The Narrative Image

SHOOT the ST. JOHNS BRIDGE

2012-01-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

(Your Mission Should You Decide to Accept It)

St. Johns Bridge 01-08-2012

Bernadette told me about the class. It was advertised as aPaddle-sports Photography Clinic, organized by Alder Creek Kayak and Canoe, andpresented by Neil Schulman (www.neilschulman.com)

It was also free.

I bring it up because in retrospect, I think the bigtake-home message I distilled from the evening might have helped me with myongoing efforts to take a decent picture of the St. Johns Bridge, a bridge that demands - like agirlfriend on the third week of a rigorous diet - only flattering pictures.

I took this picture from my kayak several yearsago on a hot summer day. I think it was the reflection that caught myattention. Blue is supposed to be a cool color, but on that day it was sobright it was blinding. If you turn the thermostat up to 95 and pour some saltwater in your eyes, you’ll get some idea of what it was like. I’ll be damned ifI understand how the picture can still come out looking refreshing.

This picture is also from that same day. I like how the offcenter bridge makes me think it’s trying to avoid me…

as if it’s trying to get around me…

…going somewhere important.

But if it sparks any reactions like that in you, it’scompletely an accident.

I think I was just trying to make pretty pictures of thethings I saw on a trip up the Willamette.Perhaps it’s like a travelogue, “Here we have the beautiful gothic tower of thelongest suspension bridge west of the Mississippi(at least in 1931).

But that’s it.

Those two pictures.

The best shots of the St. Johns BridgeI could muster.

Last February, my corporeal friend Mr. T.accompanied me down the Willametteand I got another chance to try my hand at photographing the bridge, but endedup with yet another travelogue snapshot, “Here we gain some impression of thevast scale of the beautiful gothic towers of the St. Johns Bridge by purposefully using Mr. T as a foregroundelement.”

So the take home message? For me it was, “Evoke – Don’tNarrate.”

Mr. Schulman said several disparaging things about narrativeimages. That’s when I started feeling a little bit self conscious, cause…wellyou know…narrative images.

I slouched down in my chair a little bit which was sillybecause it isn’t like anybody was going to recognize me. I wanted to argue thattelling a story with a picture is a good thing. But I decided to listen andwhat Mr. Schulman said started to make sense. As I think about it, I’m not surehe meant ‘narrative’. Maybe a betterword would have been ‘literal’. On theother hand, he could have really meant ‘narrative’.

Never mind.

The point is, when we are out in the world, we can’t helpbut have emotional responses to it, and evidently good photos make people feelan emotional response. The question for the photographer becomes how to conveythose emotions in a photograph.

Mr. Schulman thinks that maybe being thematicallyintentional will help one to make images that evoke feelings, because suchimages will have a subject or meaning. It’s hard to explain, but it’s somethinglike what would happen if I approached the scene above as a metaphor forbridging the gap between two cultures instead of attempting a technical drawing-likerepresentation of the structure of a suspension bridge.

I don’t really think it has been my practice to go outintentionally thinking of themes. I guess I just head out with a vague idea ofmaybe taking a picture of a bridge or something. It’s almost like I hopesomething will ‘speak’ to me.

One night I walked around cathedral park afterdark, wondering if the St. Johns’neighborhood was the tough part of town or not. Sometimes I feel prettyvulnerable trying to set up long exposure shots, bent intently over the tripodand fighting with my bifocals for a clean line of sight into the viewfinder.

I recently made a concentrated effort to get a satisfyingpicture of the St. Johns Bridge and found some pretty decent vantage pointsalong the ramp to the west end of the bridge. But all of this occurred wellbefore the clinic, so I wasn’t yet trying to be thematically intentional.Looking back with what I know now, I’d say this is just a narrative/literalsnapshot.

Mr. Schulman said he thinks the language of composition is‘hardwired’ into all of our brains. He didn’t even want to talk about it verymuch, insisting that if you go out and take a lot of pictures, you’llautomatically begin to refine your sense of composition.

Walking up the road to the bridge, I stumbled upon anentrance to Forest Park’sRidge Trail. With all the deciduous trees stripped of their leaves, I managedto find a few viable vantage points.

The 200mm zoom lens I’m using here kind of compresses thelength of the long middle span so that the arc of the deck is emphasized…whichto me, kind of speaks to the principle of ‘suspension’. The lazy counter arc ofthe main cables belies the heavy work the suspension cables perform.Unfortunately, I’m not using a tripod so I’ve tried to hide how ‘not tacksharp’ this image is by over post-processing it.

Do you think people would get upset if I cut acouple of trees down so I could get a clear shot?

Off trail a little bit, I found what appeared to be aprimitive hobo camp with a mostly unobstructed viewpoint. It’s sort of anuncomfortable feeling to lug camera gear into isolated areas that show signs ofsketchy habitation. There’s no telling what’s in those plastic bags. It couldbe stashed blankets, or a Mexican drug cartel stash…or maybe your wife’s head.I ended up feeling a little bit like goldilocks, hoping the three bears didn’t comehome too soon… or those banjo players from Deliverance.

I don’t know…I guess it’s the kind of paranoiathat’s fostered from the sight of syphilitic mice shuffling away from mosscovered stairs and incongruously placed books along the path leading into the darkwoods.

At first, some kind of psychological compulsionrequired me to include the entirety of the signature gothic towers in my attempted compositions.

The St. JohnsBridge: Entrance to Oregon’sown Gotham City.

This was my favorite shot, but without a tripod,it suffers from motion blur.

On a subsequent trip with tripod, pepper spray,and other defensive weapons, I tried to re-create my favorite scene. I stillstruggled with whether or not to amputate the front tower or not. In the end,evidently, I kept zooming in closer. Don’t ask me why. Ask my hard wired senseof composition.

f-14.0, shutter-60seconds, ISO-100

These pictures were also taken before theclinic. But it kind of shows what I mean about hoping something will ‘speak’ tome. For the picture on the left, I walked out onto the span, familiarizingmyself with the shapes and the lines and the weight of them. I liked how thefirst tower framed the second (enough to stand stupidly in the road with myback towards traffic) and how the road rises and hides what may be coming.Doorways and portals just naturally reek with symbolism, and so even without Mr.Schulman’s advice about ‘evoking meaning’, I think these photos may still havecaptured something evocative. For the picture on the right, I meant to exploreunderneath the bridge, but as the bridge came into sight, I could see thesetting sun was illuminating only one of the towers, and I thought maybe thatmight work like a really cool spotlight and so… I framed it.

Here, three intrepid sperm swim toward thecervix, but only Sparky (on the left) has had the foresight to bring alcohol beverages with which to seduce the egg.

So I’ll have to go back again with a theme in mind and see ifthat helps.

If you should happen to capture an image of the St. Johns Bridge that turns out to be evocative,I’d be happy to post it here. Maybe we could all learn something?

OCCUPY PORTLAND: 12:01AM SUNDAY

2011-11-13T23:20:00.001-08:00

When I arrive at approximately 10:30 P.M., maybe 30 or 40 tents are still present. A large group of demonstrators are gathered under the large tarp in Chapman Square listening to various speakers, but not much else is going on.

I walk around Chapman and Lownsdale Squares. The police presence is minimal with groups of 4 or five officers at block corners and attending the giant light/generators that have been brought in to illuminate the parks.

Evidently, Tea Party demonstrators haven't cornered the market on poor spelling.

As the announced deadline for evacuating the camp draws closer, more and more people begin filtering into the park blocks and lining the streets facing the parks, particularly 3rd street. Some people have come to serve as witnesses, some join the ranks of the demonstrators in the park, some have come to express their displeasure with the demonstrators, and some, like ghoulish NASCAR fans, have come to see what they hope will be a violent spectacle.

Mounted patrols circle the park and generally park themselves at points where it appears crowds may spill into the streets. The streets have not been closed and as police arrive, their first tasks seem to be to keep the streets clear and traffic moving.

Now and then, tents are taken down and folded as the deadline nears.

Eventually, clusters of demonstrators fill the sidewalks and overflow into Main Street, the street that separates Chapman Square from Lownsdale Square.

Several groups serve to remind participants and spectators that the intent is for this to be a peaceful demonstration.

The crowd keeps swelling. The sidewalks lining Third Street fill up with people and they spill into the street about three people deep. The police don't have enough people to cordon off the sidewalk and so a lane of traffic is lost.

The Justice Department Building is transformed into a giant set of bleachers.

Starting at 11:00 PM, members of a bicycle rally begin circling the parks.

