The Ansel Adams Project - 2023

 It's a wrap! The final part three video of the Ansel Adams Project. Although I will continue to pursue this fascinating style of photography, the project will be put to sleep for now. It's been an amazing and rewarding journey. Please enjoy...The Ansel Adams Project - 2023.

Me and My Canoe - A Long Hard Day

 The previous day, my 71st birthday came and went without much fanfare. I preferred it that way. Seems like I've pretty much always been that way about birthdays. My old canoe turned 19 this year, now climbing toward 20. I suppose I made a bigger deal about it turning 19 than my own accumulation of years. In recent years I've grown to appreciate more the simple, old school way of doing things. My old canoe, an Old Town Camper model, has proven itself a durable and reliable, old school way of getting around craft. That particular model is no longer being manufactured replaced in more recent times with newer models made with higher tech materials. But, that is just fine with me. My old Camper will be around for many more years, I hope.

On year 71 plus one day, me and old Camper decided to make another solo, out and back, canoe trip on Barren River Lake. The forecast was for mostly overcast with winds from 5 to 10 mph with a high temp up around 80. Pretty good conditions for canoeing. A quick look at the lake map and I set my destination and turn around point at a large cove about 2 miles or so above Walnut Creek Marina. Our put in was once again at Browns Ford further down the lake. Round trip if you include the zig-zag course I was going to paddle would be around 20 miles. That's a far piece to paddle on flat water but I figured I could do it. A couple weeks before I had made a similar trip, around 15 miles for that one, only this time I would paddle a couple miles farther up the lake before turning around.

Canoe tossed on top, fishing gear, paddles, lunch, drinking water, camera gear, lifejacket, plus a few other assorted items were loaded into my Jeep and we headed out. Forty-five minutes later, 8:45 AM, we were on the water.

The wind, practically calm at first made for easy and swift paddling. For the first mile and half I simply glided along enjoying the sights and scenery. The cloudy sky subdued the summer heat, a welcomed refreshing turn of the weather. I planned on taking a few photographs if something of interest appeared, but mostly I just paddled. 

I use a couple paddles, all wooden. Sometimes a single paddle offers a traditional method of propelling the craft across the water, however I have started using a double paddle. I've discovered each type offers different benefits. A single paddle provides more torque and allows for quicker turns and movements left and right or stopping of a canoe. They are very efficient when you employ what is called a J stroke. That is where you paddle on one side for extended periods, but to remain traveling in a straight line, you have to rotate the blade out slightly at the end of the stroke to kick the bow of the canoe back in line. I've never really perfected that stroke, but have adjusted to using what I call a modified J-stroke where I simply drag the paddle blade for a moment at the end of the stroke and use it like a rudder to guide the bow back in line. The single paddle is better for navigating moving water. 

The double paddle, which is more often associated with kayaking than canoeing, will allow for almost perfectly straight tracking of the canoe. For getting from point A to point B, you can not beat it. Momentum is easily maintained, although using one for hours on end places a lot of stress on your arms and shoulders. With proper technique though, they provide an excellent means of propelling a canoe. On this day, I used the double paddle.

I actually made that paddle. Using two old Feather Brand paddles, I removed the handles, split about an 8 inch length off the end of each which were aligned and glued together. That joint being reinforced with three 5/16 inch wooden dowels glued and hammered into three drilled holes of the same diameter along that joint. I used some paracord to reinforce the joint with a few wraps. It works great!

Seems like the first mile or so on a trip like this one takes the longest. After that, they seem to click by rather quickly. Before long, I approached a previous camping location and stopped to stretch my legs, then covered another couple of miles to another potential camping location. I stopped again, this time to eat an early lunch. By this time the sun was starting to burn through the cloud cover, but the air remained cool. My lunch break location took about six or so miles of paddling. I had a good number of miles yet to cover, so I did not linger for long. While sitting there in the shade of a small sycamore tree, a Bald Eagle soared across the lake about a half mile away. His bright tail and head easily seen as the sun caught his magnificent form as he turned left and right searching for an easy meal. Just above him, a Redtail hawk soared across the sky. At first I thought there were two Bald Eagles, but a quick look with the binoculars revealed his reddish buff colored tail.

Ahead of me a long rocky ridge stretched westward before it turned north again. From my current position, the end of that ridge looked to be over a mile away. From there I knew my destination cove was another two maybe two and half miles on up the lake. Time was moving on, so I shoved off and spent maybe 15 minutes or so fishing inside a small cove directly across the point from where I had been. No luck. 

The wind had shifted now from out of the west and was in my face. Not too strong, but strong enough to make me work at it more. Before long I rounded the distant long oval point and headed north. About a mile and half later I pulled over one more time to stretch my stiff legs. In the distance, about another mile or so I could see the gap that was my destination cove. At this point, I figured I had paddled somewhere between 8 and 8 1/2 miles. A quick look at my watch, I realized time was getting away from me again and I had a decision to make. Do I press on? Or, do I turn around. By this time it was approaching 2:00 PM and I knew I had at least the same distance to travel to return to my Jeep, plus I wanted to do more fishing along the way back. I decided to turn around and cut my losses.

