Shooting The Rapids: The Thrill and Humor of White Water

 I used to own an old Coleman Canoe. Paid two hundred dollars for it way back around 1978 or so. They have been manufactured since the late 70's, but have undergone a great deal of structural changes since then. Mine was possibly a second generation model, very close to the original style. It was a fifteen foot model, red in color, constructed of an aluminum tubing frame stretched inside a tough polyethylene plastic shell. Sealed into both ends were two blocks of styrofoam floatation. It was a tough and functional canoe. It was also heavy weighing in around 70 pounds or so. 

On the Big Piney

Even so, I probably put more mileage on that old canoe than the Old Town I've owned now for almost 20 years. In fact, I plumb wore it out for it had a couple of cracks and holes punched into it along with countless scrapes and dents along its length. I would seal the cracks with duct tape and shove off. Probably should have named it Patches, or Bumps, or maybe something else appropriate. 

My old fishing rig

Ended up giving it to my neighbor when we moved to Kentucky. That's when I purchased my Old Town Camper canoe. It's a gorgeous piece of engineering too, but has long since lost its new charm with a good number of scrapes, bumps, gouges, faded color and assorted battle scars earned on its own.  Oddly enough, that Old Town is better suited for flat water than moving water...hull design and such things...although I have made a number of float trips with it and zipped through a few lesser challenging moving water shoots.

That old Coleman served me well and provided the opportunity to explore an aspect of canoeing I've not been able to pursue in recent years: Running white water rapids. We never did a great deal of that kind of floating, but did do enough of it to at least understand the thrill and risk of doing so.

Old Town Camper on my Jeep

 Although the Buffalo River in Arkansas is not particularly known as a   white water float, the upper end of the Buffalo when the water is high   enough is a good place to get into some moderate white water runs.   The  lower end tends to spread out more, but many of the longer calmer   sections of the river are connected by a substantial drop off where a   series of rapids kicks up a challenge.  We've floated all but the last of   the lower part of that river and have had some good fun shooting some  high water rapids.

By far the most fun and most challenging runs we made was on Arkansas's Big Piney and the Mulberry rivers. We caught The Big Piney just about right one time when the water levels were high enough to generate a good flow, but not so high as to create any undo risk. One of the funniest things we saw while running that river was at the put in. We had just shoved off and were waiting inside an eddy waiting on the other two members of our party who were taking  their time getting ready. As we waited, another couple of guys showed up with a very short, maybe 12 feet or so, birchbark design pattern fiberglass canoe that they probably borrowed from someone. Both of these guys were somewhat large, too large really for such a short canoe, and as a result created a top heavy, unstable situation. We watched them load it up with a cooler filled with beer, many of which they had already consumed. Well, they shoved off...and within about 25 maybe 30 feet in perfectly calm water, with a comical plunge followed by a series of explicative phrases, over they went, beer cans and all.

After we stopped laughing we paddled over to help gather their gear which was merrily floating on down river, paddles, empty beer cans, a lunch box now partially filled with a soggy lunch. A few minutes later, they pulled out and left.  Probably the wisest move they made that day, for they would have never survived what awaited them down river.

We were able to run through some good rapids that day and that old Coleman did good. It wasn't the prettiest canoe on the water, but it sure was functional and handled the big stuff with ease. Several times we'd stop and survey the rapids to pick out a good route through, shoved off bow pointed into the current, then allowed the bow to swing around with a hard pull, one left, then right, then a power stroke, a strong back brace to slide across to miss a boulder, rooster tail waves engulfing us shipping water, two then three times, then finally to spill into calmer water.

Sorry poor quality photo -
Me and Rocky running the Mulberry River

After each run we'd lift our paddles overhead and give out a shout of triumph and after each run we'd have to find a gravel bar, pull off and bail out several gallons of water we had shipped before moving on. Can't remember how many rapids we faced that day, but it seemed it was a continuous encounter. 

