As I have written in the past, there is something cruel about early spring in the highlands of Pennsylvania.

 The winter of 2011 will be remembered in these parts, not for the large amount of snow we received (actually only 50 or so inches here where I live) but for the relentless cold that maximized its impact, and kept the ground, sidewalks and at times the roads, covered with the white stuff.

 In the forests, the snow cover was between a foot, or maybe two, for much of the winter. There was no true “January thaw”, like we usually experience.

It was so relentlessly “winter” here, that I decided to forgo my usual March Adirondack trip, and went to Florida instead.

Even there, the season’s grasp had not relinquished. We had cool temperatures during our travels, mainly in the 50s and 60s.  

There had been multiple freezes in January and February, injuring the subtropical vegetation. From Jacksonville to Cape Coral, we encountered cold-injured palms, their fronds brown, and falling to the ground. In the estuaries and tidewater areas, the mangroves were lifeless when we were told that they should have  been lush and green.

Because of this, several scenes I shot seem to work better as monochromes rather than in color.

 

 Back at home, at least for some of us, there was an upside. We had reliable cross-country skiing and snowmobiling from early January until the first week of March.

On the downside, I burned a lot of firewood and of course, heating oil.

Photographically at least , snow and cold are helpful,  shrouding what would be a brown lifeless landscape with season appropriate trappings ,  decorating the farms and forests.

Winter however, was starting finally break. Last Sunday afternoon, I walked a local trail, called “Frog Pond Way” named for the multiple permanent, and “Vernal” ponds, that it encircles.

It was a clear day with the bright spring sun warming to me to a degree beyond what the 50 degree air temperature might suggest.

The cries of a flock of newly arrived robins, the distant call of a pilated woodpecker, and the cooing of mourning doves filled the air.

In every suitable body of water I encountered, a pair of mallards paddled together, occasionally tipping their heads down to the muddy bottoms to search for food. I surprised a pair of cormorants resting at one of the larger ponds.

And at one particular pond I encountered what I consider the truest sentinel of spring. As I approached I could detect the first tentative chirping of wood frogs, beginning to search for females.

I knew that there was some mixed precipitation forecast for the overnight, but not something that should slow spring’s progression. Or so I thought. One Monday morning we awakened to find two inches of snow on the ground. Twenty four hours later, eight more had fallen. We’ve had daytime temperatures in the low thirties since, with lows in the teens.

 I cross-country skied again yesterday, the scenery once again resembling what is seen in late January.

As always, March is full of surprises.

 

Small Spruce on Black Pond (Olympus E 510, Zuiko 11-22mm f2.8)

 

 Cross Country Skiing???…that’s too much work.

I am fortunate to reside in a portion of the eastern Pennsylvania Mountains (hills, really) where snow is fairly reliable from January through March. I also have a residence in the High Peaks region of the Adirondack Park in northern New York, where one can generally add a month on each end of the Pennsylvania snow season.

Since childhood, I have enjoyed snow sports of all kinds, but for the last thirty years, skiing, has been a dominant winter activity. It’s pleasant, that in both of the locales where I reside, that most of, my friends are also skiers.

I have been an avid downhill and Telemark skier in the past, but a bum left knee has left me somewhat hobbled in this regard. While allowing a few years to pass prior to undergoing knee replacement, I continue to at least be able to cross-country ski, which in some ways I enjoy more than its more glamorous sister sports.

Cross Country Skiing has several advantages. First, it’s cheap, both in terms of equipment and venue costs. To get fully outfitted for downhill skiing (skis, boots, bindings, and poles) could cost US$600-1000. I can find a nice touring cross-country set up ( the kind of skis you’d use on your local golf course or hiking trail) for between US $250-350.

Then there’s the clothing. Alpine skiers tend to use different clothing (warmer, less emphasis on breathability, more emphasis on style) whereas, if you’re already hiking in all seasons, cross-country garb tends to be an extension of your typical outdoor layering clothing strategy.

Some of my crusty old friends still insist on skiing in wool sweaters, and knickers with knee socks like we used to do thirty years ago.  Oddly enough, wool works pretty well, except that everything tends to stick to it. You look like a snowman if you fall.

