A Few Final Pictures

I was rummaging about in my wild west photo safari collection over the weekend and thought I might publish a few more pics, just to see how I (and others) received them.  Sometimes, ya just have to step back and look at a picture from a distance - in space and time.  So, here goes:




Cabin on the high plains

 The tiny cabin with windmill floats on an ocean of west Texas prairie.  There are no other structures in sight.  Ageless, there's no telling when it was built, but I estimate it is pushing a century of years.  On the good side, the nearest roadway is half a mile away, so the kids could play outdoors without fear of traffic. On the downside, the nearest rattlesnake was probably under the house.
Ssssssssssssssssssss!



Twin Peaks, AZ







These twin peaks are located somewhere in Arizona.  I think they can be seen from western New Mexico since they have little competition in altitude and uniqueness.  It is nigh impossible to get a good picture of a mountain.  The massive scale is often lost in translation. Still I make the effort.  Maybe one day...



Derelict Cabin

 The cabin at right won the "Most Hopeless" award for nothern California.   I would be surprised if it survived the heavy rain and snow that showed up right after I left. (Darn!)  This one was on 101/1 before reaching the Shoreline Highway, I think.


Twisty Highway in the Forest




This picture is representative of the winding forest highway inland from the coast.  Note the absence of shoulders on the road.  Note the blur of scenery as I shot through the windshield.  Sigh.  I still like it, but it may never be sold.  Maybe I can find a show for folks with naturally blurry vision?

Travelling Over the Hills and Through the Woods

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Yesterday, “BR” gave me a great tip about old time California. Over lunch, he suggested I try Hwy. 99 north. I did. Sort of. I saw nothing right on 99 except the mega vegetable farms and vineyards associated with the agriculture of northern California. This condition lasted all the way to Fresno, where I collapsed in a heap last evening.

At 0600 PST this morning, I took a chance. I knew I wanted to go to Fortuna, CA as the minimum northern destination for my safari. I could struggle with the map. I could calculate the distances. On the other hand, I could push a couple of buttons on the GPS, sit back, and enjoy the ride. That is what I did.

GPS computers do not think like the rest of us. I merely told the machine where I wanted to go and to take the shortest route, please. I expected something like the route I had scanned on my physical map. What I got was much better.

The total distance from Fresno to Fortuna came up as 440 miles, +/-. I can do that in a day on a motorcycle. In the car, it would be a piece of cake.

I set off along 99 and eventually merged onto I-5 north. I smugly rolled along with traffic, knowing I would reach my goal at a reasonable hour. I was already planning my return leg south and toward home.

The GPS directed me to get off the comfortable, swift I-5 and head west on CA-16. That is when BR’s advice kicked it. It was beautiful. A continuous supply of quaint villages and settlements streamed by my windshield. Huge trees shaded the tiny road and stood guard in the morning fog and the morning rain. I choked the throttle down to something like a legal speed and turned on the windshield wipers. Then, I watched helplessly as photo opportunity after opportunity slid by in the wet, cold and gloom.

My depression was relieved somewhat when CA-16 merged with CA-20 and then US-101. Photos aside, I had as much fun as a child riding the rollercoaster at the State Fair of Texas. On a few occasions, fellow road-racing celebrants slipped up beside me for a particularly tight curve. I have still not wiped the smile from my face. The adrenalin rush was almost continuous, especially when we discovered CHP cars on the side of the road, lights flashing. Fortunately, they already had a “customer” and seemed not to notice the 100 mph passers-by. I attribute this to the fact my mother prays to all the Saints in Heaven on my behalf. You go, Mom!

The 200-mile drive through the mountains carried my thoughts far away from photos and toward navigating the pavement through jaw-dropping scenery, including many 300’ redwoods. I gained a little empathy for the tree-huggers as I contemplated their average age of 1000 years. What majestic creatures they are!

Eventually, I found Fortuna. (Really) It became my Shangri-la. I am as far north as I need to be. I am ready to creep south – camera in hand taking the photos that present themselves. Frankly, I hope a strong storm at sea…

Storm or no storm, I am heading south on 101/1 tomorrow morning. I am excited about what I might see – especially in the early morning fog. Wet cold and gloom shall not save them tomorrow! Heh, heh.

I can hardly wait!

More soon.



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Semi Continental Photo Shoot 1

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Dawn had not yet crapped when I left my home in Texas and headed west. It was Sunday and I was on a mission.

Following my recent success at the Bosque Art Center photography show in Clifton, Texas, I decided to freshen and expand my portfolio for future opportunities. I devoted the first part of my safari to “Old Homes on the Range.” Accordingly, I snapped as many derelict and abandoned structures as I could manage as I crossed west Texas and entered New Mexico.

To qualify, a structure had to be significant, like a factory or insignificant, like a residence. They must be tumbledown, reflecting age and change. These structures have spoken to me from my earliest days. As a boy, I saw homes sinking into the earth, abandoned by the families that built and occupied them. Sometimes, it seemed generations might have lived there, fighting for a place on Earth. Finally, the tides of time and fortune pushed them out.

