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.

Crete

After nine identical mornings, I still awoke trusting the deceitful soft light creeping in from behind our curtains. Turning on the television, a bow-mounted camera fed us our first glimpse of natural light every morning. Opening the blinds quickly dispelled thoughts of the sun, instead revealing the "Promenade", the main artery of the floating hotel, yet today the scene on screen revealed no difference.

We awoke late and ran off the ship hoping to salvage the two and a half hours. The clouds darkening the cool day threatened rain, but we didn't have time to change. A shuttle took us from port to downtown Chania.

As we pushed our way through filled sidewalks, the crowds thickened. In admitted ignorance of our location, we blindly stumbled upon the heart of Chania, the Venetian harbor. My eyes were instantly drawn to the light house standing across the harbor and the small sailboat passing by. Waves violently crashed onto the rocks around the lighthouse's base; those successfully passing the narrow entrance spilled water onto the terrace and our feet.

True to form, a soaked golden retriever emerged from the harbor and enthusiastically returned to its owner who sat with his things against the western wall of the mosque. As we approached, we watched as the dog refused a meal offered by a passerby; the food sitting untouched as the dog looked back for approval. I continued on, amused and curious by the repeated burst of water battering a short section of the harbor wall. Spray exploded overhead, soaking a lonely bench.

With only forty five minutes before we needed to find our way back to the shuttle, we raced around the harbor passing waterfront restaurants and the Maritime museum without thought.

Well traveled.

Reminded of spaghetti a la carbonara.

Carpeting.

As we climbed around the rocks to the opposite side of the wall, a different side of the Mediterranean became apparent. Wm. and I stood in silence watching the surf crashing just feet in front of us, the mist landing delicately on the front of my camera.

I realized as we left the lighthouse that every step brought us closer to home.

We rushed back the way we came, getting lost in the streets beyond the harbor. Not knowing street names, but aware of a series of wrong turns, we retraced our steps to the last confirmable point. We couldn't ask for directions. There were ten minutes until the shuttle left.

Wm. spotted a familiar awning down a different alley.

As usual, he only remembered turns I'd forgotten. We sprinted towards the indoor market, up the stairs, and through the dusty building to the final shuttle that sat idling outside.

Rhodes.

Ready for rest, we spent our morning somewhere in Faliraki, Rhodes.

Apparently we passed Europe's largest water park on the way there.

I didn't see it.

Behind a hotel, I watched a photographer take various families' pictures with a Hasselbad as we floated in the cool water.

Wm. and I set off towards the city upon our return. Asphalt yielded to stone as we walked.

Making use of what they have.

En route to Crete

Country, not bird.

My family spent two weeks in Turkey last summer while I finished a course on Ethics and went fishing and tubing on Beaver Lake in WI.

Consequently, only my father accompanied me to Ephesus, Mt. Koressos, and Selçuk.

Ruins produce ruined pipes.

Prayers on Mt. Koressos

Succulent.

Israel.

Questioning by Israeli officials occurred the day before we arrived in Haifa. I'm not sure how or when they got on board.

Our expectations of being barraged with questions by a stoic Israeli official vanished over laughs about Wm.'s metamorphosis from the round-faced child featured inside his nearly expired passport.

The Sea of Galilee, a half mile beyond our first stop, led an unconquerable effort against Wm. and I for the title of "Most Vapid" from within the heat and haze. Between pulls of water and family photographs for proof of attendance, I tried to haphazardly match my incomplete and foggy knowledge of biblical history, largely supplemented by a semester of religion class during sophomore year of high school, with the comprehensive lesson pouring through the headphones.

Radio transmitters are the new personal PA system for guided tours, apparently.

Tabgha.

The Jordan River.

Neither muskrat nor beaver.

Catfish.

Leaving Haifa.

A minute of light. 60s x f/22 x ISO 100 @18 (on DX)

I was excited for Jerusalem, but tired of the slow evenings on board. Now halfway through the trip, the anxiety of what waited stateside slowly began to flow. For the first time in months, I was in bed at 10:30.

9:14 am

As the bus drove from Ashdod into Jerusalem, memorized fantasies of a city my mother once called home filled my mind. Though peripatetic, my childhood seems stationary compared my mother's. My grandfather, a diplomat whom would later be an Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary for Bahrain (coolest title ever), spent years in Jerusalem, Kuwait, and Jordan (among other places.) For years stories about Jerusalem and time spent on the Red Sea inspired images of packs of wild dogs running through the streets and four children playing in a junkyard among wrecked cars and live ammunition.

Heat and dust dull the blue walls, but the dome shines brilliantly under the high sun. From the Mount of Olives, the Dome of the Rock sits as a beacon of grandeur. A golden buoy floating in a sea of limestone, a color with which I am too familiar.

From beneath the shadow of the Western Wall, the sounds of shutters and prayers mixed; a juxtaposition of the purely touristic, the devoutly religious, and the somewhere in between.

I kept my camera by my side.

Field trips chaperoned by assault rifles.

Thirty rounds. Thirty students. Five chaperones. One rifle. One faith.

On patrol.

Overlapping roofs and narrow streets kept us shaded as we walked the Via Dolorosa. Crowded displays and ambitious owners peddled a mix of hackneyed Middle Eastern wares like keffiyehs, fake pashminas, and hookahs, with more geographically (biblically) specific goods. In my search from Haifa to Jerusalem to Bethlehem, nothing bore resemblance to my mother's Jerusalem cross; something never to be worn, but always treasured.

In a place of such volatility, I pondered how much and little things have changed, and how much they will.