Then there is the venue. In the Adirondacks, a day of skiing at two Olympic skiing sites varies rather widely. At the time this was written (2011) a downhill ski lift pass at Whiteface Mountain is around US $80. By comparison, to ski at the Van  Hoevenburg, Cross Country Ski Center (as well-groomed and full featured as anywhere in the country), costs a relatively modest US$20. Its trail system connects to the equally lovely Cascade Ski Center where a ticket is an even more reasonable US$12. In truth, resorts such as these are a luxury.  Most of the time, I end up “backcountry” skiing on public land where typically there is no fee.

 

When I bring up the topic of cross-country skiing to someone who has never tried it, the invariable comment is something like: “that’s a lot of work”. Actually once you learn the technique, moving at a brisk pace over level or even rolling ground is fairly easy. Like all forms of athletic activity though, if pursued with vigor, it’s a formidable workout.

Photography from skis can be very fruitful. Whether on alpine gear at a downhill resort, or on a tour on Nordic skis, the surrounding scenery tends to be rather striking.

Doing photography however, while pursuing any athletic activity has its problems.  Active muscle tone and a bounding heartbeat can make obtaining sharp images a challenge. Camera stabilization is very important. Something as simple pausing for five minutes after exertion to allow your heart rate and “contractility” to subside a bit can help to avoid camera shake. Ski poles, tripods and, in fact any fixed object you encounter can be helpful.

It can be intimidating to carry hundreds, if not thousands of dollars worth of camera gear in a pack if you are not a confident skier. Hone your ski skills before packing up your most valuable gear before a challenging run. Until your pretty sure you’re not going to fall onto and crush your brand new point and shoot ( or fall on your D3 , and injure yourself), pack along more expendable equipment. If you’re not yet ready to ski with your camera equipment, snowshoes can be another, somewhat easier way to venture into the winter wilds.

I really like the Panasonic G-series cameras for skiing because they are light, moderately priced but can still capture high quality images. They are also fairly sturdy, but I still think that they would deform in an accident, sparing my spleen.

I tend to carry camera gear in a large “fanny pack” with a shoulder strap over my left shoulder, and the hip belt tight enough to inhibit bag migration. When I want to shoot, I loosen the belt, and swing the band over my right hip, towards the front, where all of the contents are convenient to access. The Mountainsmith pack that I use fits a G series camera with several lenses, extra batteries and memory, a water bottle, plus room to carry a shed layer, all without disturbing my sense of balance.

Longer, more ambitious winter trips require gear that will only fit in a larger backpack. In this case, a smaller fanny pack can be carried up front, for quick access to your camera gear.

Skiing into remote areas allows one to observe and photograph even familiar territory in a whole new light, and get some wonderful winter exercise.

 And it’s really not that much work.

 

Pennsylvania Winter Farm (Nikon D7000, Nikkor 16-85mm f3.5)

 

Occasionally, a budding photographer will approach me for advice on how to capture better images.

I think that my answer must disappoint them. I’m sure most beginners really hope that I can direct them towards the purchase of a particularly sexy piece of gear, such as a camera body, or a particular lens that will set their photography afire.

They want to talk about gear. I want to talk about composition, and technique. Particularly, I want to talk about rather mundane basics such as the nature of optics, shooting discipine, and camera, and lens support.

Not that there aren’t some great photographs blurred by subject motion, or camera movements.

Most great images are sharp, even if it is at a narrow point of focus selected by the shooter.

 Generally, for an image to be sharp, the camera and lens need to be still relative to the subject, as the shutter is released.

Now, there are many ways to properly stabilize a camera.

My first rule would be: the human body unaided, is at best, only a fair camera support.  Now true enough, a practiced pro shooter can hand-hold, and certainly achieve great results, usually far better  than an amateur. There are reasons for this. First, the pro is practiced at taking still images, much in the way a fine marksman, can draw a bead and hold very steadily on his target. It takes concentration and lots of repetition. There are places to learn this: here, and here.

 Most amateurs have lousy technique. They think that they can hold a camera, arms akimbo, far out from the body, trying to shoot a telephoto shot through a slow zoom lens, at an impossibly slow shutter speed, and still achieve Sports Illustrated quality shots of their precious soccer-playing offspring. It doesn’t work that way.

A pro understands that the proper shooting technique is to hold the arms close in to the body elbows braced against the chest or abdomen, and the viewfinder pressed against the face. Holding as modern digital camera out away from you while you frame with the viewfinder, is generally going to lead to fair snapshots, but lousy fine art prints.