About two hours after the deadline, it felt like a stalemate - the police seemed content
to keep the bulk of the demonstrators contained in the park blocks. It didn't appear as if they could afford to escalate.

However, I noticed the mounted patrol appeared to be staging for action, and a line of police cars stretched down 2nd avenue on the other side of the Justice Building.

A Million Pictures of the Same Thing: Mt. Margaret Hike via Norway Pass Trailhead

2011-11-12T12:17:00.001-08:00

Mt. St. Helens from ClearwaterViewpoint.

The original question was, did I know of any good hikes thatwould showcase fall foliage…

…which makes it hard to understand how I arrivedat the Norway Pass trailhead, a landscape thatintermittently looks as if it has been decorated by nuclear explosions.

The first part of the trail ascended theshadowed side of a ridge that provided just enough cover to keep huckleberriescool to the taste.

Boundary Trail #1 dances on the ridgessurrounding Mt. St. Helens’ northern blast perimeter.

Some patches of scrubby vegetation are sensitive to theseason and erupt in fire-like reds and yellows.

Unexpected landscapes evoke the sensual: Lushgrass meadows of the Alps, fresh goat’s milk,and Heidi’s sweet-smelling bed in her grandfather’s hayloft.

Warm fingers of light dry my sweaty brow, andconfronted with such beauty, I dare to search the heavens for some promise thatthe god of deluges will not destroy with fire again…but no bow appears.

A cloud materializes from the lake…a spirit.

With the passing of the sun, the sky’s mood darkens, but inan act of autumn grace, remains benign.

False Dichotomies: Labor Day...vacation.

2011-09-18T14:51:00.000-07:00

A sliver of impotent moon puttered soperipherally on a path near the southern horizon that normally shy stars blazed– emboldened - as they spun and twirled in their 14 billion year old cosmicdance - not even tired yet.

A waxing crescent moon didn’t present much of an impedimentto seeing the Milky Way stretching across the apparent dome of the sky. Iaffixed my camera to the tripod and set it up for a long exposure only to findthat I hadn’t brought my remote shutter release. To get an exposure longer than30 seconds, I’d either have to hold the shutter with my finger (which kind ofdefeats the purpose) or get creative with band aids and cardboard. I managed toget this four minute exposure before the band-aids unstuck themselves.

* * *

Like anecdotal stories of old time buffalo herds coveringthe plains, Winnebagos so numerous they can’t be counted inundate the ColumbiaGorge – fleeing from smoke filled, sweaty cities. It is almost as if it werethe last day to camp… ever. Overnight, a sanctuary for coyotes and ravens is transformedinto a crowded metropolis where rangers (and later, cops) argue circularly andat great length with belligerent drunks. As a muted sun in a copper sky sinks behindcanyon walls, the ignition of thousands of Coleman lanterns makes a collective soundlike a windstorm. Even so, at dawn, I find an island of calm away from the seaof suggestibles – the restless crowd conforming to the dictates of twelve monthcalendars (of which I’m evidently a part, or would be if I used a calendar.)

Sinewy trees, blackberry stickers, scrubby burr sheddingbushes and jettisoned rim rock line the shore like an immigration fence. Intime, I find a gap.

* * *

A fierce defensive arsenal suggests that something preciousis at stake -something worth protecting – something worth taking.

Grass firmly rooted in the sloping ground beneath sheer basalt cliff-faces has turned the color of straw. Gusting winds comb it over in the haphazard fashion favored by balding men. I subconsciously direct my feet to find purchase in windblown zigzag ‘parts’, but the shafts of grass are slick and wind polished and the slope is steep and before I understand the danger my feet slip out from under me. No damage this time and looking around furtively to see if there are witnesses, I tell myself I’ll have to be more careful.

I struggle to my feet, take two more steps and fall again, harder than before, and slide into a patch of cactus. Like some enraged porcupine, they quill me. During the fall, when I tried to save myself – tried to balance… my right knee screamed and failed. So I lay there, quiet and still, postponing the pain-accounting, letting the hot sun soothe and console me…thinking maybe I’ll just wait until I get thirsty or hungry… or curious.

* * *

I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire--why, it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.

- William Shakespeare, Hamlet Prince of Denmark (Hamlet act II, ii)

When you realize how perfect everything is you will tiltyour head back and laugh at the skly. ~Buddha

* * *

Desert still lifes

* * *

The remnants of a plague of grasshoppers haunt patchesof brittle golden grass atop barely stabilized dunes. They’d be all butinvisible except for their tendency to jump in response to motion. They arevery good jumpers, but not so good at planning. It never occurs to them to jumpaway from danger…they just jump. The result, as I limp along the slopes, isthat I’m pelted with a fixed percentage of all the panicked grasshoppersreacting within an eight foot radius

I compare the grasshopper’s survival strategy with my own:

Stimulus GrasshopperResponse Scott Response

Giants/Boss Jump/Runaway Buy pizza/Eatpizza

* * *

It takes me more and more time to gainelevation, so when I see deer effortlessly bounce up the hillsides, I begin tosuspect magic.

* * *

I’m looking for a particular rock painting. I’ve memorized aseries of clues from an archeology book. I need to be able to see both Mt. Hood andCelilo Falls,but I can’t see Mt. Hood even after I reachthe top of the west-most plateau. Perhaps smoke from the Dollar Lakefire is obscuring the horizon. Or maybe I am simply in the wrong place. From myvantage point I can see the railroad bridge west of Wishram. Obviously I can’tsee the falls (they’ve been under water since the completion of The Dalles Dam)but I can see where they would have been.

An Army Corp of Engineers’ sonar scan of the area shows thatthe falls are still intact under the surface of the water.

* * *

Today, Hell’s Gate looks like heaven (if you likedesert-like landscapes)…

…but just three months ago, the flow rate of the Columbia onthe verge of flooding revealed echoes of long hidden rapids in the form ofmassive standing waves at the threshold to hell.

Hell’s Gate. Not just an arbitrary name.

* * *

I’m unable to find the artwork I was looking for. But I dorevisit previously found galleries. I sit and look and take photographs. Ileave and return when the light changes and the shadows shift and look all overagain. These sites look as if they were established locations that invitedrepeated artistic contributions. Images are painted in red, white, black, andsome are even pecked, carved or scratched into the rock. Some images overlap.Are the overlapping images added story elements? Revisions? Historical Records?Signs? Arguments? Consensus? Reiterations of a culture’s treasured myths? Is the common ray-arc symbol – that umbrellalike feature over the heads of stick figures – supposed to remind us of thesun? Does it denote political or spiritual power? Is it a chief’s featheredhead-dress? Does it suggest power? Is it good or bad?

The pecked stick figure with crowning ray-arc ismore boldly represented in the rock than the spiral object at upper right.Which came first? Are the figures related? Is the spiral object really aspiral, or is it concentric circles? What are the rules for adding rays?

Mineral deposits and perhaps centuries of weather havecontributed to the appearance of these paintings. Is the ray-arced figureentering into or emerging from light, or is that an accident of time – a spuriousinterpretation based on errant minerals. The ray-arced stick figure clearly hasmore head accouterments than the other figures in this grouping. Is itreasonable to deduce the ray-arc is a sign of status? Are they performing ajumping dance?

Just beautiful.

I challenge you not to look up.

A variation on a theme – a ray arc hat withnucleated rays. Note also thestylistically different animal with tree –like antlers.

* * *

This area has a long history. Cattle grazedhere. Evidently, wood fence posts were something of a luxury.

* * *

These small birds use fractured columnar basaltlike other birds use trees. They seemed overly suspicious of my intrusion andcontinuously monitored my activity. I could not always see them, but I couldhear their wings flutter as they darted about, striving always to be stealthy.

* * *

Exploring the shoreline, I discover a lone head of cabbage.I am certain it is not indigenous to this island so I try to account for itspresence. My favorite theory is that, enroute from the cabbage farm to thesauerkraut factory, this head of cabbage managed a daring escape from thecabbage truck, perhaps timing a leap as the truck crossed a bridge, and somehowbouncing or rolling into the river where it swam to this bandit cave.

* * *

The river shows off its kaleidoscopic vision of the shore.

Regularly spaced trees in single file suggest humans arerepeatedly attracted to this area and can’t help but tinker.

* * *

Upward pointing arrows...

...coincidence?

* * *

The Dalles– Land of harsh light and grasshoppers

The Coast – Land of shrouded mystery and slugs

Typically photogenic, the ocean manifestsprivacy issues over the holiday.