My old friends Ralph and Neuman, both have long since passed on, floated in Ralphs old Grumman aluminum canoe that day. That old canoe probably was manufactured shortly after WWII and had seen countless hours on the water. It had been used by an outfitter who took it into the Boundary Waters area as part of yearly expeditions. Ralph bought it used many years before I ever knew him, and sure got his money worth out of it. It was because of my experiences floating with him in that old Grumman, I was convinced to purchase my Coleman. His old aluminum canoe was noisy, hot when it was hot, cold when it was cold, but tough and durable. On the Big Piney, what was funny about it was, even though both Ralph and Neuman were accomplished canoers...on flatter water...neither were particularly adept at handling heavy water. 

On one of the first sets of rapids, somehow or another, they got turned sideways, then spun around backwards, and ricocheted and muttered their way through and around boulders and haystacks as they looked over their shoulder. It was a funny sight to witness and teetered on the edge of a disastrous outcome, but somehow they managed to get through it unscathed. We accused them of showing off, of which they readily accepted as the reason why they did it that way. We knew better.

 Because of that old Coleman canoe, I experienced some of the most fun, humorous, wild adventures I've had the pleasure of being a part of, and I solidified strong lifelong friendships. I miss ole Ralph and Neuman, and my brother Ken, for they are all gone now. Our group of six spent many days and hours floating, camping, and fishing, and that old Coleman played a big part. On occasion, even though we live 700 miles apart now, the three of us who are still around, Rocky and Curtis and I, get together for a float trip. Sadly, too much time seems to pass by between those days though.

Ralph and Curtis on the Buffalo River

Yeah, that old Coleman Canoe served me well for all those years. It saw many sunrises, many sunsets, all kinds of weather, storms, sleet, rain, blue skies, hot and cold and it ran a good number of rapids over the years. I originally purchased it as a stop gap measure...until I could afford a real canoe...however, it provided a long term bonanza of thrills and humor, along with memorable moments. I wouldn't trade those memories for any of the newest and best canoes out there.

The Melancholy Warmth of A Wooden Canoe Paddle

 I experience melancholy moments sometimes. Usually on a rainy day, but sometimes not. Often when one of those days disrupts my day, I begin to recall times past spent outdoors with old friends some of whom have passed on now. I miss those days. Even though I now have pretty much all the time I need to pursue such things, for one reason or another, I'm not always able to do so, I suppose that situation contributes to such melancholy moments. Even so, when such days happen and those old memories come back to life, they serve as a reset option to those old desires and pursuits that have lain dormant for too long, and that is a good thing.

One of the many pine covered tall bluffs on the Buffalo River

Just the other day, I picked up an old wooden canoe paddle, one I had not used for many years. In more recent times when I am able to get out with my canoe I employ the use of a newer, more efficient, wooden paddle with a beaver tail blade, but once that old one was in hand, its feel and even its aroma transported me back many years when I and my old friends made numerous fishing trips or float trips, each one an adventure, and in some cases misadventure, in their own right. I suppose the misadventure ones generated the most memorable moments. It was during a time when my photography was limited to using disposable 35mm film cameras. Oddly enough, they did a pretty good job and I am thankful for having them for they captured many special moments spent afield with my friends.

That old paddle is so tattered and weathered, it looks as though it belongs in a museum really. The  laminated strips that run the length of the blade began to split apart a long time ago. They were sort of repaired with glue and heavy duty staples to hold it together. It worked. It's been sanded and varnished so many times the wood has darkened and there are cracks, dents, scars, scuffs, and other assorted wounds across its length, every one a story unto itself. Oddly enough, I find it reassuring to revisit the stories from such scars. Just holding that old paddle and feeling the lumps and bumps it gathered over the years brings them to life again. 

I remember the largest smallmouth bass I ever caught while floating Arkansas's Buffalo River using that paddle. We made numerous multi day floats on that river and that old paddle came along on most all of them. Good times they were. Drifting here and there on crystal clear waters flowing beneath towering, pine accented bluffs and the surrounding woodlands accented with the white bark of river birch trees, well, it just don't get much better. 

