Shooting Sakura.

"Let's make it 5 o'clock instead of 6."

My uncle invited me to accompany him to shoot the Cherry Blossoms in early April. As we set up our cameras, more and more photographers appeared from the darkness, taking their positions between the cherry blossoms, all eyes on the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial sitting just across.

I don't know how many times I've watched the sun set in D.C.  This was the first time I watched it rise.

It grew crowded quickly and tempers flared as photographers bumped elbows.

At work.

If you're in the right spot, you can watch the sun rise at Jefferson's feet. Minute by minute, we watched the light evolve as the sun inched its way skyward.

Asian hilarity. Good luck with that model release. Oh wait...

The model's real entourage.

We capped off eight hours of shooting in proper fashion, with a good burger and a cold beer, a ritual that started on a fly fishing trip between third and fourth grade. My first trout, my first real burger, and now my first sunrise by the monuments and cherry blossoms. You never forget your first...

like a billy goat.

My love for the outdoors has been obfuscated by an undeniable infatuation with shell cordovan, selvage denim, and oxford cloth; materials promising consistency and predictable evolution after years spent with feelings of the opposite. Growing up, my happiest days were spent out in the woods or by the water. I honed my fire building and survival knowledge in Sedona, at age 11, inspired not by pyromaniacal fancy, but rather a tattered, old copy of a survival guide lost in the move back east.

Some of my best times in high school were spent on the climbing wall in a renovated barn on my boarding schools' grounds, laughing and learning about ourselves and the sport. Accessibility, not acrophobia, delayed my return to climbing in college; scarcity continues to impede it.

Playing hide and seek with the Potomac as we drove along MacArthur Boulevard, the spring air calmly blew through open windows and BWmF sang along with Leftover Crack as we neared the park.The winding road encouraged acceleration, but the prude speed limit and cyclists cautioned otherwise. A vintage roadster driving behind us seemed to share our frustration.

After a quick scramble up to the highest point at Great Falls, a phone call brought us back to reality and the road where our friends waited at another different canal access point. Good thing park access is still free.

The Billy Goat Trail part A. Online guides will say you need hiking boots or athletic shoes. Probably a good idea, but BWmF's Sperry chukkas and my LL Bean camp mocs proved perfectly capable.

Climbing alongside the Potomac brought me back to the adventure camps of my youth.

BWmF not spotting DF

 Better judgment reminded me that more problems emerge with the descent and after a few minutes examining a route up the (unseen) river side of this outcropping, we moved onward. I would love to return with climbing shoes, chalk bag, and crash pad.

A poorly picked route through one section required some rather comical maneuvering.

I was warned against biting geese, but survived without zoom.

A farewell to the trail and the day.

As we returned home we reminisced about our days spent fishing and biking, over a decade ago, and promised to explore more (both dirt and concrete) in my remaining months.

A hint of color among the grey

Last Tuesday, like much of April, was undistinguished with lifeless, grey skies and continuous showers. My partner in crime, BWmF, having just returned from a long trip to the Pacific Northwest, said we should skip our early week ritual of happy hour at Pizzeria Paradiso, thus sparing ourselves and our denim, a good soak. Better weather will come.

I looked skyward at 5 o'clock and was greeted by the sun, now happily shining amidst thin patches of cumulus. A gentle breeze replaced the seemingly ceaseless rain from the hours prior, but the cool, wet air remained, beckoning my favorite jacket, a bright green Patagonia shell with six years of loyal service.

Invigorated by the sunlight, clouds, and reunion with a month-absent friend over good beer, I rushed onto the Metro with a third mutual friend, DF.

Color among the grey.

I love colored trench coats.

Back in Georgetown.

Returning to Pizzeria Paradiso in Georgetown after a month-long absence felt like coming home. I've always sought to establish a familiarity with certain restaurants, BWmF and my licenses going unchecked suggests we've accomplished just that. We skipped pizza as almost every beer selected for the week at "hops" in its description. After progressing from IPA to Imperial, to Black IPA, I led the way to the waterfront, camera in hand.

Forgot a tripod.

Rosslyn and the Key Bridge

Charleston Pt. 3

Last set of photos from Charleston.

Primary Colors.

Want.

Clever.

Less so.

So much left to see.

I'll definitely be going back.

Charleston Pt. 2-The Battery and Bowens Island

Along The Battery, it's about what is there- what can be seen behind the iron gates of these Antebellum estates, and what can be imagined as being hidden from view.

History.

Morning light.

Details.

Oink.

Extravagance.

Legacy.

Principle: Strive to harmoniously integrate architecture and surroundings.
Reason: Creating cohesiveness between architecture and nature promotes aesthetic harmony; the sense that things are as they should be.

At Bowens Island, it's about what isn't there...

Irony: "Sophisticate"

He's everywhere. Eight days.

Affordable seafood. A simple menu. Countless names written on the walls. "People either like it or they don't." - May Bowen

This is another must see if you ever make it down to Charleston and I'll leave it at that.