But I suppose I would be shy too if the entire metropolitanpopulation of Oregon (except for those folkscamping east of the Dalles)suddenly tried to park on my street.

Cape Lookout sticks twomiles out into the ocean…

…not that I ever really saw the ocean.

I finally found a hiking partner that I can keep up with.

Not the best day for whale watching.

Above the clouds, you can see all the way to the end of theworld.

Beneath the clouds at Cape Kiwanda.

Marine air sneaking inland through river valleys under cover of night.

Central Oregon Road Trip or Oystergeddon: The Epilogue

2011-09-05T09:31:00.000-07:00

Under a pine tree canopy, one would expect to findgroundcover consisting of pine needles and twigs. But after the excesses ofOystergeddon, the ground in proximity to the fire is covered in a thick layerof spent oyster shells so that in the foggy gloom of daybreak, the sceneresembles a winter wonderland but only because the fog makes it really hard tosee.

Hidden in the confines of his tent, Kip, with tremulousvoice asks, “Are you guys feeling O.K. this morning?”

Uncle Rico’s voice drifts up through oyster shell covers (Ihave never seen him sleep in a tent), “Never felt better!”

I respond less enthusiastically owing to a somewhat expectedchemical reaction that results from brain cells marinating in rum, “I’m O.K.” Ianswer, “Why?”

From inside my tent I can hear Kip respond non-verbally -the noise he makes frantically unzipping his tent. I catch a glimpse of him runningoff into the mist with a roll of toilet paper.

Fortunately (for me and Uncle Rico at least) Kip seems to bethe only casualty…or is he?

Fast forward a week to find me on the road in my trusty Ford– clenching – looking for release. Like a hapless half-breed Vulcan trying torule his emotions with pure logic, I try to exert a similar discipline on mysphincter.

I pull into Madras.It isn’t too late to utilize a fast food establishment’s facilities (Give theKFC in front of the theater credit for a spotless restroom). Tragedy has beenaverted for now, but the ominous hydraulic noises emanating from my colonsuggest I’m not ready to go anywhere just yet. So I watch a movie while waitingfor nature to take its course.

Caesar the chimpanzee consoles me. “Don’t forget tokeep clenching.” He warns me, “You’ve been so forgetful lately!” He does hisbest not to let me see his worried expression (He reminds me so much ofMonkey-cam).

Did I say ‘trusty’ Ford?

Smith Rock State Park at dawn

Sure, it’s kind of pretty, but I was really impressed withthe restroom located in the day-use area. After a couple false starts, I beginto recognize a pattern – the third time’s a charm.

I don’t think deer worry about bowelirregularities very often.

I take the River Trail. By this I don’t mean I actually wadein the water. It’s just the name of the trail. It snakes around the rock-climbing-structuresof note, following the path of the Crooked River.

These structures make me homesick for the oldendays when I used to be able to pass something more substantial.

I’d only ever seen pictures of Smith Rock State Park, and the pictures led me to believe I’d beseeing a natural wonder comparable to Yosemite.But being there in person…well, it was like looking at a bonsai mountain range.That’s not to say that the rocks are small – they aren’t – I’m just sayingthere was a brief moment of cognitive dissonance. Later, after taking theMisery Ridge Trail to the summit, I gained a better appreciation for how bigand scary these rocks are relative to primates.

On the way to the summit, I passed the structure called‘Monkey Head’…

…and marveled at what passes for fun for some people. Maybethe feeling you get from rock climbing is similar to the feeling I got thattime I didn’t die at Willapa Bay, but I imagine it ismore intense, direct and visceral.

My fear of heights seems to be growing in proportion to myage. It has something to do with a lack of confidence in my body's abilities tofollow my brains directions. I started getting nervous just walking on thetrail and looking over the edge.

The next stop on my central Oregonloop is something called Fort Rock which I learnedabout in William Sullivan’s book, Hiking Oregon’s History. According toSullivan, Fort Rock is the remains of a maar – avolcanic explosion crater that erupted in the middle of what was, at the time,a vast Pleistocene lake.

The resulting ‘tuff’ ring formed an island like a greatwalled city.

Over time, waves driven by the prevailing windsfrom the south breached the ring giving this geologic feature the crescentshape it has today…very much reminiscent of commercial toilet seats found inpublic restrooms. Once again, the local restroom facilities prove to beimmaculate and I am forced to adhere to the ‘third time’s a charm’ eliminationprotocol (you have to walk around a bit between each ‘event’).

If it hadn’t been for Sullivan’s book, I don’tthink I would have realized that the notch in the rock above is evidence of theaction of waves on the shoreline of a long vanished lake.

From a vantage point at a gap in the ‘tuff’ ringanother volcanic structure can be seen across the sagebrush plain which is saidto house a cave – the former repository for woven sandals (the worlds oldestshoes) manufactured in this area 9000 years ago. This is pretty good evidencethat people with feet were roaming/swimming in these parts about 8000 yearsearlier than was previously thought.

The location of the cave isn’t immediately obvious to me. Thevolcanic butte is on private land and scheduled tours are limited. I spend afew moments trying to imagine the prehistoric lake. I try to imagine settingout for the shoe store in the family canoe.

Subtle gurgling noises begin emanating from my colon and myimagination begins to veer off course. What would you do if you were in themiddle of a lake in a canoe and your body received the imperative to‘go’? My real dilemma is not all thatdissimilar from my imaginary one. I could not be any further away from the restroom. I stop walking and concentrate and wait for the contractions to pass.When they do, I am worn out and sweaty, but my pants are unsoiled. I doubletime it back to the restroom – I know I don’t have much time before the nextset of contractions.

I do wonder about sanitation 9000 years ago. Did theprevailing taboos of that time anticipate germ theory? What did they do withall their poop? Are outhouses universal? What did they do when they got sick?What kind of medicines did they give each other? I know we ‘modern’ humansthink we’re the pinnacle of evolution and often express the conceit thatpre-industrial cultures were hopelessly primitive, but have you ever tried toweave sandals out of sagebrush bark?

In route to a crack in the ground, I pass a red horse in Christmas Valley.

Yep. It’s a crack in the ground.

It’s refreshingly cool in the crack, but sometimes smells alittle like a thawing freezer.

For a whole lot of nothing…it sure is beautiful.

Somewhere in the night in the long gap between towns, Iconfront all those philosophical conundrums about ‘life’ and ‘meaning’. Iwonder what my special purpose is. And then suddenly it strikes me like athunderbolt. I have a special power, like those characters in Heroes (orMisfits). It turns out that I can transform anything I eat into a brown liquid.

Honorable Mentions

Porta-potty at Pacific Pride gas station just South of Bend.

There’s no reason this commercial fueling card-lock facilityneeds to have un-locked porta-potties available in the middle of the night…butthey did.

Outhouse/Rest Area West of Mitchell

Nice placement for this typical State of Oregon, well maintainedouthouse. Extra points for fascinating illustrated reading material detailingthe garbage that maintenance workers have to retrieve from the poo puddle.

I hadn’t been to the Painted Hills since 2007.

The thing about the Painted Hills is they don’t lookreal. The other thing about the Painted Hills is that you’re not allowed towalk on them. Once those two facts aretaken into account, it’s just one small step to a conspiracy theory (i.e. therangers actually paint the hills every couple of years when the tourists aren’tlooking). So this visit I spend some time at The Painted Cove Trail where theboardwalk allows for up-close detailed examination of the strangepopcorn-textured surface of the hills.

Having once been a professional painter, it seems entirelyplausible that barefoot rangers with airless paint sprayers could easilyachieve this effect.

It kind of looks like it must have rained before this year’scoat of paint dried completely.

All those moments will be lost in time... like tears inrain...

- RoyBatty

In previous postings, I’ve expressed wonder andadmiration for the rock art I’ve been privileged to find. I wonder about itspurpose, and what messages from across time are still stored in canyons andcaves around the world. But I don’tknow… Is it me? Today it just looks like stick figures are experiencing a browndischarge between their legs.

This repeated vandalism explains why people who know thelocation of this artwork won’t tell you.

I stop at Blue Basin briefly, but onceagain the message at these archeological sites is, “Don’t touch!”

I travel on to Fossil and Condon to find IndianPictographs that I read about in a book dating back to the sixties. I pretend to be an investigative reporter and visit the post office and the newspaper.I get some leads, but nothing pans out (so far).

In the meantime, I run an experiment utilizing Tabasco as a distinctiveidentifier. I don’t want to go into too much detail here, but the results ofthe experiment seem to indicate that it takes about 3.5 hours for me to work myspecial alchemy.