Deep within the Buffalo River watershed

We'd drift on the winding currents, cut across and through a set of rapids, then cast into the deep blue hole just below, searching for that elusive big smallmouth bass. Sometimes we'd just stop to stretch our legs or kick back and simply enjoy the view.

My friend Rocky in his vintage Old Town Canoe

Setting up camp at days end on a gravel bar, the subsequent meal cooked over a campfire with its accompanying aroma of smoke and flame, took us toward the evening with a satisfied feeling. In spite of being worn out, we'd sit up late into the star studded night recalling and retelling the finer and more humorous details of past misadventures. 

The canoes would be pulled up on the gravel bank a few yards away...and that old paddle would be leaning against mine, it's handle extending toward the ebony of the night. With a bit of luck we'd see a shooting star silently rush across the night sky. Before long the days adventures would remind us of how tired we were. Even so, we were reluctant to crawl into our respective tents, but it felt good to stretch out a stiff back against something solid.

Best campsite on river: Skull Bluff

The next morning we'd stir into groggy activity, sipping and enjoying the flavor of that first cup of coffee around the morning fire. Often a light fog might be hovering over the waters. What a way to start the day. 

We'd purposefully move slowly on those mornings. To hurry was counter to the feeling. Not a great deal of talking took place. Instead we would simply absorb the sounds of the morning and the aroma of the fresh air. Those were some of the fondest moments when the sleepiness from the night before struggled to move out of the way. Not far off, the chatter of a Kingfisher might crack the calm of the morning stillness followed shortly by a splash when he dove to catch his breakfast. Although the water was moving, its surface was smooth and every small ripple and blip bubble from a rising fish would add a small measure of texture across its flat plain. Those are the sights blended within the sounds of nostalgic moments that simply cannot be forgotten.

Eventually, each morning on the river, we'd gather our gear, pack it away inside the canoes, shove off...and I'd take that old weathered paddle in hand...In spite of the cool morning air and the dampness dripping the length of its handle, the feel of that old wooden paddle possessed a warmth to it, but maybe not in the way you might figure.

Rocky taking a break

 

The warmth came from the moment when purpose and place converged to generate one of those special memories, the kind of memory that can only be stored deep within those harbored places of the heart, where they can best be kept...then, recalled...on a melancholy day.

Ace Maker

 One of my longest and most persistent Walter Mitty daydreams is to become a pilot. Not just an ordinary single engine Cessna pilot, although that would be awesome, but a full blown military Top Gun aviator tearing up the sky in high performance jet aircraft...Yeah😏 well, that didn't happen...but,  I spent countless hours reading about and watching documentaries about aviation over the years and I am still fascinated by the mystique and drama of military aviation. When the movie Top Gun came out, I guess it was in 1986, I was one of the first in line to watch it and more recently I caught the newest version of Top Gun Maverick. Great movies both of them. That's about as close as I ever came to fulfilling that dream. Seemed there was just never enough resources, never enough time, never enough 'Just do it' attitude. I'm too old now and have come to accept the reality that I will never fulfill that dream, not even piloting a single engine Cessna. But, my fascination with the adventure of flying still resides deep inside and ever so often it gets rekindled back to life.

Here in Bowling Green, Kentucky, we have a wonderful aviation park; Aviation Heritage Park (AHP) ( link below) where several vintage military aircraft are on display. Along with a new museum that is still under construction, it serves as a great family oriented lesson in history. Each of the aircraft and the pilots who flew them have a connection to the community. A few years ago I spent some time photographing some of the airplanes, not just snapshot tourist photographing, but capturing these symbols of heroic action in a way that magnifies their style, performance, history, and nostalgic value.

I do have other posts and YouTube videos outlining the detailed techniques of how these photos were made and processed, so I won't go into detail here, but you can check them out with a simple site search or by clicking on the links below. Instead I'd like to talk about how I created the Ace Maker Poster and in general about the lighting and how it enhanced the subjects.