These are places where fulfillment and destruction awaited dreams. When I look at them, I try to put myself in the place of the first builder/occupant. Did a family build this home out of hope for a better future? Maybe the old place was a last resort and refuge from economic circumstance. It is impossible to be certain.

I can tell you no manmade structure is sacred in the end. No home lasts forever. No business survives. The “House of God” suffers along with the rest of the community.

In uncertain times, it seems pertinent to remember that our ancestors enjoyed hope and optimism as well as disappointment and defeat. The structures left behind are traces of those who brought us forth.

We too shall abandon the old to decay and give birth to a brighter future.

The testimony is scattered across the entire country. In time, I hope to show you more of it. Photos shall follow.

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The Art Show

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A few folks in North America have not yet seen the wonderful art exhibits at the Bosque Art Center in Clifton, Texas. You slackers know who you are.

Well, your time is running out, at least if you want to see my photo exhibit. With a week to go, you still have time to drive or book a flight to Texas. Next Saturday, November 13, I will close the show at noon, so do not let the grass grow under your feet on this. Clifton is a lovely two-hour drive from any major airport in Texas, except Houston, San Antonio, Austin and El Paso. I suggest DFW. If you have your own plane, Stephenville or Waco might work.

Sales are encouraging. Three larger prints (24x30”) found new homes and two smaller ones are going home with new owners, too. It could get better before week’s end. I am well satisfied and grateful to Jean Ann Smith, the woman in charge of the photo gallery operations for inviting me.

I am still wrestling with the logistics of a photo safari. Having sold a few pictures, I am beginning to believe I can estimate buyers’ preferences; and I can use a safari to create new (and better) images. Getting away from home has been a surprising challenge, but I am confident it will work out. Eventually.

I shall keep you posted.

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My Life, and Welcome to it

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It began yesterday. It was the first sunny day I have seen in awhile and I resolved to manicure the landscape while I could still see over it. The idea seemed simple enough.

First, I planned to trim the verge in the lower forty, down by the creek. Unfortunately, a large limb covered most of it, so I retrieved the trusty chainsaw from the tool bin. It was out of fuel.

“No problem,” I thought. I fetched the 2-cycle fuel can. “Hmm. It’s empty, too.” I muttered. In a few minutes, I located the keys to my truck and headed for the gas station. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived home and filled the chainsaw’s tank. Pull as I might, it would not start. A little poking and prodding later, I discovered the chain was jammed.

“It probably got stuck on a shred of my blue jeans, “ I thought.

I found some antique hand tools and disassembled the saw. I cleaned the clutch of packed sawdust and readjusted the tension on the chain. Once reassembled, it started immediately.

“No problem,” I repeated.

I stripped the limb of all the small twigs and branches. The remainder was 100% firewood. That meant I would need to haul the cut pieces to the wood rack for storage. Who knows, it might snow again in the next decade. Then again, it might not.

I fetched my recently returned wheelbarrow, Starship Enterprise, to help haul the wood. Not so fast. The tire was flat.

“No problem,” I said through my teeth.

I got back into the truck and drove to the hardware store to buy a patch kit. Forty minutes later, I unbolted the wheel from the barrow and pried the tire from the wheel with a crowbar. I found the leak in the tube and glued a patch over it.

By now, it was after lunchtime. I returned to the house, cleaned up and enjoyed a gourmet frozen dinner. Mmm, mmm. That strapping 200-calorie lunch really hit the spot. I am still surprised I had strength enough to walk away from the table, but I managed.

Last week I ordered a video camera for my motorcycle. As I savored my lunch, the telephone rang. It was Jim, the local dealer, telling me I could come get the camera. I jumped into the truck and headed for Waxahachie to score some high-tech toy for my travelogues. These trips take time as Jim and I are both inclined to regale one another with stories of derring-do when we meet. When I returned home, I whipped-up another 200-calorie wonder meal and collapsed for the evening.

The lawn could wait one more day.

This morning, I returned to the simple and satisfying task of lawn maintenance. I checked the inner tube for leaks. It seemed sound. Next, I reassembled the wheelbarrow. When I finished, it looked pretty normal and wheelbarrowish.

“Good job, Hank.”

Finally, I loaded the refurbished chainsaw into the repaired wheelbarrow and set off for the jungle. When I arrived, everything was perfect, at least for the first ten seconds. I parked the wheelbarrow and started the chainsaw. Whiiiinnne went the saw. BUZZZZ went the chain. We seemed to be making a lot of noise, but no wood chips were flying. Soon, the wood I was cutting began to smoke. I stopped the saw and carefully ran a finger along the blade teeth. Nada. It was as dull as a butter knife.

"Probably got dulled when it chewed into my kneecap."