No reason really…it just looked old-timey to me.

I notice some Transformers joining ranks outside of Condon,preparing to defend the town from Decepticons.

I can remember back to a time when all we were able toharvest from a field like this was wheat.

I don’t think I will ever know the full storybehind why this house lies deserted and in ruins.

But if I were a betting man, I would put mymoney on the story these discarded oyster shells might tell.

I look around to get my bearings, and head home.

Oystergeddon: Willapa Bay's Benevolent Face

2011-08-14T19:08:00.000-07:00

Rhodesia Beach (Close to theMouth of Willapa Bay)

(Drawingfrom The Five Chinese Brothers, by Claire Huhet Bishop and Kurt Wiese)

Tides.

They’re a mystery to me.

Sometimes I go to thebeach and they’re out.

Sometimes I go to thebeach and they’re in.

Until recently, my best hypothesis for the broadexpanses of beach exposed at low tide was derived from a book I read in mychildhood called The Five Chinese Brothers. The disappearance of all the waterfrom a bay can be attributed, according to the book, to the first Chinesebrother swallowing the sea. Since he can not hold the entire sea in his mouthfor very long…

…I know it is unwise towalk out into the bay as far as Uncle Rico and Kip have in this picture. Forinstance, this would be a terrible time to hear the tsunami sirens.

UncleRico perfects his cockle hunting protocol. Gently dragging his rake behind him,he remains alert to the subtle impact of shell against rake.

We spend the low tide collectingcockles. From this strategic location, we know it will be easy to tell when thetide shifts directions.

When it becomes obviousthe ocean is returning, we high-tail it to the Willapa National Wildlife RefugeHeadquarters boat ramp…

…andset out for Long Island.

As on our last Red-Neckcamping trip, we agree dinner will consist only of things that we capture.

Noteto Beer Manufacturers: Interested in product placement like this? Contact Scottat The Narrative Image.

Thetide is still rising, and the gentle incline climbing toward the beach meanswe’ll have to walk our kayaks to the shore, but unlike the mud sucking swampsof the west side of the island, the sandy mud on this side is firm, and theshallow water warm.

Wefind this site satisfactory.

We quickly set up camp…

…andquickly return to the bay to search for our dinner.

Oysters,scattered like gold doubloons from a recent shipwreck, lie in the water likedinner treasure. Eventually I bow to peer pressure and eat my first raw oyster.On one hand, I appreciate the nice little enamel plate. On the other hand, Iwish I was more familiar with oyster anatomy and possible oyster parasites.

We strike-out with the crab trap. Oysters are shaping up to be the main course.

Tell-taleseaweed writes a clear high-tide warning in the rocks at the base of ourcampsite. Even Uncle Rico, Kip and I are able to read the message and manage totie up the boats so they will be safe.

Kip breaks out the cigars.

Uncle Rico breaks logsinto kindling.

(I’m not exactly sure who capturedthe wild parmesan cheese…but good job!)

Withjust a smattering of knowledge, a place that seemed inhospitable to me on mylast visit suddenly seems like a haven of free seafood and desserts, a placewhere a tidal conveyor belt both pulls me to my destination and eventuallyhelps push me back home.

Duringthe night, I wake to the sound of waves slapping against the kayaks. Butbeneath the canopy of fir trees, there is no light and I see nothing. Bymorning, the water has retreated again.

Aheavy mist saturates the trees and drips from the branches simulating rain thatfalls only on our camp.

A hot sun beats back themist and dries out the camp.

Thedifference between high and low tide is stunning.

I don’t know about UncleRico and Kip, but I paddle away from Long Islandfeeling as if I’ve been granted a moment of grace, an instant in which atypically indifferent creation actually resembled a garden designed to sustainme, to nurse my hangover, and to warm me after the mini-death ofunconsciousness.

I know it is an illusion –I know that this island can be as harsh and unforgiving as any ruthlessbusiness model – I know that luck is a factor – that some variables areunpredictable.

I think that in some ways,humans (at their best) have tried to cushion the hard aspects of nature bybuilding social networks, by inventing insurance, by inventing banks andsavings accounts, by finding ways to mitigate those times when bad luck worksagainst skill and experience.

But I also think it is sometimes refreshing tocast one's self into nature, to ride the currents of impersonal physical lawsand feel the judgment of a universe that isn’t driven by petty humanselfishness.

CANYON PAINTINGS

2011-07-10T17:17:00.000-07:00

Maybe it starts with an archeological sketch in a book…

…snippets of conversation in a bait shop…

…river guides telling a story…

Ordinarily, water courses through the bottom of canyons, buthere, opportunistic desert vegetation greedily converts all available moistureinto an impenetrable jungle.

We end up with information one would expect to acquire atthe end of a game of telephone – information whispered from connection toconnection until it is all but unrecognizable.

…walk half a day up the canyon…

…look for a rock shelter…

…3 meters high by 20 meters long…

It’s the kind of thing where having the skills of aninvestigative reporter would come in very handy.

So we set out…looking for the path of leastresistance…trying to skirt the jungle of stickers, nettles and jumping ticks byclinging to the sides of the canyon.

Game trails crisscross the slope, but whatever made thesetrails has little respect for gravity and is more interested in grazing than inarriving at a predetermined destination. The cost in energy to follow them ishigh.

Every talus slope teeters at the critical angle ofrepose – a booby trap waiting to sweep careless bipeds away in rock avalanches.

We continually run the cost/benefit ratios and occasionallychoose to dip down into the jungle.

Armed with a machete, I hack out a path next to the rockwall, but the going is slow and the stinging nettles have a diabolical tendencyto fall on my arms in retaliation.

Wikipedia says this about stinging nettles: The plant has many hollow stinging hairs called trichomes on itsleaves and stems, which act like hypodermic needles that inject histamine and other chemicals thatproduce a stinging sensation when contacted by humans and other animals. Wikipedia goes on to say: The plant has a long history of use as a medicine and as a foodsource.

It never once occurred tome to try to eat a stinging nettle.

Troysagely notices that we can cover more ground if we split up.

Peering into the green hell.

Eventually, the jungle really does become impenetrable, andI climb out of the humid darkness to find shelves – a veritable super highway –lining a massive Rincon.

WILD TANGENT: Sometimes, when people encounter beautifullandscapes – vast natural panoramas – awe inspiring features like waterfalls - theyreport a sensation of feeling spiritual, or having a transcendent moment, oreven being closer to god. Sometimes I even have ‘transcendent moments’ (see My Transcendent Vision at Netarts Bay) but I’m trying tofigure out why I perceive such moments that way. Now this landscape was not sobeautiful except for two things. (1.) It was somewhere between three and fouro’clock in the afternoon and as hot as it was going to get that day and I hadjust come out of the jungle, covered in sweat and stinging-nettle-histamines,my arms disfigured with a blotchy red rash, and rounding a corner, this curvingsection of cliff was entirely in shade.(2.) There were layered shelves of stable rock, wide enough to walk on in comfort- and…um…except for three things - (3.) A cool breeze.

I was tired, and wondering how long I could go on, and thensuddenly, it was as if the very earth itself sheltered me and wrapped me inshade, dried my skin and provided safe passage. Suddenly I felt energized andoptimistic. I think I also felt, just briefly, like I fit.

But the earth hadn’t changed. The jungle was still hot andthe shade was waiting there all along and the same goes for the terrain. All ofmy feelings appear to be the result of responses to events that happened on myunique path through time and space. In short, my personal narrative – myinterpretation of my physical encounters – creates a subjective fiction.

Then faintly…I hear yelling from around thecorner. Then Troyappears. “I found it!” he yells.

A massive basalt layer cake forms the wall ofthe canyon. Evidently accelerated mechanical erosion at the level of the creekhas created an overhang/shelter that stretches almost a hundred yards.

At the south end of the overhang, there is evena deeper impression that comes close to matching the vague description of the shelterwe’re looking for.

Indeed, the alcove is decorated with paintings.

Isolated paintings can be found further north along theoverhang.

If Shamans set up shop here, maybe it should not besurprising to find a wealth of plants (like stinging nettles) which havemedicinal properties.

Now it is time to rest and eat.

Why bring a multi-tool Swiss Army knife when youcan bring a multi-functional Army Man instead.

mmm…wild boar.

Mission accomplished.

My "Personal Relationship" with Smith & Bybee Lakes

2011-07-01T22:19:00.000-07:00

Paint a man’s house and he’ll have a nice painted house for about four years.

But teach a man to paint and he’ll be able to make his canoe look like a fish.

