no words to accompany what you find along a quiet country road.

Locked In.

A few years ago, my friend Adam and I snuck in on a warm summer afternoon, cigars in hand, and climbed to the top of the stadium.

As the sun set, we enjoyed our Romeo y Julietta No. 2's.

I haven't been back in the stadium since then, a game last fall, aside.

Just over a month ago, I returned, keeping an eye out for security guards and whoever else I might run into as I unlatched a gate.

While Adam and I hopped a railing to get out that one evening, this time I found myself locked in. Gates were shut by an invisible crew while I was hiking to the top.

Locked in.

After walking through the entire stadium looking for an easy exit, I finally climbed onto the wall of a cement ramp leading to the upper levels.

Sitting on the ledge, I realized fifteen feet separated my camera, and feet, from the unforgiving asphalt.

I tightened the straps on my backpack.

Sometimes all you need to get out is to just jump.

Bits from North Carolina

My final days of summer in North Carolina.

Seen through my back window at a gas station. He waited patiently in the truck bed for his owner.

I like this font. Goldsboro.

Safe distance.

The start to good Carolina BBQ at Wilbur's.

I'm working on getting caught up with pictures, but lately my attention and energy has been elsewhere.

The Johnson Farm

Southern Pines, NC

moo.

Letters and Numbers- Columbus, IN

August 6th. Columbus, IN.

Bike rack.

Mid-century?

Reminders of home.

Turns out the numbers were recently replaced.

They looked better from further away.

I scrapped most of my shots because the sky was so dreary, not unlike today, but I'll be back to shoot Columbus.

It's one place where I know what to look for.

Grandfather Mountain and the Blue Ridge Parkway

Almost one month ago my mom and I climbed into my car and went towards Boone, NC. Not realizing that the App State kids were moving in, we skipped town and drove along the Blue Ridge Parkway towards Grandfather Mountain.

Along the way.

The Moses Cone Manor

Mile high pines.

They filmed part of Forrest Gump on the road to the summit.

I spend too little time with my mom, but when I do, it's short trips like this that make that time all the more memorable.

The 1219

Retired in Sanford, NC.

3 Points of Contact.

General Electric.

Walking with Duke.

On a walk during my brief return to MD this weekend.

The "royal" Rhodie.

Stream-fed mosquito factory.

The light was magnificent as it shone through the trees; the humidity and mosquitos were not. 

Streamside and a country drive.

Friday. 6:00pm

After weeks of watching the sun soften to the perfect glow, roughly from 7:00 to 8:30 pm, and hours of studying for my upcoming final, I grabbed my cameras and headed to my car. After replacing the long dead batteries in my dad's old Nikon FM, I started driving. It wasn't about the destination, though a bridge left uncrossed on my last excursion seemed like a good starting point.

The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds, intermittently casting rays of light through the foliage as I climbed into the underbrush.

As I approached the stream's edge, two large shapes darted towards a deep channel. Looking closer, several large bass sat at the bottom of the channel, mouths pointed upstream. In waters brimming with fry and minnows, the bass' size didn't surprise me, but their numbers did.

Much of my time in third and fourth grade was spent exploring the woods, lake, and nearby streams around the house. Fascinated with both fishing and biology, I caught whatever I could both for conquest and curiosity. My love for streams and creeks lingers as a tribute to my childhood and my dreams of someday returning to fly fishing.

Digital and analog. Different and just that.

I enjoyed the simplicity of the FM's three dot metering system, though I didn't trust it's inconsistent guidance. With my D7000 set up as similarly as possible to the FM (ISO and ASA at 400 with 35 f/1.8 and 50 f/1.4 lenses, respectively), I used it as a crutch that let me compare questionable exposure readings before shooting with the FM.  Not taking notes for each shot was a mistake I'll need to correct next time, though, I don't know which pictures I used the D7000's meter on. Shooting and reviewing the results from both cameras has shown me a lot and will continue to do so.