Also, often pro camera gear, is heavier. This means that the poke of the finger on the shutter, and the movement of the mirror and shutter, on an SLR, is working against the greater mass of, for instance,  a heavy, metal-bodied  camera such as a Canon 1Ds mark II, rather than a diminutive plastic consumer grade Digital Rebel. It thus creates less blur-inducing movement.

 Most landscape purists use tripods… period. Many shoot large-format cameras that are too unwieldy to be practical for anything but tripod mounting.  The true purist would use, very heavy tripods with equally beefy camera mounts that add mass to the camera body and couple it rigidly to the floor or ground, essentially eliminating camera movement.

Tripods are great for detailed images. They are less useful when for hiking long distances, for discreet shooting and sometimes, for spontaneity.

 Obviously, there are available, stabilized lenses, known as IS lenses for Canon,OIS for Panasonic, and VR lenses for Nikkor. These can partially make up for camera shake. Modern Sony, Olympus, and Pentax SLR lenses are generally stabilized by the camera body itself. Whether in the lens or body, stabilization is a useful feature, but can only be counted on to compensate for modest camera movements at reasonably fast shutter speeds.

Combining a heavy tripod with a remote shutter release (or releasing the shutter by using the camera self timer) is still the best way to obtain sharp, enlargable landscape prints.  This is especially true when shooting moving water, or in low light situations.  We should probably all do this, all the time.

In fact, good technique and less megapixels, will sometimes trump bad technique with more megapixels in terms of fine detail reproduction.

I have walked, snowshoed, and skied many miles with a tripods strapped to my pack. In a target-rich photographic environment, I sometimes leave the body and lens attached to the tripod, and travel with the combination over my shoulder, much like the way Huck Finn would carry a fishin’ pole.

 Lately though, I have changed tactics.  I found that sometimes setting up all the gear to work as a purist means that there are shots you won’t take because, it’s too much trouble. I still do use a tripod on formal shooting days. But for more casual opportunities, or for situations where I think that the neighbors will react badly to my presence, I use other techniques.

Cross-country skiing is one example. I have two ski poles in hand, and often, no where convenient to carry a monopod. I will then have to improvise.

Holding crossed ski (or hiking) poles with my thumb and third to fifth finger, I can improvise a bipod with the pair. My index finger can then encircle the barrel of the lens which rests in the cross. This works pretty well.

Trees when well located can be used to stabilize things, either by leaning against them, or bracing the camera hard against the bark. A small sandbag in your bag is helpful to facilitate the latter.

Any firm stable object can be useful. Fence post and bridge rails make fine camera supports. With SLRs, it is useful to press the camera into the support, to damp the movement of the mirror. Again a sandbag is useful to position the camera on a hard surface.

Logs, the hood of your car, your mountain bike seat, even rocks in the middle of a stream, can offer a shooting platform, as well as a non-intuitive, but unique shooting viewpoint. The Panasonic G 1-G1h- G2h-series cameras are great for this as they have an articulating view screen for framing at weird angles, are physically small, and have no mirror, and thus no “mirror slap” to dampen.

Finally, most often lately, I use a monopod.  Mine is a steel Bogen-Manfrotto unit with a sturdy ballhead mounted, a ballhead similar to, if less robust than the one on my good Gitzo tripod. Both ballheads use the same camera shoe so that I can switch back quickly between support options.

The monopod is a solid, heavy steel unit. The weight is an advantage when mechanically coupled to the camera, and then to the ground. There is a rubber foot, which can be slipped off to reveal a metal spike.

It makes a robust hiking pole. I keep it in my car wedged between the passenger seat and the console where it is readily available for “grab shots”. I have also suspected it would make a formidable self-defense weapon.

For landscape photography, I extend the monopod to the length I need. I make sure all of the joints are tightly locked. I position the camera with the ball head and then lock it down tight. I find that placing some weight on the camera-monopod assembly and making sure it if firmly engaged with the ground before tripping the shutter, allows me to take very sharp images even at marginal shutter speeds. I can grab good shots very quickly with a monopod in situations where a tripod would be slow and cumbersome.

If you aspire to create photographic images beyond the average, you need to spend time learning the basics. 

These methods may seem tedious and even stifling. Always remember that good camera technique and save you from opening your compositional masterwork, the one you hiked hours to capture, only to find is a blurred, unprintable mess.

Take the time and trouble.

It’s worth it.

 

 I don’t really write camera equipment reviews.