-Old Chinese Proverb-

“So…” devil’s-advocate-Scott leads off, “…how do you have a personal relationship with a wetland area?”

“Well…” I reply, “…it isn’t quite as complicated as having an imaginary dialogue with yourself, or believing in an invisible living God who was executed (briefly) in a political dispute with first century Romans…but…I guess what I’m really describing is a certain familiarity with a physical area developed over time.”

“I see,” says devil’s-advocate-Scott (hereafter simply Rational Scott or R.S.), “you’re simply anthropomorphizing the wetland area.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so dismissive.” I say, sensitive to the smug tones accenting Rational Scott’s immediate conclusion. I continue, “This metaphorical framework for relating to an ‘area’ as an organism may not be entirely unfounded – that is, it may lead to knowledge and understanding – I mean, it’s not out of the question…entirely?” The certitude with which I began my speech slowly dwindled away under Rational Scott’s scrutiny, his eyes laughing beneath comically furrowed brows. Sadly, what I hoped would be a statement finishes as a confidence-less question.

At this point, a wise man would probably just drop it…but it’s me after all, so I keep on talking.

Chris preparing to perform a magic trick – he’s going to make that beer disappear.

I guess you could say it all started when Chris stood up in his canoe to take a piss and tipped over into the water. This made him considerably less enamored with the canoe, and he ended up trading it for my Atari Jaguar, Sega Genesis, and 80 dollars cash. Those particular game consoles date the transaction to approximately 1995.

That’s about how long I’ve known Smith and Bybee Lakes.

That’s a pretty long relationship for me.

Metro’s kayak launch path – almost wholly underwater.

Over the years, I’ve become familiar with their many moods…and come to understand how they are affected by the seasons. For instance, right now, they’re burning the candle at both ends during these longest days of the year, and putting up with a serious water retention issue.

There’s a nature trail that loops around a short peninsula that juts in-between Smith Lake and Bybee Lake. This observation structure on the east (Smith) side of the peninsula is up to its handrail in water.

…and the path leading to it is also submerged.

When the region's winter supply of water is still tied up in the mountain snowpack, the trail looks more like this.

But this spring, melting snow and endless rain have resulted in a path that looks like this.

The bird-blind on the west (Bybee) side of the peninsula is also standing in water.

Comparison shot

Invasive species continually vie for dominance in an eco-system beset by the challenges of being in proximity to vast numbers of people. Despite weeks of flooding, purple loosestrife manages to keep its head above water.

Last year, some channels were completely clogged with it.

And other plant species worked at converting all the water to biomass.

As the importance of wetlands has become understood – its capacity for filtering and cleaning water, its contributions toward flood control and its ability to support diverse wildlife – Metro has made enlightened efforts to impose the seasonal variation of water levels on the area through the installation of a water control structure. While not a perfect science, they do their best to mimic the natural rhythms of seasonal wetlands.

This piece of ‘designed’ wood brings me the message that the water control structure is currently not exercising much control.

The water control structure is completely submerged on my 06-25-11 visit.

Water was already rushing into the lake from the Columbia slough as early as

04-02-11

In August of 2009, water levels were considerably lower.

One of the characters I met at Bybee Lake.

He used to tell better stories in his younger days, when he still had limbs for gesticulating.

Another invasive species – the yellow flag Iris.

These things may look delicate and fragile but are every bit as resilient as those broomsticks in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

The Force is strong with this one.

I think this is beautiful.

But I don’t know why I think it’s beautiful.

I used to wonder if maybe preferences for landscapes (lakescapes?) were written into our genetic code somehow – perhaps some instinct that leads us to environments rich with life. I tried to research it a little, but the general consensus is that, given our origins, we’d likely be attracted to landscapes that resemble Africa’s savannahs.

But then again, we have the capacity to supplement our ‘instincts’ with the memory of our experiences (plus those memories available to us from our cultures) and we can play the ‘what if’ game, like, what if I had a fishing pole, or what if there are deer trapped on that peninsula or …remember that last time I caught a big catfish…wasn’t it on blue water as smooth as this where startled carp slapped the bottom of the boat, just like they’re doing now?

The sun presses against the back of my neck with almost tangible fingers, intent on tanning my hide – that is, intent on converting it to leather. I paddle in-between the wading trees and float in the cool air beneath the forest canopy. Here where the trees respire, I feel as if I partake in the breath of life.

Volumes of air move purposefully across temperature and pressure gradients as the sun withdraws its face.

I look for the ribbon that marks my route through the trees to the shore.

TOURIST for a DAY: Portland and Environs

2011-06-12T23:25:00.000-07:00

Mr. ‘T’ travels the world. Armed with a sophisticated, lightweight point and shoot, he documents his travels in the tradition of the best travel photographers. By that I mean, when you look at Mr. ‘T’s travel photos, they provoke a profound sense of wanderlust.

Sometimes it makes me jealous. Why am I not disciplined enough to earmark money for travel? Why don’t I go to more beautiful, exotic places? But then Mr. ‘T’ mused, “Someday I’d like to photograph Portland a bit like I was a tourist.”

That’s when I was reminded that I actually live in a beautiful, exotic place, and the only reason I don’t notice is because I see it every day. So we agreed to meet after work and try to view our city as if we were visitors.

This is what the south portion of downtown Portland looks like from a vantage point high in Big Pink, the U.S. Bancorp tower. A similar view can be attained by visiting Portland City Grill on the 30^th floor. I know this sounds stupid, but for the first time, as I looked at our city pushed to the edge of the river by the West Hills, I think I really began to understand the term, Willamette Valley. From a vantage point looking north, we could track the progress of rain clouds as they filed in from the west, and watched one briefly as it paused at the confluence of the Willamette and Columbia before heading on up the gorge.

So you’d think that a city called Portland would be a land of many ports, but while we certainly have a Port of Portland that entertains ocean going vessels, we’re really named after Portland, Maine. And if a coin flip between the founding fathers of ‘Portland’ had gone the other way, we’d be called Boston.

Pioneer Courthouse square – Portland’s Living Room.

There’s a bronze sculpture (public art) of a man carrying an umbrella and hailing a taxi in Portland’s living room. Since the man with the umbrella is as still as a statue, this poorly (puzzlingly?) placed grape is actually relatively safe. On this day, I find the wing-tips the most pleasing part of the sculpture. Having practiced the process of casting bronze, I briefly consider how I would have achieved this degree of realism and reminisce about my teacher’s cast naked chicken.

One of a pair of guardian lions perches before the gate to Portland’s version of Chinatown.

Powell’s Books is a really big non-virtual bookstore. There are actually books inside that you can pick up and read. Outside is a sculpture that looks like it sprang from the mind of a troubled Dr. Seuss.

This fountain was dedicated to the memory of Stephen Skidmore in 1888 and Henry Weinhard offered to make it flow with free beer (probably for just that first day) but the city incomprehensibly declined.

Reflection of Big Pink in typical Portland puddle.

I didn’t know I needed bacon topped maple bars until a colleague brought some to work. The downtown Voodoo Doughnut location is currently closed for remodeling, but it looks like this new sign is ready to go. The last time I tried to buy a doughnut here, I had to run a gauntlet of homeless people who determined, perhaps rightly, that people who shop for decadent doughnuts must have discretionary disposable income. Either that or homeless people like voodoo doughnuts too.

Back at the beginning of 2008, Oregon was considered one of the most ‘unchurched’ states in America with 24 percent of us claiming no religious identification. This makes Oregon a ripe destination for missionaries. Some religious people might now be encouraged to discover that Oregon no longer leads the nation in this regard, but I don’t think it’s because of the efforts of evangelicals, rather, it’s just that Vermont jumped up to 34%.

It always looked to me like Portlandia should be throwing dice.

This sculpture is officially called The Quest.

But the unofficial names seem more accurate:

"Three Groins in a Fountain" (though there are two more figures on the other side)

"The Grope"

"The Quest for the Breast"

"Family Night at the YMCA"

I looked at this building and saw a building. Mr. “T” looked at this and noted Escher like qualities. So I took a second look and tried to transcend my slavish devotion to narrative and find a pleasing texture/pattern/design…

…and tried again at the Ira Keller Forecourt Fountain…

…but backslid into a narrative about catharsis by the time I encountered the Thompson Elk statue and fountain.

An iconic Benson Bubbler: Free flowing Bull Run water throughout the downtown area.

Speaking of Bull Run water, here is one of the Mt. Tabor open reservoirs that have so far not had any positive Cryptosporidium tests.

