Reunited in Georgetown

BWmF

Walls

Diana (Mini)- Cooler Temperatures

Diana has been troublesome. I lost a roll shot over New Year's Eve to a mediocre film processing lab, and without the pockets afforded by winter coats, we travel less and less. That said, her unpredictable performance has helped me capture moments in new light (and color.)

With our air conditioner out of commission for my last days at home, I've sought solace from the D.C. heat and humidity in memories of seeking warmth in wool.

Winter.

Crystal Lake, IL

Nags Head, NC

Rodanthe, NC

Harper's Ferry, WV

Spring.

Calvert Cliffs, MD

Washington, D.C.

Tomorrow, I leave for Europe. With or without her, I'm not sure. I'll return on June 28, hopefully clear in mind and ready to handle returning to an old town and a new phase in my life.

Walnut Ave. Bloomington, IN

(un)events by the river.

Worn brick and ivy in Georgetown.

Rosslyn at night.

In moments held too long, the Key Bridge shares its luminescent inconsistencies.

The Blue Line to National.

I drew a few looks from others waiting in the parking lot while I sat patiently, head out my window and camera in hand, listening for the train to come by.

Three weeks.

Reflecting on three months of posting on DeTOx, and my favorite pictures from the past three weeks, a consistent lack of direction is evident, and irrelevant. Our boredom is often a decision, whether or not we choose to concede this fact. Look around. Light. Color. Pattern. Texture. The oft overlooked, the unique, and the overly familiar.

Here's to three more months and not being bored. 

Abandoned.

Hop. Hop. Hop.

Ben's.

For Endres.

Armed and Angry.

"I don't care anymore."

Rooftops.

Want.

The light and dark side of parquet.

Yours truly.

More color amongst the grey. Evanston.

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