The Last 2000 Miles

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I apologize for the long delay in finishing this story. The truth is the trip almost finished me. It is only recently I regained the ability to stand erect. When relaxed, my hands still resume the form used to grip the steering wheel. My shutter finger is numb. The entire episode covered 4,560 miles. I covered the Shoreline Highway miles at great emotional and physical expense. The vast desert delivered miles in an uninterrupted stream. I occasionally thumped my speedometer with my thumb, just to see if it was stuck. It might have been an episode from the Twilight Zone. Hmm.

After running the entire length of Highway 1 as far south as San Francisco, I decided I had had enough. Fatigue was overtaking me and I was ready for a real, ecologically irresponsible shower and a night in my own bed. I determined at that moment the photo shoot was over and the journey home had begun.

Stopping in Orange County for fuel and souvenirs for the grandchildren, I raced south. It was nightfall when I reached my limit in Yuma, Arizona. I slept the sleep of the just that night and was ninety percent rested when I resumed my journey before dawn.

Speaking of journeys, I asked my GPS to take the shortest route home. Accordingly, I spent the next night in Alamogordo, New Mexico. I could not have been more surprised if I were in East Oatmeal, Indiana. That night, I treated myself to a bucket of chicken and a kidney busting size Dr Pepper. I understand how truckers get that way. Round. On those long desert highways, there is little opportunity for exercise. Yet, at the end of the day, comfort food seems essential.

The next day was a continuation of the GPS’s whimsical navigation. I saw a dozen places I had never seen before. I did not dream they existed. I am sure they felt the same about me.

As I travelled, scene after scene taunted to stop and capture it. I was exhausted at my core, so I pretended I did not see them. They will be there in spring. I may give them another look. Sadly, there is no shortage of decline and decay in the country. It is easier to see in the sparsely populated and economically marginal communities. My journey may get shorter each year.

At the end of my second 600-mile day in a row, I pulled into my driveway and waited in the car while the garage door descended. It shut out the world. Finally.

I went inside and crashed on my favorite napping sofa. I earned the rest. Unpacking could wait. As I write this, I have only one garment bag left to unload. There is no urgency.

I included more pictures in the two preceding posts. I hope you enjoy seeing them as much as I did finding them. They are “draft quality,” so any worth keeping may be cropped (or something) before they go on canvas. Click on the photos – twice for largest image.

Enjoy, and

Merry Christmas to all!

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 Hunt

I would like to say at the outset, I do not suffer from blood lust, particularly when it comes to deer. In my youth, I hunted like the character Will Muny in the movie Unforgiven. I shot nearly everything that walked, crawled or flew. Now, I am all murdered out. The thought of killing a deer, or any game for that matter, immediately brings to mind the unmaking of the beast. Then, my conscience reminds me of the delicious and inexpensive meats available at my local Costco. Such thoughts can sap anyone’s enthusiasm for harvesting fresh meat.

We arose early Sunday morning. I cooked a hot breakfast to sustain us through the day. Had I known what was in store, I might have dipped into something a bit stronger, say crack cocaine. We made the drive to the ranch (In these parts, they say “Rainch.”), arriving an hour before dawn. (I took a photo of the Somervell County Courthouse at about 0530!) We silently donned rifles, binoculars, skinning knives, pistols, hats, grenades, MP3 players and other paraphernalia necessary for our primitive adventure. Then, dressed as Redneck insurgents, we trudged through the darkness toward our hunting stands. After six weeks of rain, the earth squished as we walked.

Climbing into a ten-foot tall, wobbly and leaning deer stand in the pitch darkness is no mean feat. If I fell, I would land in the center of a collection of sharp, explosive gear and on top of a cactus. No good could come of that. We reached our perches without incident and began the long wait for Bambi’s father.

As I waited, I discovered my stand was next to the tree home to fifty thousand starving mosquitoes. Batting at them took my mind off the fact that one leg of my stand was sinking into the earth a little faster than the other two. If the list increased, I would eventually topple onto that earth.

No deer were available for shooting. We decided to visit a few local sites, including an old (1886) Norwegian church, St. Olaf’s Kirk. We stretched our legs and I took a few photos. Once refreshed, we returned to the hunt. Still, there were no deer. Part of me was disappointed, maybe insulted, the deer did not show. The rest of me was glad I would not be field dressing a carcass in the mud. I could live with that.

When we had enough empty silence, we walked back to the truck. Deer hunting without deer is very boring and even a little stressful. I found myself thinking “C’mon, you. Show up!” At the truck, we disarmed, disrobed and disinfected ourselves back to civilian configuration. Now, all we needed to do was drive home to hot showers, warm meals and early-to-bed. It was going to be a perfect day, after all.

When we arrived, I parked the truck at the end of a 200-foot road in the pasture. We kept close to the county road and away from the remote pastures for fear of sinking in the muddy earth.

It turned out we were a tad short on fear. I nudged the Toyota toward the gate and the hard surface road just beyond. After a hundred feet, I felt a sinking sensation and the truck seemed to get closer to the earth. Much closer. We were stuck. We were within sight of safety and solid earth less than 100 feet away. Reflexively, I gunned the engine. No progress. I slammed the transmission into reverse and revved the engine. The truck moved inches. Then I slammed the shifter into second gear and crushed the accelerator to the floor. We gained inches. A nearby debris pile provided wood, which we stuffed under the tires.

Did I mention black, gooey mud covered me from head to foot? Did I mention grass and twigs covered the mud? No? I was quite a sight. The truck fared no better and I wondered how the car wash people would react to a truck apparently made of mud, twigs and grass.

After a long struggle, the truck managed to wallow out of the mud and onto the county road. We drove home in silence, too exhausted to either laugh or cry. Still, I reckon it was a successful trip because I did not have to field dress a carcass and THEN be stuck in the mud.