Ace Maker is one of my favorite photo's from AHP. I especially like the simplicity of the composition which gives it a rather dramatic impact. Technically the aircraft is the T-33 trainer version of the original F-80 Shoot Star jet fighter manufactured by Lockheed. The F-80 was the first operational jet fighter for the American Air Forces and was placed into operation just before the end of WWII. By the time the squadrons were trained and operational, the war had ended, so they never saw combat during that war period, however it did see extensive use during the Korean War. The T-33 version became the standard jet trainer for the military in 1948 and earned the nickname Ace Maker as the first generation of jet pilots earned their place in history flying this amazing aircraft. 

Creating this photo was a bit of challenge as I had to shoot it in layers using remotely fired speed lights, capturing one side then the other, then capturing the front. The wing lights were covered with a red gel and attached to the back of the wings and banged straight down onto the tarmac which reflected the light upwards to illuminate the underside of the wings. That's where the red glow comes from. The aircraft on display sits on its landing gear and there is a display information plaque placed in front of the airplane. The original combined image displayed above on the right, shows how the final lighting configuration setup was completed. To create the Ace Maker poster, I had to remove all the reflected light on the tarmac along with the plaque and landing gear. Doing so gives the airplane a heads up, head-on, highspeed coming at you look.

The Ace Maker  jet fighter is a classic design with classic historical references. Photographing it was a fun challenge as I wanted to create an image with power and style, one that stood apart from the ordinary and takes the viewer back to an earlier historical time when aviators still flew by the seat of their pants.

Aviation Heritage Park

Capturing a Classic Fighter

Shaping Light

A Walk In The Woods: Discovering Visual Moments of the Heart

 There are days when events seem to press heavily upon me. No one is immune from such things. It's just a part of life I suppose and as we grow older the accumulated effects of enduring what at times seems like a never ending stream of pressing moments take a toll on your life. 

As a reult, sometimes I just feel like getting out and taking a walk in the woods. Not nearly often enough do I seek refuge there, but when I do, I rediscover the soothing effects places like woodlands possess. Woodlands, they have become one of my favorite locations to get away and to carry a camera for within them a photographer can discover a myriad of visual moments of the heart. 

It matters not what time of day, kind of day, or time of year, a woodlands will speak far beyond the visual to anyone who enters its realm. 

When light filters through the canopy and sets the leaf edges ablaze with color, or when a morning mist finds its way through the random corridors of trees, who among us can resist taking a moment to just absorb what nature offers. 

As a photographer, I sometimes forget to take those moments of silence to just look. Instead I often get caught up with setting up the shot, working out the exposure values, and checking the results when I should just stop and visually capture what is there. Sort of defeats the purpose of being there when I spend more time looking through the camera instead of observing through the heart. 

There are times I do just that, usually when I don't take my camera along, so I can better focus on the real reason I am there. There have been times I've missed a few camera shots, but they are not lost, really. They are stored in my heart...just for me to enjoy as a memory.

Although I enjoy walking through the woods anytime of year, my favorite is probably fall, especially here in Kentucky. It is during this season the woods come alive with color, and when you catch it all, the light, the color, the mist, the breeze, the reflections, aromas, the feeling, well, it makes being a photographer much easier.

Even a simple nature walk can work wonders, but I really enjoy a longer outing. Sometimes it requires a bit of effort, but I do enjoy making a backpacking trip from time to time during the fall season when the air is cooler, the bothersome bugs are gone, and the colors simply fill your soul. 

Once you've reached your destination and get settled in, it becomes time to just enjoy the moment. A campfire, a one pot meal, then time to expand out on the ground cover of leaves and stretch your back.

Take a moment to gaze upward through the canopy of trees, then just close your eyes and allow the sounds of the woodlands infiltrate deep inside. No finer symphony exists than the movement of the leaves as the breeze searches through their realm high above. On a blue sky day, the contrast of colors produces a no finer work of art. Why don't I do this more often, I ask myself when such moments are allowed to exist for my world. Being retired now, well, there are no more excuses.

Winter of course can be a challenge but it offers a unique opportunity as the light and shadows run deep and long and what is obscured by foliage most of the year suddenly become visible. 

When snow is on the ground the texture and atmosphere of the woodlands transforms into a wonderland. Crisp and clean, fresh and clear, a snow covered woodlands is a delight to explore.