Mt. Tabor isn’t actually downtown, but it does have a nice park built on top of it even though it is an extinct (hopefully) volcano. Of course, we thought Mt. St. Helens was kind of extinct too.

Sometimes you can get pretty nice views of Portland from the top of Mt. Tabor. But honestly, I can’t say it’s a big tourist destination.

Rocky Butte - same deal as Mt. Tabor. A small shield volcano - but this one is situated closer to the Columbia and provides views of the airport, interstate 205 disappearing into Washington, and interstate 84 pointing east toward the Columbia Gorge.

The Vista House. An Iconic stop on the old scenic highway.

There are a lot of scenic waterfalls and hiking trails in the Columbia Gorge and it has proven to be very popular with tourists. Many of these features appear on The Narrative Image’s Hike Directory Page (see the tabs at the top of the page)

But it is also interesting to stop and tour Bonneville Dam to see how we continue to search for the balance between satisfying our need for energy with the obvious need to preserve the very resource we are plundering.

There was evening, and there was morning – another day?

ABIQUA FALLS

2011-05-30T12:05:00.000-07:00

The clear-cut hills try to hide their nakedness under wispy cloud covers.

By the grace of the Mt. Angel Abbey, I descend toward the promise of earthly treasure.

- Unique mud slide feature -

Thunder and mist emanate from around the corner…

First sight.

Pictures don’t express.

...like leaving paradise…

The Sound of One Hand Clapping: Loring Site 15

2011-05-11T06:28:00.000-07:00

(Note: clicking on images should display a larger version)

Graffiti.

Sometimes it’s just a signature – a tag.

Sometimes it’s a message.

And sometimes, it’s art.

Graffiti on a train

Sad thing is…I can’t tell the difference…at least not always.

Why do we post symbols in public places?

What does a bird mean?

Without proper cultural context…

...can we ever know the original intent of the symbol maker?

I stumbled upon my first pictograph on a kayak/camping trip in 2008.

It’s amazing that these painted images persist.

Is it a message?

An advertisement?

An icon?

...a warning?

Since then I’ve read some Oregon Archeological Society publications (primarily by Keyser) and learned of vision quests, shamans, ghost cults and power drawings. Plus, on the historical context side of the story, I’ve learned that these kinds of painted rock images are the product of a once dominant society that was being decimated by disease and European pioneers.

J. Malcolm and Louise Loring surveyed petroglyph and pictograph sites over the course of decades and documented their research in a two volume monograph called Pictographs and Petroglyphs of the Oregon Country. The Lorings painstakingly drew the images from over three hundred sites and also included cryptic descriptions (well, at least cryptic to me) of their locations.

Last year I went looking for Site 15.

The red arrow shows J.S. scanning the cliffs for pictographs/petroglyphs.

Out in the field, you start asking yourself, “If I was an Indian, where would I paint a picture?”

Then you start asking, “Why would I paint a picture?”

And then when you see where some of the pictures are painted, you start asking, “How?”

While I did find inconclusive scratched images…

…I didn’t find any evidence for Site 15.

…and I didn’t really feel shortchanged.

A couple weeks ago, an internet acquaintance (S.E.) sent me a photo he discovered while out in his kayak. It matched one of the Loring drawings for site 15.

Game on.

There’s a lot of beauty amongst towering basalt cliffs and canyons.

There are peaceful shelters…

Clefts in the rock…protection from high winds, driving rain and desert sun.

From a precarious perch – a bird’s eye view of the vast Columbia River gorge.

Surreal landscapes featuring rows of unlikely columns.

How did this environment influence the artists?

How different is this dam infested river from the once-upon-a-time wild river that descended through the gorge in thundering cascades?

My search took me into terrain where it appears…

…others have not been so lucky.

Finally, the tell-tale smudge of red.

Many of the paintings seem worse for wear when compared to the Loring drawings…to the degree that my identifications are not always certain.

By now I feel like an idiot. The same symbols repeated over and over again, and I keep going, “What does it mean? I don’t get it. What does it mean?”

Meanwhile, local inhabitants express, by their actions, a desire to enter into a parasitical relationship.

Mt. Hood broods on the horizon.

PADDLE THROUGH THE HEART OF PORTLAND

2011-02-12T18:47:00.000-08:00

In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the desert of truth
To the river so deep

- Billy Joel

The River of Dreams

I had this idea to paddle down the Willamette through the heart of Portland (actually, I got it from a canoeist I met at the Willamette Park boat ramp during a recent excursion to Ross Island)…but Monkey-Cam didn’t want to go. He and Naked Picasso think they’re going to Nepal to surprise Rudder Starboard. One of the advantages of being imaginary is that there are relatively fewer constraints regarding money and travel. Fortunately, a Facebook friend (Mr. T., but he doesn’t have a Mohawk) materialized into an actual corporeal kind of friend and we were able to set up a shuttle from the Willamette Park boat ramp to the boat ramp at the St. Johns bridge.

Willamette Park Boat Ramp 01-30-11

This is the Willamette Park boat ramp at night. But it also pretty much serves to illustrate what the Willamette Park boat ramp looks like early in the morning, which is when we started – early Sunday morning – in hopes of catching the sunrise illuminating the Portland skyline. You might as well know from the start that I’ve assembled the following collection of pictures from several different trips to the downtown area. Someone (Gayle) talked me into participating in a picture taking project (typically called Project 365), the idea of which is to take at least one picture every day for a year and post it. This has resulted in, what is for me, a somewhat more eclectic range of photo subject matter, and some of these additional pictures happily help illustrate the narrative core of a trip through the heart of Portland.

The Willamette Park boat ramp is on the west river bank. It lies about even with the south end of Ross Island. I’m not sure what Ross Island originally looked like, but today it looks something like a toilet seat liner since its insides have all been scooped out and sent somewhere else to make cement. The remaining ring of land supports the last vestiges of a sand and gravel processing plant. Having thoroughly ‘used’ Ross Island, the Ross Island Sand and Gravel Company is making some effort to restore what is left of it as their profitable operations come to an end. Meanwhile, beavers and ducks wait on the periphery, hoping to move in. Much is made of eagle couples who choose to nest in its protected areas.

Tugboat moored in Ross Island Lagoon 01-30-11

Looking towards the city from the mouth of the Ross Island Lagoon 01-30-11

Support strut for the Ross Island Bridge. OMSI and the Marquam Bridge are in the background. 01-30-11

Marquam Bridge 02-06-11

I took a lot of pictures of the Marquam Bridge, but I guess the view from the river is not its best side. It’s an important bridge though since it supports I-5. It’s pretty much the hardworking, under-appreciated ugly sister to the Fremont Bridge (which is the prettier one that gets noticed). (I know, you’re sitting there thinking, what the hell is he talking about… it’s a picture of a submarine).

Downtown Portland Skyline through Marquam Bridge 02-06-11

Saturday night it was easy to imagine that the weatherman mistook the phrase “…30% chance of showers” for “…100% chance of a Noachian deluge”. But Sunday, the only moisture to be seen, besides the river itself, was the fog that hovered over the surface of the water in the calm air. It is always exhilarating to blunder into these Goldilocksian weather conditions hidden in-between the storms of winter. The temperature was just right and my breakfast beer/Clamato beverage seemed preternaturally nutritious.

Portland as seen from the east bank (Hawthorne Bridge to right) 12-19-10

Paddling under the Hawthorne Bridge 02-06-11

Morrison Bridge 02-06-11

View from the west see-saw-able span of the Morrison Bridge 02-04-11

Looking back up the river from the Morrison Bridge (Hawthorne Bridge in distance) 02-04-11

Looking back up river to the Morrison Bridge 02-06-11

Approaching the Burnside Bridge 02-06-11

(Note: Classic Pungo provided by Luv2Kayak Evangelism Department)

Twin peaks of the convention center from west bank 01-22-11

Steel Bridge framed by the Burnside Bridge 02-06-11

Passing under the Burnside Bridge 02-06-11

The moon over the Burnside Bridge 01-22-11

The twin peaks of the Steel Bridge are echoed in the convention center’s glass towers 01-22-11

A gang of runners crosses the river on the lower deck of the Steel Bridge 02-06-11

Passing under the Steel Bridge 02-06-11

The Broadway Bridge (Fremont Bridge in distance) 02-06-11

Taking this little trip is kind of like taking a mini survey of the evolution of draw bridges. They repeatedly and creatively answer the question, “How do we get street traffic across the river without interrupting river traffic?” Seen in the soft light of a new morning, these structures invoke in me a kind of pride in our specie’s technical cleverness. It is mathematics and physics made manifest (Note: While the Fremont, Marquam, Ross Island, Sellwood and St. Johns bridges are not draw bridges, they do show the stage in bridge evolution in which it was learned we could make them really, really big instead of movable.)