Did manage to fish some, with zero luck. For some reason Barren River Lake that has a good reputation for being a good bass fishing lake, this year, the fishing has been really slow on it. Found out later, the next day a big bass tournament took place with over 200 professional bass fishermen and the winning catch was a measly 7 lbs. That is pretty bad. Something ain't right, so I don't feel so bad not having much luck up there this season.

On the way back I mostly followed the same route but did manage a detour into another cove just to check it out. I also deviated some along one leg of the journey that added another half mile or so to my total mileage. Along the way I saw numerous Blue Herons, another Bald Eagle, a family of otters with a newborn cub, and other waterfowl. The afternoon drifted along with my canoe and I seemed to slow down the further along I paddled. By the last couple of miles, I was quite tired and struggled a bit to push through that last portion back to the Jeep.

All in all, the trip took about 9 hours with a few rest stops along the way. After referring to the lake map and snaking a piece of string along the route traveled out and back, then stretching it across the scale of miles, I ended up just slightly shy of 18 miles. 

I've discovered as I have grown older, as long as I remain active and stay in a reasonably good physical condition, I can still do many of the same things I used to do when I was younger. Only now it takes me longer to recover from it. 

I can't think of too many better things to do than to discover what awaits across a good day afield, just me and my canoe.

The Fine Art of Camp Cookery and Other Disasters

 To say it rained would have been an insult to the weatherman. Years ago during a summer break when my friend Rocky and I were in college, we decided to go camping over on the lower Illinois River located in the Oklahoma Cookson Hills area in northeastern Oklahoma. We had no real experience at it, but we figured how hard could it be. Our goal was to fend for ourselves and catch tasty trout we knew were there. Should be a real adventure. We took a few things that filled up the backend of the dune buggy he had at the time and headed off. A couple windblown hours later we arrived at our campsite just before the rain arrived.

We set up camp first with the leaky tent. It had no rainfly, but that should not be a problem. Neither one of us had a real sleeping bag, just a blanket or two. We also had no way to cook except with a campfire. Problem was, everything was drenched and we had no hatchet or saw or anything to cut the wood into manageable pieces. We did gather a few sticks the quantity of which fell well short of what we needed and set them aside until we were ready to cook our trout.

Several hours later we attempted to filet the two  eight inch rainbow trout we managed to catch. Problem was, the knives we had were so dull they were all but useless. About all we managed to accomplish was to create a pile of assorted fish parts. We were pretty hungry by this time so we decided needed to build the fire. Problem was, it was still raining and everything, us, the tent, and especially the few sticks of firewood we had gathered was soaked. Somehow or another we managed to nurse the fire into a roaring smoke and smudge producer that generated virtually no heat. With a few crumbs of cornmeal blended with the fish parts, we attempted to cook our meal. Needless to say, we remained two very hungry, waterlogged, and discouraged campers and left the next day almost disillusioned about the wonders of the great outdoors. On the way home we stopped at a hamburger joint and feasted on a large, juicy burger and fries meal.

Camp cooking is a fine art often becoming either a tasty gourmet treat or disastrous pile of inedible, often burnt mush. Most of the time, when you are hungry enough, that pile of inedible mush tastes pretty good and will get you by in a stomach growling pinch.

My first real attempts at camp cooking took place when I was around nine or ten years old in my grandmother's spacious, tree shaded backyard. I used an old, musty smelling army surplus tent my dad had purchased for me. Inside I placed an old rickety canvas cot along with a dozen or so blankets my grandmother allowed me to use. It was summer, and typically hot as blazes, but that did not seem to bother me. As evening approached I wanted to cook something using my old army surplus cook kit, so I gathered a couple armfuls of loose limbs and branches and somehow or another managed to build a fire without burning down the place.

I ran inside my grandmothers kitchen and raided the icebox. Not sure I can remember exactly what it was I grabbed, but managed to cook it over that little fire. I'm pretty sure whatever it was, it was burnt on the bottom and raw on top, but I cooked it myself over a fire I built myself. I did manage to make it through the night camping out in that old tent. The next morning as I woke up I noticed a dozen or so daddy longlegs spiders crawling around inside the tent. Not long after, the dozen or so mosquito bites I had managed to acquire began to itch. Even so, with childlike anticipation I rekindled the fire and raided the kitchen again, this time grabbing a couple of eggs and a few strips of bacon. No burnt breakfast ever tasted so good.

My skills as a camp cook hasn't improved all that much over the years only now along with burnt food, I tend to spill things into the fire. Doesn't matter what it is, boiling water, stew, or a hamburger usually about half of it ends up in the fire somehow. Even so, there have been those memorable moments when it all, well almost, comes together. Like the time on a Buffalo River float trip a good number of years ago now, my late, old friend Ralph brought one of his oldest friends, a fellow who was about as friendly as they come and could cook like you can't imagine. I believe he was a former military cook, maybe Navy...not sure, but he could build a campfire meal so good we just laid around in total bliss afterwards. This guy was also the absolute, world champion snorer. None of us got any sleep the whole time we were there because of it. But the good food he conjured up certainly made up for it.