When the snow melts the woods become filled with a damp aroma that clings to everything in sight. At once refreshing and enchanting, and again subtle and bold at the same time. When the woods becomes saturated everything becomes darker in texture and more quiet in atmosphere. The sound of footsteps are muffled, yet the chatter of birds becomes cleaner and magnified. The woods simply takes on a different aura, one that will renew your mind and fill your lungs with fresh air.

It's not always the big scenes that become most important. Often, the smaller more subtle images take center stage. It's the small details that define the woodlands more precisely. 

A single flower, and single brown leaf still clinging to a limb, a clump of snow nestled into a cleft of a branch, the odd green leaf budding from a winters branch, a butterfly sitting lightly on a bloom or a tree stump lying on its side. These are the items that define the depth of a woodlands...and they are easily overlooked.

Woodland edges can also provide a treasure of photo ops. It is there you find a great many plants and wildlife you may not otherwise see. 

The light is often brighter and sharper here but that offers other photo opportunities where plants can be back lit and wildlife feed on the shoots and feel safe having the refuge of the woods nearby. You may also find fencerows or old sheds and barns near the edges of woodlands. All of these make for rustic scenes that enhance the moment.

A walk in the woods to discover a visual moment of the heart can often refill the emptiness that so often infiltrates into our lives. Those emptying events we have little control over, but we can make time to take a walk in the woods.

Take your camera along for the ride and search for those simple compositions that define the woods you are in. But most of all, find time to simply be still and listen to allow the woods to fill your heart with its healing properties.

 

A Memorial Day Tribute: Okinawa Story - One from 'The Greatest Generation'

 April 1st 1945 U.S. Army, Navy, and Marine forces invaded the Japanese Island of Okinawa.  The ensuing struggle became the bloodiest and most difficult battle of the Pacific war.  My dad was there. A few years ago, my brother gave me a call and asked if I would write something about my dad's war time experiences.  A good friend of his, who was the editor of the local newspaper, wanted to print the story as a surprise to my dad and in honor of all those from The Greatest Generation. The following is from that article.

The well known journalist Tom Brokaw once coined the phrase ‘The Greatest Generation’ referring to the young men and women of this country who were thrown into a world conflict in the 1940’s known as The Second World War.  For those who have been counted as such, few would ever acknowledge claim to that title.  For them, well…they simply were doing what they had to do.

One of the great privileges of my life is to have known someone from that generation. A few months prior to the start of the year 2000, I sat down with my dad, Kenneth L. Bridgman of Okmulgee, Oklahoma, with a microphone and tape recorder and for several hours recorded his memories and experiences of his military service during World War II.  Even though I grew up hearing stories about those years and times, my dad rarely ever spoke of the events that challenged his young adult life.  As he began to revisit those memories, they seemed as fresh and clear as if from more recent times and yet his words resonated with a nostalgic clarity born from having personally experienced the horrors of war and the satisfaction of having done ones duty during those traumatic and dangerous years.

Reflecting on what my dad experienced during the war years generates mixed emotions as many of America’s young men and women today are once again in harms way engaged in overseas fighting.  There is a kindred spirit of sorts that connects their generation with those from the Second World War.  It is a spirit worth sharing.

He was barely 19 years old when he shipped off to the South Pacific as a corporal in the U.S. Army attached to the 321^st Engineer Combat Battalion as part of the 96^th Infantry Division (The Deadeye Division).  He scored well at the gunnery range receiving at the time the second highest score ever recorded in the battalion, second only to the sergeant in charge of the outfit.  As a result he was given special training in defensive preparations and was assigned the responsibility of being in charge of all the unit’s machine gun operations.  That responsibility included not only maintaining the 30 caliber light machine guns but the heavier water cooled 50 caliber guns as well, plus making sure they were transported, operational, manned, and supplied.  He often found himself manning those emplacements as well.