After an hour, I returned to my car, continuing on back roads concerned only with my direction and the views around me.

Air blew through the open windows, clearing my head and cooling my body as I wound my way over and around the rolling hills.

I stopped at the top of a hill to look at the layered landscape bowing up and down across tree tops and fields in various shades of green.

More from the FM.

This trio was far too hungry to pay attention to me. The slap of the mirror briefly earned the attention of one horse before he returned to grazing.

Just thirty minutes from town I'd found a place not entirely new or familiar.

Driving back, I knew this was only the first of many similar trips to come.

Notes on July.

Pieces of the first month back.

Less

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet

Shrooms, steak, and chevre.

Lake Monroe.

Pick your power.

The only way.

Responding from somewhere new.

The adventures I've had in the past seven months only whet my appetite for movement and exploration. With the reality and awareness of Bloomington fast becoming the place I've spent the most time, my restlessness has grown quickly.

10 days ago. 10:00 pm. Fresh with inspiration, I grabbed my Parker Jotter and began to write an overdue letter.

I know I need to be better at keeping in touch, writing, and writing back; do you?

Just an excerpt-

"7:45. I skipped dinner, too tired to cook and too restless to sit down and study. Leaving the issues of Chatham v. Pohle on my desk, I quickly grabbed my backpack and stuffed it with my camera and lenses. With a vague set of directions, I drove south, anxiously watching the time as the sun began its descent.

Past the turn for “Rooftop.” Somewhere ahead lay a small road and a quick turn towards a stretch of highway I’d never seen. I stopped to take a picture of an abandoned tractor trailer adorned with Indiana University in large red letters. Was the decoration done before or after its retirement?

Cutting through the forest, the gravel road meandered gently like a river. At several turns, the gravel extended into the brush, partially burned and forever forgotten pieces of trash and furniture sat waiting to be consumed by the tall grass.

Impatient, yet wary of the large puddles and myriad bumps and dips, my foot was forced to dance between pedals. I missed my Landcruiser.

The pedal reached for the floor as I drove up a large hill, fearful of losing traction on the loose gravel.

Despite the signs instructing that visitors be escorted into the quarry, it was apparent that no one had showed up for work in years.

The rusted gate and padlock relieved any apprehension about proceeding.

The sun committed to its descent and with camera in hand, I took off in a jog towards the closest corner. There’s never enough time at sunset.

In the spontaneity of this trip and the warm glow of the sun, I was invigorated by an anxious serenity. Since delving into cases these past three weeks, I’ve struggled to keep hold of my voice. In the presence of the abandoned, I found inspiration and joy.

In the warm light, the limestone glowed a soft shade of yellow.

Two structures sit alongside a tall pole in the middle of the quarry. Their foundations and walls sit submerged, leaving only roofs  to remind visitors of their presence.

I’ll have come back to this place before you read this. 

Here, there was an urgency I needed to respect and abide by; this was my presence in a moment purely private. 

My legs struggled, but carried me forward reluctantly. From within the heat of my jeans, my muscles cursed me for my reunion with the squat rack just ninety minutes prior.

I continued around the far side of the quarry; the heat remained as the light softened. The airy weave of this new New England-sewn madras pop-over lent no relief.

Leaving my backpack on top of a rock near the path, I clumsily climbed down piles of loose stone towards the clear water, agility and steadiness lost to iron and denim. Size was no indication of stability, I learned. I tightened my grip on my camera.

The dichotomy of madras and raw denim was vilipended by the lingering heat and humidity; both shirt and jean clung to me. Sweat dripped into the viewfinder as I made a futile attempt to capture the light.

The sun shifted orange, signaling it was time to turn back. Just a third of the way around the pool, I took off towards my car, tired and content with the thirty minutes prior."

I still haven't gone back to the quarry, but I will soon.

Here's to remembering that even in the most familiar places, there's always more to discover.