02-06-11

From this angle, the massive Fremont Bridge looks simple and elegant and virtually sings compared to the sturdy, workmanlike Broadway Bridge’s crass bar talk (I don’t know which I like more).

Presumably real stonework holding up the Broadway Bridge. The stone pieces fit so precisely together that you cannot slip a piece of paper between them so it follows that this bridge could only have been built by ancient astronauts possessing a technology far superior to ours (yep, that’s for you Robert). 02-06-11

The Broadway Bridge has been in service since 1913, almost a hundred years. In 1913 they drove horseless carriages – cars that looked something like the Ford Model T.

From the deck of the Broadway Bridge – west end 01-08-11

Looking south from the deck of the Broadway Bridge 01-10-11

Waterfront living along the west bank of the Willamette, as seen from the Broadway Bridge 01-08-11

Looking north from the deck of the Broadway Bridge 01-08-11

Approaching the Fremont Bridge 02-06-1

Bird’s eye view of Fremont Bridge 12-23-10

Perspective from industrial area under east end of Fremont Bridge 01-08-11

02-06-11

During the course of obtaining pictures for The Narrative Image, I’ve come to recognize certain characteristics of the natural world that lead me to constantly update and revise the following list.

Places not to build your house:

On or near a strato-volcano
On or near a river pouring down a strato-volcano
Below sea level
In a tsunami zone
On the coast in the gulf of Mexico
Kansas (just kidding)

And now,

Near any large river unless you live on a boat

In retrospect...

…this was kind of a crappy idea.

02-06-11

As logical as the displacement of water resulting in floating metal ships sounds, me and the people who rode the Titanic have an innate understanding that metal should not float.

02-06-11

Beyond the oversight of the city’s sentinel like skyscrapers, the banks of the river sprout harsh looking buildings and docks with various embedded high pressure pipelines hissing and steaming and releasing unidentifiable odors. Broken and slumping concrete embankments dip into the river. Abandoned campsites, marked by wet blankets and plastic bottles, speckle the muddy beaches and brush between razor wire topped fences.

The St. Johns Bridge appears beyond the stark concrete piers of the railroad bridge 02-06-11

St. Johns Bridge 02-06-11

All day I was looking forward to getting to take pictures of the St. Johns Bridge, but as pretty as it is, I just can’t seem to get an image that does it justice.

St. Johns Bridge 02-06-11

The canoeist told me that it took him and his wife four hours to get from the Willamette Park boat ramp to the St. Johns boat ramp. He said they also stopped along the way and had a nice picnic lunch. It took us about six hours and should have been faster and easier in kayaks. I guess if you want to do this paddle trip yourself and you’re in a hurry, don’t go with a photographer.

EAGLE CREEK TRAIL: Last Day of the Year

2011-01-01T17:53:00.000-08:00

Overnight, supposedly, the temperature bottomed out at 15 degrees Fahrenheit.

With only a 20% chance of precipitation, the odds seemed good for a survivable trip up the Eagle Creek Trail.

The only places that were icy were the places where water perpetually drips down and oozes out of the basalt layer cake that makes up the cliffs to Eagle Creek's canyon.

Perversely, the only places that were icy were also the places that have the greatest exposure to heights.

The water was running much higher than I've become accustomed to, no doubt because of all the recent rain, and the new broad banks made a view of the falls from the lower viewpoint problematical. The water runs ice cold, even in the summer, and the last time I tried to wade out for a shot of the now hidden iconic-waterfall-scene, the nerve connection between foot and brain was numbed so quickly that I endangered the well being of my photo gear as I teetered crazily on senseless pegs, unable to tell if my feet found purchase on the slippery rocks...indeed, unable to tell if I even had feet. Even after leaving the water, my feet continued to experience a pain that resembled the most terrible moments of brain freeze - the pain caused by drinking a slushy ice drink too quickly.

However, Monkey-cam hadn't seen the punchbowl since the ill fated kayak expedition of October 2007. I suppose I could have explained the physiological consequences of wading in freezing cold ice water when the air temperature is somewhere between 15 and 32 degrees, but Monkey-cam continues to be stubborn and contrary and sometimes it's just easier to let him learn by experience.

In this photo, you can see Monkey-cam has managed to wade out far enough to get a suitable viewpoint. Thankfully, this is the year that Monkey-cam has finally learned to wear pants.

The view as seen by Monkey-cam.

Monkey-cam was busy sniffing for truffles or mushrooms or something as we progressed along the trail. He noticed that delicate ice filaments were seemingly extruding out of the soil, sometimes even pushing the top layer of soil inches into the air, sometimes just curling into pretty good impressions of hair curlers. He tried to pantomime several theories explaining the mechanism behind this phenomenon, but none were conclusive.

It is hard, and probably will remain hard to get unobstructed pictures of punchbowl falls from the fenced off viewing area as long as trees and bushes continue to grow. It is obvious that many people disregard the fences and scramble down to alternate viewing points. To be honest, I probably would have disregarded the fence myself, except that the seemingly intentionally ironical placement of ice caused me to imagine how foolish my death by slipping headlong into a waterfall plunge-bowl would appear in the next day's headlines. "Portland Man Slips to His Death at Eagle Creek: Ice is Slippery Notes ranger."

So, making do with the view from behind the fence, I also convinced Monkey-cam to climb out on a tree and tape a single red leaf to a strategically positioned branch, "Let's do that red and green color contrast trick we learned from National Geographic." I said.

It works every time.

In this picture, Monkey-cam takes my picture to prove that I am also an accomplished pants wearer.

This is the view I saw (from the same vantage point) which was supposed to show you how the rays of the sun sparkled so dramatically through crystal ice prisms. I guess sparkling is a function of change over time and not so well suited for still photography.

The path at High Bridge was another slippery area that made the normally psychologically affirming presence of the cable-handrail more of a pragmatic lifeline on which one could practice a death-grip.

Multnomah Falls - Thanksgiving Day 2010

2010-11-27T16:39:00.000-08:00

Tuesday - below freezing - have to work

Wednesday - below freezing - have to work

Thursday - first day I don't have to work - not freezing...

...but managed to catch a little bit of ice accenting the falls on Thanksgiving morning.

The trail up to the bridge was closed by a gate. A sign on the gate threatened a three hundred dollar fine for trespassing.

Rep. Barney Frank (D-Mass.), chairman of the House Financial Services Committee, announced Wednesday that he would vote against the White House's recent tax cuts deal.

So I did what I could from the viewing area, trying hard to come up with some unique perspective of this often photographed gorge icon.

Beneath the roar of the falling water, you could hear the vibration of heavy things letting go.

The wood in the splash pool grows a thick coat of ice on the side facing the falls. This image quickly encapsulates what happens to things that face the falls in sub-freezing temperatures...say a camera lens for instance.

I like the naked little tree thing in the left lower quarter. It would make a great Christmas tree for the Peanuts gang.

Edge of the cascade, framed in ice.

Flowing water carves away the encroaching ice.

Briefly, the icicles advance, appearing like a mouth full of Tyrannosaur teeth.

The ice does not prevail in this preliminary skirmish.

The temperature gradient sharpens at the interface between air and water.

Ice garden.

Flags pointing toward the splash pool.

This might be what the surface of Uranus looks like, if Uranus is really cold.

MY RED-NECK CAMPING WEEKEND: Out Beyond Oakridge

2010-09-25T10:48:00.000-07:00

A sign (or portent) of things to come?

My uncle Rico, brother Kip and I escaped from work early on a Friday and headed south as far as Eugene. Turning east, we made it as far as Oakridge before we found it necessary to stop for beer.

The Union Brewery features beer, of course, but also a menu uniquely accented with Spam entrees.

Curiously, there is a chart over the men’s urinal that details the thermodynamic conductivity of several types of wire…and Spam (surprisingly, Spam holds up pretty well).

Uncle Rico

Deb: Okay, turn you head on more of a slant...

Deb: Now, make a fist. Slowly ease it up underneath your chin.

Deb: This is looking really good.

Kip: You can say that again.

Deb: Kay, hold still right there. Now, just imagine you're weightless, in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by tiny little seahorses.

Deb: [takes the picture] That was the one. I think that's gonna come out really nice.

Uncle Rico: Ah, how you did it... wow... well I felt really relaxed. Thanks Deb.