His unit was actively involved in General Douglas MacArthur’s ‘Return to the Philippines’ as they landed on the shores of Leyte in 1944 to support the combat units reclaiming territory the Japanese had taken earlier in the war.  The 321^st Engineers were more than a support unit. They were actively engaged in combat rolls and many times went in ahead of the infantry to prepare the way.  

Sometimes they took out seawalls that blocked exits off a landing beach, other times repaired or built bridges, often under fire.  Their charge one day might be to support an offensive, or assemble Bailey Bridges across a ravine or river, or to remove or mark a mine field, and to even take out concrete bunkers.  Whatever their call, my dad’s unit was often upfront in the thick of deadly fire.

As tough as the Leyte campaign was, Okinawa proved to be the largest and most difficult battle of the Pacific theater.  The 96^th Infantry along with the U.S. Army 7^th and U.S. Marines 1^st and 6^th divisions invaded Okinawa on April 1, 1945.  Being one of the home islands of Japan, it was defended with fanatical tenacity by one of Japans toughest and best lead military units…the Japanese 32^nd Army.  

The Japanese all through the Pacific proved themselves as tough fighters, and Okinawa proved just how tough, disciplined, and well trained they were.  Their underground fortifications positioned along a series of ridges and escarpments traversing a narrow pinch on the southern end of the island were specifically designed to inflict heavy casualties. What was encountered along this Shuri Line was the largest concentration of Japanese firepower that confronted the American forces anywhere in the Pacific theater.

The 96^th was a major contributor to the breaching of that line and name places such as Kakazu, Tombstone, Nisharu, and Hacksaw Ridges…Conical Hill and Charlie Hill…are forever engrained into the history and exploits of the battalion.  The 321^st Combat Engineers were there through it all.

Although during our recording session, my dad spoke of many experiences, there was one experience he spoke about in a more subdued manner.  His unit had stopped moving forward and setup for the evening.  As was his duty, he setup several machine gun emplacements around the perimeter as a defensive measure and assigned himself on point…the area most likely to encounter any kind of an attack during the night.  As it turned out, his commanding officer indicated that my dad needed to head back to the landing beach area and help unload supplies which was an all night, physically challenging thing in its own right.  Although he argued the point about needing to stay, the officer told him to head out and get someone else to take his post on the point.  That evening the Japanese attacked their position and the point location took heavy fire and the man he appointed to take his place was severely wounded and later died.  Many years after the fact, as he recalled the incident, I could still see in his eyes just how moved he was by what had happened.

One of the most revealing things I learned during our recording session was just how often the Good Lord protected my dad.  Indeed, my grandmother often told me when I was younger how she and my grandfather would every morning and every evening kneel next to their bed and pray for the safety of their son…their only child.  Those prayers were most certainly answered more than once.

There was one incident where it appeared his unit was going to stop moving for an extended time, so he gathered a bunch of timbers and old tin roofing material and built a make shift bunker of sorts…one that would protect him from just about anything except a direct hit.  Shortly before sundown, the sergeant came by and told all of them to gather their gear for they were moving out pronto.  During the night an intense artillery duel ensued with shells flying from both sides over their position. 

By morning, things had calmed down, and he needed to return to his make shift bunker to get some supplies he had left behind as they had moved out so quickly the day before.  When he found his bunker…it had taken a direct hit by a Japanese artillery round destroying everything in and around it.  Had his unit not moved out, he would have been in that bunker…and I would not be writing this article now.

His unit was manned by a bunch of tough characters many of them coming from construction and heavy equipment operations before the war.  During the blur of combat difficult moments and snap decisions are often made, sometimes with tragic results…sometimes with uncanny insight.  In all of the carnage…during all of the stress of combat…my dad’s humanity saved the life of a Japanese soldier.  His unit had captured a scared and confused young Japanese private not much older than he was.  Things had been rather chaotic and some of the guys in his unit wanted to shoot the guy and be done with it for they didn’t have time to deal with him.  My dad stepped in and argued against doing so, saying that the guy was no longer a threat to anyone…couldn’t they see that he was scared to death.  They just needed to hang onto him for a while until they could find an officer to take him back for interrogation.  Before too long an officer did drive by in a Jeep and he flagged him down…and turned over the Japanese soldier to him...saving the life of not just a foe…but another human being.