There are a number of wonderful sites, bookmarked here, and here, who do that extremely well (I’m particularly impressed with Thom Hogan’s fine analysis, particularly  on today’s topic).  That having been said, I have been, for the past several days, shooting with my new Nikon D7000. I am beginning to form some distinct impressions.

First, the camera certainly has very good resolution. In head to head testing against my D2x, I think I can see a bit more detail from the D7000 files, but only a bit. (12 to 16 MPs of resolution is not really a huge jump).

What is evident is the cleanness of the files, which are more noise-free, even at ISO 100, than even those of the vaunted D2x which was somewhat famous for its clean low ISO images. The  five years between the two  models is a long time in digital imaging technology.

Once the ISO range starts to increase, the gap from old to the new widens very quickly. I shot nice images in my dim neighborhood pub with the D 7000 and a 50mm f1.8 at ISO 3200. In the past, I would only have attempted this with my much more expensive FX format D 700 (which seems to be still perhaps a stop better than the D7000).

The effective dynamic range seems excellent. There is considerable latitude in highlight recovery, not as much as the Fuji, but to me, far more than the D2x, or the Panasonic G- series cameras I often utilize.

The shadows however, offer another opportunity to find dynamic range, and the D7000 does not disappoint. Features of for instance, dark hemlock or pine boughs that I deliberately under exposed to preserve sky detail, reemerge with mid-tone lightening, full of detail, and without significant noise.

I love the form factor. The D2x, with a tripod shoe in place could be a nuisance to wedge into my “walking” camera bag. The Fuji S-5 was smaller (like a Nikon D200-300), and I loved the files, but sometimes you just need more resolution. The D7000 by comparison slips into the bag with ease ( I can even fit an SB 800 flash alongside it in the main pouch), and shoots images with tons of detail.

Some of my favorite lenses are useful again. I specifically think of the nice Nikkors such as the 16-85mm f3.5-5 VR, the 17-35mm f2.8, the 70-200 f2.8 VR (version I),  as well as the Tamron 17-50mm f2.8, and the Tokina 12-24mm f4. As Thom Hogan has pointed out in his review; with this sensor you need good glass to get maximum benefit.

Color response is typical Nikon: a little cool when converted in Adobe Camera RAW, particularly when using flash. Skin tones are not optimal ( I’m still spoiled by the Fuji S5’s color). I haven’t tried the provided Nikon software to see whether it mitigates this a bit. Maybe JPGs are better (I rarely shoot them).

No one’s commented on the shutter. One of the real tactile sensations one experiences when using a camera body is the visceral, and audible characteristics of the mirror- shutter release.

The D-7000 has a pro level shutter (good for 150k operations per Nikon) but it sounds and feels different than my other F-mount bodies

First, to me it’s notably quieter. Given this and the camera’s small size, it suggests the d7000’s suitability for street shooting, particularly mounted perhaps with one of the fast 35mm primes available. There’s a quiet mode available, but to me it seems redundant.

The shutter release and associated mechanical events actions have a particularly smooth feel through you finger. It’s a small thing, but definitely contributory to the feeling of refinement one senses in its use. Also, for me, 6 frames a second is more than quick enough.

 I do have a few gripes. First, why didn’t Nikon spend a few extra dollars and replace the amateur type mode dial on the top of the camera, with three-button version of the upper level bodies. They already given us the pro-level drive selector below it.  This might have placated some of the camera body snobs who find this model unworthy of their talents.

Also, I guess we had to have a new battery; but now I have added another charger to the army of them sitting on my file cabinet.

So I’ll definitely keep this camera. I need to work on profiling it to improve the color output, otherwise I am very pleased.

 I think you’ll see a lot of images from this Nikon on these pages in the next several years.

I hope that they will be enjoyable.

If they’re not, It won’t be the camera’s fault.

 

 

I’m not one for crowds.

I generally despise waiting in line, long walks from the parking lot, long waits to use the “facilities” and the other indignities of being “in the crowd” at large sporting events.

Usually, you can view the proceedings, just as well if not better, on television; all the while sitting in your comfy chair, just steps from a refrigerator and bathroom.

One event I do enjoy attending however, occurred last weekend in the Finger Lakes region of New York.

   I’m referring to the Vintage Car races at Watkins Glen International raceway, situated on the hills overlooking beautiful Lake Seneca.