“No [bleeping] problem,” I spat.

I stalked back to the shed and put the saw on the shelf. Then, I selected the “good” chainsaw that sat right next to it. Five minutes later, wood chips filled the air and I was on my way to a yard worthy of House Beautiful.

I hauled and stacked the wood. Then, I trimmed the rough spots with the weed-eater. The edger made short work of the margins of the lawn and the mower chewed through the weeds of my formerly lush lawn as if they were in the fairway at Augusta. Ten minutes with a leaf blower removed the last traces of debris. It was a struggle, but it was almost worth it. The place looks much better.

As a final step, I climbed into my truck one last time to return it to its rightful place at the end of the drive. I crawled in and slammed the door. As the engine started, I happened to glance upward toward the sun visor. That is when I saw it. It was the biggest, blue butterfly ever seen, at least in my truck. I was too tired to startle much, so I thought of grabbing a camera. I slipped out quietly and dashed indoors. When I returned, the butterfly was right where I left him. I took a dozen photos. A few were okay.

I backed the truck into place and killed the engine. I ran the windows down so my butterfly passenger could find his [or her] way when he tired of being indoors. Then, I came in here to write about it.

That is enough for me.

Return to Cross Timbers

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The Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council (CTFAC) in Stephenville, TX is exhibiting art with a Texas historical theme during the month of March.  Better still, they invited me to include a few pictures.

Later today I will travel to Stephenville, Texas and install three historical images for the entertainment and enlightenment of gallery visitors.  I started to bring a few of my baby pictures.  Lord knows they are becoming more historical each year.  In the end, I chose somewhat older subjects, even though they aren't that much older.

I hope you will join me at the CTFAC gallery between now and March 25.  Let me know you're coming and I'll try to meet you there!

PS:  The Barbeque at the "Hard Eight" restaurant is worth the trip.
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Supercharged Weekend Part Two

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My sincere thanks go to Keri Wallace and Connie Buntrock of the Cross Timbers Fine Arts Council (CTFAC) for making this blog post possible. Ladies, my hat is off to you! Geraldine Roe of Roe Art in DeSoto, Texas provided custom frames and mats that made the prints look great. Thank you, Jerry!

You may recall I escaped the reunion party with just strength enough to crawl into bed. I slept the sleep of the just and was in fair working order when the alarm sounded on Sunday morning. This was to be my big day. Actually, it would be the third big one in a row. I kept my dawdling to a minimum and was dressed and on the road by half past 10. The open house and art show began at 1:00pm. I arrived on time. I did not make the mistake of dining at the Hard Eight Barbeque Restaurant before the event. Last time, I arrived looking like I finished second in a food fight. As delicious as it was, I did not want to wear the menu on my good shirt.

There were few cars at the gallery when I arrived. “Good,” I thought. I brought a few more pictures and I now had time to install them without interruption. The CTFAC gallery never looked better. Tasteful Christmas decorations brightened every room. Accomplished artists and crafts people staffed displays of photographs, textiles, jewelry and more. I found them all impressive.

An a cappella choir provided cheery Christmas carols. The gallery also furnished cakes, cookies, punch and more delights than I can name for the snacking needs of guests and artists. Gee, I hope some of it was for artists. I dived in, carefully selecting treats that looked good on a white shirt. When the choir finished, a wonderful harpist began playing. I understand why pictures show angels with harps. The music was heavenly. It made everything right with the world.

Guests arrived in a more or less steady stream from 1:00 through the close at 5:00pm. Feeling a bit sheepish, I stood my ground in the room assigned to me. In no time, I began to meet friends and relatives who accepted my invitation to attend. I also met many new people. Most all of them were complimentary, even if they did not purchase. I found the many compliments reassuring. Better still, more than one guest paid actual money for my prints. I was ecstatic! What could be more complimentary to a starving artist than to open one’s pocketbook and buy the product of his labor? Let me answer that for you. Nothing. More than a few prints found new homes. I am particularly grateful to Charles and Gayle Ledbetter. They stocked-up. Thank you. I believe you chose wisely.

At the end of the day, I began the long chore of packing up. It was dark when I reached the highway leading toward home. The Hard Eight closed before I could get there and I was too tired to care. As misty rain cloaked the highway, I lit the fog lamps and poured gas to the engine. My trusty car whisked me swiftly and quietly homeward. I was “On display” most of the day. Now, I sat in the dark quiet of the car and felt warm, lucky and satisfied. It was a good beginning. The middle stripe ticked by in a blur.

Once home, I went straight to bed. Exhaustion claimed me.

When I awoke, I was surprised to learn it was still Monday, December 7, a day that lives in infamy. I remained near comatose until noon. I completed the day by doing nothing. It was all I could manage. I was beyond exhaustion. Who knew something so enjoyable could be so demanding?

Today, I am fully recovered and a legend in my own mind.  It is a small but important start.

Merry Christmas to you all!