Notice the camera?
 It's an old Argus C3

With the anniversary of the Okinawa campaign on the horizon and in light of the recent earthquake and tsunami disaster in Japan, it somehow seems fitting to reflect on just how much the world has changed since those tumultuous times.  Those who were once a bitter enemy are now a trusted friend and our hearts and prayers go out to the Japanese people and nation.

The legacy of the greatest generation and my dad is less about the political environment of the world in the 1940’s, and more about the character of a nation as experienced through the lives of those who lived it.  They were ordinary men, thrown into an extraordinary situation…and changed the world for the better.  We are all part of that legacy and are forever indebted to that generation…Although my dad would never say it…I will say it for him…I am proud that he can be counted as one from ‘The Greatest Generation’.

(My dad passed away several years ago as he approached the age of 92. He remained in relatively good health for most of his life, always active and athletic up until the last few years, he always lived his life with courage and honor caring for my mother until her death a few years before his. The stories of his WWII exploits were first told to me by my grandmother as a very young boy growing up in Oklahoma. I've always treasured those stories and after we made the recordings, copies of them along with this same article were sent to the Oklahoma Historical Society Oral History Department and archived along with other war stories from that same generation. About a year and a half before my dad passed away, my brother unexpectedly passed away from complications sustained from exposure to Agent Orange received during his stint in Vietnam. My grandfather, having served during WWI as part of an artillery unit, sustained damaging injuries to his lungs from poison gas which gave him great distress as he grew older. I spent four years performing search and rescue operations off the Oregon Coast while serving in the United States Coast Guard during the tail end of the Vietnam War Era. It was an experience I would not trade for anything.)

Keith Bridgman 

Kentucky Skies: Adapting to Changing Situations

Sometimes, possibly most times, as a photographer I struggle to make sense of the natural world and capture it in such a way as to make a photographic statement. I'm not always successful, in fact I fail more times than I succeed. But, I keep trying, keep looking and searching for those moments that stand apart from the ordinary. Fortunately, Kentucky is filled with wonderful photographic opportunities. One of the most consistent is the Kentucky Sky.

Sunsets have been photographed so often and by so many good photographers, capturing something truly unique is, well...not easy. It takes more than just a nice sunset. It requires being present during a set of conditions that slowly builds second by second until just the right moment when it reaches a peak. It also takes patience from the photographer to know when to release the shutter.

Over the years I have visited many sunsets, but only a few stand apart, in different ways, yet they retain one thing in common: I recognized an opportunity might develop, and I sought out the moment. As I think through the process of how these photo's were captured, I realize just how important it was to keep my photographic radar operating and to be willing to adapt to the changing situations. I also know you do not have to capture a scene exactly the way you see it. You capture the emotion of the moment, the way you feel it. You visualize the potential and use all the tools available to create a finished product. That includes exposure compensation, filters, lens selection, timing, and post processing technique.

I love photographing sunsets and sunrises although I rarely pursue it on a consistent basis. I just get a feeling sometimes that a nice sunset will appear and that is usually based on how the cloud cover progresses through the day. The best times are when the sky begins to break up just before sundown which often leads to dramatic reflections of light illuminating the underside of the clouds. I'd guess maybe one in ten times will the conditions produce something that causes you to stand in awe of the moment, but that is a price I am willing to pay to witness such a wonderful display.

Sunset photos do very well when the composition is simplified. Late summer when the air is thick with humidity can turn the sun into a giant orange ball. Throw in a simple foreground and the results can be magical. I will often simply drive around my local area looking for potential places where a sunset photo might play out with the proper conditions. I make mental notes of these places and when the whim and conditions hit me just right, I don't waste time looking for a spot, I know exactly where I need to be and make sure I am there well ahead of time.

I can't tell you how many times I've done that, only to have the conditions fizzle at the last minute. But, that's okay, because the only way to truly capture a unique sunset is to be there, and that sometimes means it doesn't happen. I always learn from those moments, things like reading the clouds, watching the weather report, listening to my instincts, all of these come into play, and that also includes dumb luck sometimes.