I tend to keep my camp cookery simple building meals that are quick and easy, yet meals that provide some carrying capacity. My favorite is bacon and eggs. How could you go wrong with those two ingredients. Well, believe me, I have on numerous occasions. Burnt bacon and scorched eggs sit rather heavy on the gut, but will get you through the day.

Sometimes I'll cook chicken and rice combos using those cans of white chicken and a package of quick rice. It's just a matter of boiling the rice then adding in the chicken. Quick and easy and filling. 

Canoe camping cookery affords you some luxury in that for the most part you can carry a bit more stuff. Although I do not like to, I will at times carry a small cooler so I can tote food stuffs that need to remain cool especially during the summer months. As long as you do not have to portage your gear any distance, you can get away with doing so. Backpacking is just the opposite. Weight is at a premium and the idea is to limit the volume and thus the excess weight when packing your gear. Freeze dried meals are a good option for backpacking. They are really good and weigh next to nothing, however they can be a bit pricey. 

In spite of the trials and misadventures of camp cooking, I really do enjoy the adventure. Camp cookery has over the years provided some of the most memorable and entertaining if not heartburning moments. Building a fire, or even firing off your cook stove will often become the highlight of an outing filled with hopeful anticipation and sometimes terror filled disastrous results. Smoke in your eyes, an empty fuel bottle with no backup, inclement weather, and, oh yeah, the bag of food you left on the kitchen counter, certainly, a great many laughable memories are associated with cooking a campfire meal.

The Legend of Skull Bluff - A True Story

 Arkansas' Buffalo River not only possesses an abundance of scenic wonder, it has a rich history of folklore, strange stories, and unusual happenings. Back in 2013, I and two friends of mine took a 4 day, 3 night, float trip on the river and what transpired on that trip brought The Legend of Skull Bluff to life.

Please enjoy...The Legend of Skull Bluff

On The Edge of Light

 I was not sure what to expect. Pretty much all day long not a single cloud invaded the cobalt blue sky which glowed with a keen sharpness, a winters sky for sure, one that possessed a clean edge to it. The sun had broadcast a wide yet low angle brightness across the landscape throughout the day, and as I made the half hour drive to my intended shooting location I thought maybe I should wait until there might be more texture in the sky. 

I arrived a few minutes later, not long before sundown, where a small grove of trees, a few smaller ones bracketed by two larger ones stood high above the horizon, and I realized that maybe the conditions just might work after all. As the sun dropped below the skyline just left of the group of trees, an orange glow filtered upward into the stark blue of an approaching night sky, an edge of light that filled the air and spread across the background with an amazing contrast of simple color.

One of the key elements I search for when photographing landscapes is what I call Edge Light.

Edge light is an angle of light that creates a sharpness, an isolation of, an almost purposeful ability to allow for the translation of a scene based on the impact a particular moment of light generates. This impact often creates a simplified moment where time, place, and light fall into place to offer an artistic opportunity to capture subtle yet powerful images of nature. It is not isolated to specific times of day such as sunrise or sunset. As powerful as those moments are for offering edge light, edge light can be found almost anytime of day. It's a matter of recognizing it and looking for it.

Edge light imparts a sharpness to a scene far exceeding normal everyday light. It more readily defines what the subject is. It outlines what is there in conditional specifics where an artistic eye will readily see and understand what is happening. Framing it, exposing for it, eliminating what is not needed and focusing in on the true story of the moment, is the photographers job. It's not always easy, sometimes even good photographers miss it, but with experience, seeing edge light becomes easier and more productive. Being able to visually recognize the story amongst all the clutter come with practise. Many times the adage of being able to visually remove what is not necessary in a photograph before ever firing off the shot certainly applies to using edge light.

A good photographer has the ability to see the image long before he ever captures it. Sometimes it is obvious, but most of the time it requires looking beyond the big picture to identify the smaller more important elements. Once a few years ago I was hiking in a woodland area. It was late morning and the sun was quite bright. Certainly not the best conditions for photographing a woodlands as the light was also quite harsh and spotty generating layer upon layer of contrasty conditions. I asked myself, what is capturing my attention...where is my eye going...what am I truly seeing. That is when I noticed a clump of grassy elements growing out of the edge of a moss covered stump. A beam of light spotlighted it against the dark background. Using a long lens, I zoomed in on the scene and instantly recognized how this was the photograph I was looking for. It was a simple composition cast across the more complex elements within the wider woodlands area. Edge light that separated the subject from all the clutter was the key.

Edge light works for most any kind of subject, but sometimes luck plays a part as it was with a little buck whitetail deer late one evening. I was well hidden and camouflaged and the wind worked in my favor as the little buck walked toward me across the edge of an old cornstubble field. About 40 yards or so off, he stopped, looked into the woods, and froze for several seconds. The late afternoon edge light partially backlit him against a dark background. Dried grass along the edge of the cornstubble field caught the light and his small antlers and neck were illuminated by this low angle light. He was looking away from me, but that was okay as the moment turned out to be very special, and edge light was what helped to make it so.

Edge light is often what makes or breaks a photographic moment. Recognizing it when it is there is key to understanding how to use it to your advantage.