The rain is soft and cool, drifting down from the low clouds to rest momentarily on the green-spade boughs of the cedars before dripping, unheard, into the current of the river. The air smells of damp earth infused with the punk of the alders that grow thick along the bank. I wade cautiously into the jade-tinted water, bare legs numb to the cold and cursing the tiny pebbles, loosened by the current, that fill my battered tennis shoes.
Opening the bale of my reel, I unhook a tiny, single-blade spinner from the cork grip of my spin-casting rod and drive a pink salmon egg on to the size 8 Eagle Claw hook. With a flick of my wrist, the baited lure disappears into a standing wave with a quicksilver flash.
Through the thin monofilament line held between my index finger and thumb, I feel the Braille bumps of the lure bouncing along the riverbed cobble. Slowly, enticingly, I reel the lure back along a submerged trench next to a drowned log. I know that a trout is waiting there, watching the current sweep by.
Although I did not catch that wily trout, the memory of standing in the Pigeon River on that drizzly morning remains.
Mental images of my interactions with the natural world still provide me with a measure of solid ground in an unpredictable world. They also fire an unquenchable thirst for further intimacy with nature, regardless of the discomforts of engaging wilderness on its own terms as I grow older.
These memorable experiences can be subtle and many seem mundane in their recounting. I cannot put my finger on why some mental images of experience stay with me while others fade from memory. One thing they have in common is that they challenge my ability to relate them as a photographic image.
As a photographer, I am often asked if my latest photo trip was successful. This is a fair question. The more important question I ask myself is, “Did you bring home images that define the essence of your experience?” Probably they are the same question, stated in a different way.
An image that successfully relates an experience requires more than eyesight and technical knowledge to produce. When I am immersed in the moment, a part of the scene and not just a detached observer, that is when it happens most often.
In his book, Arctic Dreams, Barry Lopez paraphrased Elaine Jahner, a Lakota woman writing about the spiritual connection the people of her hunting culture have with the landscape.
“Occasionally, one sees something fleeting in the land, a moment when line, color, and movement come together and something sacred is revealed.”
I find this as true for a photographer as it is for a hunter.
Photos
Nikon D300