As attractive as they are, sunsets do not always need to be big and bold. Color is always an option and sometimes the conditions produce contrasting or opposing colors. These can be some of the most dramatic and mesmerizing images, especially when formed within a simplistic framework. 

Sunsets can be overlooked by photographers as something that is mostly overdone, however, I still find them amazing and fun to capture. Summer can produce some of the best conditions, but you must think through the process and adapt to the changing conditions, especially as part of Kentucky Skies.

The Sailboat

 My dad was a photographer of sorts. During WWII he carried an old Argus C3 and chronicled his adventures as his unit fought their way across Leyte and then again across Okinawa. I spent many hours while growing up scanning through the stack of war photos he managed to keep through the years. Only a handful are still in my possession with others being held by another family member. Wish I still had them all. Some years later while he was a high school journalism teacher he had access to a 35mm film camera...not sure what kind it was...but using it from time to time he chronicled a very few moments of my life growing up. One of the most memorable was the day he took me and a few of my friends to a small nearby lake so we could sail the wooden sailboat models we made in shop class. I still remember that day. At the time I wasn't aware he was taking photos. I'm sure glad he did.

The year was 1964, and time has faded the names of those friends in my mind, but not so of other events.  At the time we lived in Delano, California, for just a year, but it was an eventful year...sort of a coming of age year you might say. Learned a lot in shop class that year, simple but important skills really...how to cut a straight edge, how to use a jack plain, wood gouge, drill, sander, varnish...all those skills every young man should have. Our project for that semester was to build a model sailboat. And when they were finished, we possessed a work of art...well...to me it was.

I'll never forget that day at the lake. Seems it was slightly overcast with a light breeze that caused the palm trees to sway. It was perfect to catch the sails of the boats to propel them across the narrow arm that was just wide enough to let the boats get up a good head of speed, but narrow and shallow enough so we could run to the other side or wade out into the water to coral them should they start to drift too far in the wrong direction. 

We tried to set up races between the four boats. Most of the time the boats just drifted off in whatever directions the breeze inclined to take them and so it was pretty much impossible to declare a winner. Actually, we all were winners that day as we were able to forget about the challenges of being almost or at best barely teenagers and just have fun sailing something we made with our own hands.

I was this skinny 12 year old with an era style crewcut. Just 12 years old, but having already experienced some of the most dramatic events in history. A few months before in November of 1963, when we lived in New Mexico, an assassin's bullet struck down President Kennedy in Dallas, then the assassin himself was struck down live on television. Young minds should not have to see such things, but we did, and those wavy black and white television images were imprinted deep within our memories. They were difficult events to absorb, even more difficult to forget and move on, but they were none the less a part of that generation's history, memories that will never be forgotten by those who witnessed it. 

When my dad snapped these few photographs at the lake, little did he realize that he was capturing a renewing of sorts. The kind of renewing only a young boy coming of age can experience. Thoughts of that terrible day a few months before were shoved aside exchanged for adventures and visions of sailing on the high seas, of dreaming of new possibilities and probably what should be instead of dwelling on something...well...something a young boy should not have to dwell on. There were no counselors in schools to talk to the students about what happened back then, at least I don't recall ever receiving any kind of counseling. That was left to parents and to the kids themselves to sort through such things. Even though several months removed, building those sailboats was a kind of default therapeutic counseling and probably the best kind too. Those few months after the President was killed, when we were shown how to construct those sailboats in shop class, well, it served to divert our young minds toward something that was far less encumbering and more positive.

On those occasions I rediscover these few photos, I see in the expressions of us boys, a joyful focus, one that took us away from a terrible past event to point us toward a stronger growth of character that only comes from something as simple as sailing a homemade boat across a small arm of water. 

When I bring these photo's close...for a few moments, I am taken back to once again become 12 years old, remembering what it was like to experience such a day. I still remember that sailboat for it helped me to move away from difficult memories and to develop an imaginative mindset towards amazing true life adventures.