   The drive, from my home in Pennsylvania is beautiful. There are early signs of fall in mid September that accentuate the gorgeous Finger Lakes scenery.

 

  This is a neat event. It’s run by the Sports Car Club of America, which means that the beer-swilling redneck NASCAR fans are replaced with beer, wine, and scotch-swilling masochistic amateur mechanics.

   These tend to be happy people, with perpetually sunny outlooks that delude them into thinking that it is actually possible to keep old British, Italian,  and even French cars, not only running, but running well enough to actually race. These are people who believe that the notoriously unreliable Lucas and Marelli electrical systems of their vehicles can actually be made to function properly. They tend to be hardy and upbeat and very hard to discourage. They dream of the day when the windshield wipers on their Austin Healey actually function at the same time the headlights are on…and actually in the rain.

   The weekend- long event feature a broad range of race cars, from ultra high performance Formula One and Can Am cars that scream around the track, to Bugeye Sprites and MGA’s that seem barely faster than a good garden tractor.

There can be some aggressive racing on this wonderful road course with good views from multiple locations.

Another attraction of the race is the accessibility of the pits to the fans. I suspect that a lot of the spectators are ex-participants; my group for instance included multiple former racers who seemed to know a lot of the current drivers. This leads to a clubby atmosphere. You can see a lot of interesting machinery in pit lane.

  People also bring their vintage cars for the car show that is held, and  afterwords, park them next to their camp sites.  Walking through the spectator areas, it is commonplace to stop and chat with a car owner about his 289 Cobra, or his lovingly restored, Daimlier Saloon.

   There are lots of interesting people, including Elliot, a fellow from Boston who with four other friends drove 5 very valuable cars: two hyper-expensive current exotics and three historic vehicles to the race.

They then parked them next to the track, and not only let people explore them…but encouraged it.

 Elliot, at one point in the evening, wanted me to appreciate the engine sound of his $250,000 Mercedes SLR. He insisted I start the car (which was not, I suspect “broken in” yet) and rev it furiously to the redline. What a neat guy. I have to suspect that Elliot understood the good-hearted and knowledgeable nature of this crowd, and knew no harm would come to his property.

  At night the racing stops and one by one campfires dot the camping areas trackside. People seem to move from site to site. Traditionally there is a bonfire near turn 7 with a lot of inebriated people and loud music. About 11:30 things turn quiet.

   If you love cars, and like me came of age in the sixties and seventies, this event is a wonderful way to connect with our automotive past, to see vehicles either restored or in racing trim that you haven’t thought of, let alone seen, in years.

It’s an opportunity to meet some very nice folks with a deep knowledge of, and love for autos and racing.

People with the optimism to believe, that if it rains on the way home… the wipers might work.

  

 Sometimes an image will surprise you in small but delightful ways.

   Sometimes it will be the inclusion of an unnoticed detail in a corner of the image that adds interest to the eye.

  When shooting on the water, it can be a feature under the surface, unseen through the viewfinder, but revealed courtesy of the polarizing filter you thoughtfully placed on the lens.

   In my case recently, it was blue light.

  I was camping with my daughter Brigid, a sort of last attempt to bond before she escapes to college life. We paddled our kayaks to an island in the Saranac Lake chain of upstate New York.

  Truth be told, she wasn’t real happy about this. Her brother escaped “dad duty” as he had brought two friends with him on our trip up north, and there weren’t enough kayaks. His time will come.

  I was going one way or another, and I’d like to think if anything, Brigid went to make sure that I didn’t capsize and drown.

 This particular trip is lovely.  You “put in” at a state sponsored site on the Saranac River and paddle through a series of ”ponds” prior to emerging into the vast waters of Lower Saranac lake. This is a large convoluted body of water, connected to the Middle Saranac Lake again by the Saranac River which reappears at the southwestern end of the lake. Multiple islands erupt from the lake floor. They vary in size from single rocks harboring a small pad of soil and a few conifers, to multiple acre-sized landforms covered in White Pine and northern hardwoods. This makes Lower Saranac a pleasant, visually interesting, largely sheltered place to paddle, though we did encounter fairly fresh winds and chop over the open sections we had to traverse.

   As they were loaded with gear, the ‘yaks rode lower in the water than usual, and it was somewhat difficult to “beach” them on the steep and slippery gneiss shoreline on the island we had chosen. Once secured, we unloaded and set up camp.