Uncle Rico: You're up Kip.

Kip

Kip: Is there some kind of vest that I can wear?

- Dialogue from Twentieth Century Fox’s movie, Napoleon Dynamite

I thought it took a long time for our two vehicle convoy to span the distance from Portland to Oakridge, but (long, long after sunset) when Uncle Rico finally found the turn-off to his little known campsite, it all paled into insignificance as Kip and I followed Rico's Jeep down overgrown forest service roads laid out in what I’ll generously describe as a diabolical labyrinth. Scrubby moth infested pines loomed out of the darkness, reaching car-ward with menacing, abrasive branches…as if we had entered a car wash from hell.

Gratuitous giant bonfire

The milky way (~4 minute exposure)

Morning revealed that we were camped next to a vast alpine marsh, though not so marshy at this time of year.

The water was cold and clear and beneath the surface a whole world danced and undulated in concert with the current.

Kip kept peering into the water and claiming to see big fish. Uncle Rico could see them too…and then to prove it, would catch them. But I never saw any until Rico reeled them out of the water. “You can’t see the fish so much as you can see their shadows.” Kip explained to me.

Here and there, archipelagos of drowned trees testified to former high water levels.

A fence at a bend in the creek seems poorly placed.

The underwater ballet can be hypnotizing

Kip, practicing to be a cage fighter, refines his sense of balance.

It amazes me how big these bullets are.

If you were being attacked by a zombie who was trying to throw a propane tank at you, would you aim at the zombie or the propane tank?

A careful scientific investigation reveals…

…that you might be better off shooting directly at the zombie’s head since a dramatic explosive fireball with shrapnel can’t be guaranteed.

Uncle Rico cooks a fresh trout dinner.

‘Celebrate the Gorge’ Photography Exhibition Epilogue

2010-09-06T16:45:00.000-07:00

Previously, I presented the two images that were not accepted into the August photography exhibition at the Columbia Art Gallery (http://www.columbiaarts.org/art-gallery.html).

Now that the ‘Celebrate the Gorge’ exhibit is over, I think it’s safe to post the three images that were ‘invited’ to the show.

Sunrise on Miller Island

A New Way to ‘Take’

Looking East

It was my friend Bernadette who encouraged me to enter the show after she saw the ‘Looking East’ photo in my blog post, Cape Horn: What’s In a Name? http://thenarrativeimage.blogspot.com/2010/05/cape-horn-whats-in-name.html

The water-level shot pointed up the gorge from the vicinity of the Cape Horn formations seemed to strike a resonant chord within her, perhaps because she also is an enthusiastic kayaker. In any case, she insisted I enter – that picture in particular – and though I wasn’t quite sure how one would go about preparing digital files for a gallery exhibition, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. Besides, I wouldn’t have to print and frame the images unless they made it past the jury.

The opening for the show was on a Friday. Management at work turned out to be supportive of my attempted venture into the world of photography and let me leave early so I could make it to Hood River in time for the opening. On the way, I got a phone call, purporting to be from the gallery. The spokesperson for the gallery told me that the judges had liked my photos and that I had received the first place ribbon as well as the Gorge Guide award (Gorge Guide magazine was one of the sponsors of the show). I was pretty sure this phone call was a deception masterminded by my brother, so I tried to keep my emotions in check until I was sure it was real.

My brother greeting me with the special

respect he typically reserves for me

When I got to Hood River, I nervously peeked into the gallery windows to see if the phone call could possibly have been authentic.

Photo courtesy of Sgt. Rock

Turns out…it was.

Photo courtesy of Bernadette’s iphone

1^st Place: Scott Dietz, “Sunrise on Miller Island”

2^nd Place: Lauri Streaker, “Cloud Cap II”

3^rd Place: Richard Hallman, “View from the Syncline”

Honorable Mention: Gerard Smith, “The Climbers”

Honorable Mention: Laurie Black, “Gorge Forms”

Honorable Mention: Darryl Lloyd, “Balfour-Klickitat in December”

Honorable Mention: Mike Godsey, “Mild & Wild”

Gorge Guide Award: Scott Dietz, “Sunrise on Miller Island”

People’s Choice Award: Mark Lee, “Gorge Morning”

This is the 2010 edition of the Gorge Guide http://gorgeguide.com/ . As part of the Gorge Guide Award, apart from the monetary award, ‘Sunrise On Miller Island’ will be featured in the 2011 edition of the magazine.

Photo courtesy of Bernadette’s iphone

My mom and my brother were able to attend the opening with me.

As I walked around the exhibit, examining all the other entries – stunned by bold colorful images, novel presentations and technical expertise - I began to feel a little bit like Wayne and Garth standing before Alice Cooper…

Wayne’s World “We’re not worthy” Paramount Pictures

The opening, like I said before, was on a Friday. But this particular Friday also happened to be concurrent with something the folks in Hood River call First Friday. It was like a giant art, food, music, retail sales and community pride fair or festival.

Transforming a street into a ski slope

It was a good day.

COOPER SPUR HAIKU - MT.HOOD, OREGON

2010-08-28T10:29:00.000-07:00

Calm and peaceful hike

But I have to ask myself

Why are trees hiding?

Spring’s promise of life

Takes on sarcastic shadings

Before fall’s hammer

A blanket melted

One of life’s loopholes exposed

Deep-cover agents

Puffy land-clouds float

Hide their dangerous orange teeth

Until the sun sets

Absentee ‘landlord’

Occasionally peeks down

“Now what have they done?”

Stacked layers recede

Layer after layer like

Some Japanese print

Warm air envelope

Nurturing my slow ascent

Laughs and disappears

Cold knives slice at clothes

At the edge of the moraine

And yet we linger

Why put these dreamscapes

In a land where nothing lives

Where only fools see?

The shadow stretches

From this vast mountain sundial

Marking time for stars

Celebrate the Gorge Photography Exhibition @ Columbia Art Gallery

2010-08-01T23:53:00.000-07:00

Miller Island Dawn

Three of my photographs have been selected for the Celebrate the Gorge Photography Exhibition. I don't think I'm supposed to show them here, so these are the two photographs I submitted that they didn't select.

Crown Point

This is the Press Release:

For Immediate Release: July 26, 2010

Re: Columbia Art Gallery Show Opening

Contact: Columbia Center for the Arts

Catherine Kiewit, Gallery Manager

215 Cascade Avenue

Hood River, OR 97031

541 387-8877 gallery@columbiaarts.org www.columbiaarts.org

Celebrate the Gorge Photography Exhibition to open at Columbia Art Gallery on First Friday, August 6th

The Columbia Art Gallery will host the first Celebrate the Gorge Photography Exhibition, set to run from Friday, August 6th through Sunday, August 29th. The Show Opening and Artist Reception commence Friday, August 6th, from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m.

Works of 22 Northwest photographers will showcase the beauty, grandeur and character of the Columbia River Gorge region, including Mount Hood and Mount Adams.

A panel of three jurors selected 55 images from 95 submitted. Gallery manager, Catherine Kiewit said, “We were fortunate to have so many wonderful photographs to choose from. They really capture the diversity of landscapes in the Gorge area. It will be a great show!”

Gorge area photographers are well-represented. They are Judi Baker, Laurie Streaker, Chris Smith, Darryl Lloyd, Meridith Meskin, Stephen Datnoff, Blaine Franger, Christine Meade, Richard Hallman from Hood River and Linda Mcnaughton from Parkdale. From White Salmon are Laurie Black, Mike Godsey and Donna Sholtis, from Stevenson, Joanna Grammon, and from Bow, Dick Garvey.

Editors Note: I don't get mentioned here because I'm not technically a gorge area photographer.

The selection process began as a competition, open to professionals and amateurs nationwide. Entries were submitted on the website, CallForEntries.org. Images shot both digitally and on film were accepted for consideration, including black-and-white, hand-tinted and stitched panoramas. Digital enhancement was allowed only to achieve realistic color balance and sharpness.

The three jurors were Peter Marbach, distinguished Oregon photographer; Carol York, founder and former editor of GorgeGuide Magazine; and Catherine Kiewit, manager of the Columbia Art Gallery.

Cash prizes will be awarded for First, Second and Third Place. Sponsors of the show are Gorge Guide® Magazine and Shortt Supply footwear and athletic apparel, both of Hood River.

The gallery is located at 3rd and Cascade in downtown Hood River, and is open daily, from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m. For more information visit our website at www.columbiaarts.org or 541-387-8877.

...just saying...

...in case you happen to be passing through...