The NYS DEC maintain this area nicely. There are nice wide open tenting areas. There is even a privy available (definitely necessary, as these are busy sites)

Each site has a concrete fireplace, correctly designed to provide reflected heat for the cool Adirondack nights (thirty to forty degree nights would not be uncommon).

  I removed my Panasonic GH1 and two lenses from the dry bag where they resided for the trip over and waited for the light to get interesting.

  I had thought about taking some video, especially if the lake’s loons cooperated by calling prominently, but they were quiet that night. A few of their mournful cries were audible, but only in the distance. We contented ourselves with the warbling of wood thrushes, the chittering of the islands sole red squirel, and the occasional sound of passing powerboat.

   Periodically, dark clouds appeared, threatening rain. Happily it held off until much later, when we were finally zipped into the tent for the night.

  At dusk, the temperature dropped and fire seemed like a nice idea. I gathered wood and using the bark from a birch log we found already at the site, started one fairly easily.

  I spent a lot of time in the hour around sunset, shooting from various vantage points before returning to the campsite for good.

   There, Brigid and I sat around the fire as the light faded. The glow of the fireplace was evocative. I had no tripod on the trip ( yes, I know, big faux pas) so I was forced to set the camera at ISO 1600 (not the GH1’s best strength) to get reasonable shutter speeds.

   I asked Brigid to stay very still, and shot several frames with her in the foreground, counting on the image stabilization to keep things sharp. It was important to if anything, over-expose a bit (with a fire as the bright point it doesn’t matter so much), to avoid shadow noise. I looked at the image on the LCD in camp, it looked OK, and I put the equipment away for the night.

   I shot a few more images in the morning before we left the next morning but the sky was cloudy and the light mostly unremarkable. Still… there were moments.

   When I got back to my computer and was able to view the images in Photoshop, I noticed something I hadn’t seen in camp. In sharp contrast to reds and oranges of the firelight, was a soft blue glow evident through the trees at the shoreline, the fading blue of the night sky reflected in the water of the lake. I played with raw image a bit, pushing the exposure to a point that enhanced this effect (but only a bit). I was surprised and impressed with the camera’s dynamic range and metering which had allowed all of this to be recorded.

I like this picture. It reminds me of the numerous, and largely anonymous campfire scenes one sees for sale at souvenir shops throughout the Adirondacks.

  More importantly, it will always remind me of a very pleasant memory of time spent with my daughter before she embarks on a new phase of her young life.

BTW Brigid, Happy 18th.

  

Creating interesting images in midsummer, in the northeastern United States is sometimes a struggle. 

 Now I’m not saying that there aren’t subjects to shoot. There certainly are. 

    Streams, waterfalls, lakes, sunrises and sunsets all are available in midsummer the way they are the rest of the year. It’s just that everything is a fairly uniform green. And one day looks like the next. 

   There’s little change or evolution in the landscape, like in the fall with the leaves that seem to change almost day-by-day; or more obviously in the winter, when a snowstorm can utterly transform the scenery overnight. 

   There is however, a pattern of subtle, but predictable events in rural landscapes. There is for instance, the reliable blooming of summer flowers. If one pays attention during the year, you can begin to date an image by what blooms are present. 

  In early July for instance, here in the Moosic Mountains, purple thistles decorate the sunny edges of dirt roads throughout the region. Three weeks later, the seeds and their white parachutes are grasping at currents of air. 

Cardinal flowers decorate the channels of ephemeral streams that have dried up in the warm dry summer air. Blueberries, their blossoms long gone, ripen on the branches of trailside shrubs. 

  Sunflower blooms appear on their towering stalks sometime later, generally in August, and often well into September, their appearance roughly corresponding to the eruption of yellow in fields of goldenrod, the scourge of allergy sufferers everywhere. 

    On local farms, hay is being cut, depending on the summer weather, for the second or third time. This applies a sweet aroma to the summer breezes. 

   Sweet corn starts to be harvested. Heavy green fruit begins to pull the thin branches of tomato plants downward. Vast armies of wheat stalks bend in unison, to the wind of midsummer storms. 

   For me the goal of scenic summer photography, and for that matter, all seasonal photography is to capture the essence…the feeling of the moment that I and others experience in our little nook of the world. 

    I want my audience to view an image with all their senses, and share the full experience; for instance, the chill of a distinctly cool August morning in the Adirondacks, after a cold front passes. I surely want then to see the glory of the sun as it burns through the early morning fog.  But I want them to inhabit the scene, and to imagine the fresh smell of the dew-laden grasses, and to hear, as I heard that morning,  the distant sound of a loon on this obscure little lake, shrouded in mist (I guess now that I have a GH1, I could just take some video). 

   I want to convey the feeling as a rivulet of sweat runs down the back of your neck, in the lingering heat of a summer evening, on an uphill walk to an old abandoned farm. 

 Or the satisfaction of a quick Saturday afternoon mountain bike ride to a reservoir high in the surrounding hills. 

 Or the joy of a paddle on the Susquehanna River as the sun sets over the surrounding mountains. 

  I want to evoke the memory of hunting woodchucks at a friend’s farm on an August afternoon…or the joy of the amusements and food at a volunteer fire department “bazaar”. 

Images shouldn’t always just be technically competent and well composed. 

 I believe they need to tell a story.

 

The new  photo above, was taken at one of my favorite local places: Hickory Run State Park, which is located at the very western border of the Pocono “Mountains” of Pennsylvania.

   It depicts the “Old Stage Road”, which runs through the park as a hiking trail but converts to a public road at the park’s border.

  Hickory Run is a fascinating place from a geologic standpoint. As I understand it, the park is situated on land at the very end of the  ice sheet that formed over North America 18,000 years ago

    The glaciated, “Pocono” portion of the park on the east is actually a high flat plateau with a mix of woodland and barrens species and the locally famous Boulder field (depicted in a photo published with the “Mountain Laurels” article”). As you travel west, the land falls off and with it, multiple streams tumble off the heights,  through a succession of lovely glens, and over countless small (and some large) waterfalls,  all flowing inexorably  towards the Lehigh River at the park’s western border.

  At places on the property, very dense pockets of second-growth hemlocks block out sunlight even in midday. This helps visitors to this park understand the descriptions  by early settlers quoted in in park’s brochures of the “shades of death” they encountered here.

   This was the description by colonists who travelled this wilderness centuries ago, fearful of attack by predators or aboriginal Americans, that they imagined were lurking among the vast groves of  white pine and hemlock, many of which may have been 2-300 ft tall, and 500-hundred years old.

Those trees are long gone now, logged out in the 18th and 19th centuries for timber and tannin. They have been replaced by ancestors that are by comparison, mere adolescents. Nonetheless, as you pass through these dark verdent sections, you can easily imagine the anxiety of travellers riding on open wagon, in a stage coach, or worse, on foot as they traversed this dark, seemingly endless forest.

But I digress.

  Unfortunately, the method I use to bring higher-quality images to the site does not appear to be available for the header image. I am stuck with less than crisp images at this location on the site.

  I’m working on it.

   

  Every summer for the last several years, when school lets out, I pack my children in a vehicle full of photography equipment and outdoor gear, and head out into the northeastern US.   

I do this for several reasons:  

 One reason is to attempt to bond with my children, who tend otherwise to be illuminated more by the LCDs of a video screen, than by any remaining wisdom their father may have left to impart.  

  I also do a little photography.  

It started in 2004 as a trip with my son Gus, driving around Pennsylvania to capture spring/summer images for what became Pennsylvania Seasons, a book of Commonwealth images with poetry contributed by native authors. My nine-year-old son put up with my prattling, carried my tripod, hung around as I planned out shots and fiddled with equipment, and endured the days we spent together. He was a wonderful companion.  

He thus made a huge mistake.

  After this, it became a tradition. The next year Brigid was added. My loving wife, who I think is grateful for a week of solitude and peace, is happy to stay home.  

   I love this trip every year. We camp, tour new places, hike, and at times, visit my relatives and old friends, particularly those that have children of similar age. We have visited the deepest old growth areas of the Allegheny National Forest, whitewater rafted on the Youghiogheny River, explored the baseball museum in Cooperstown, NY, toured the battlefields of Gettysburg on horseback, did the “rock scramble” at Mohunk Mountain, and visited the aquarium at the Inner Harbor of Baltimore. Last year, as we ate dinner on a deck in Annapolis, we watched as a line of historically severe thunderstorms pummeled the town.  

 I vainly try to keep it interesting.  

The family tradition is that the kids hate the trip. It takes them away from the refrigerator, their computers, and their friends. They began very early on, referring to it as “Bad Dad’s Summer Camp”. They claim to consider it to be something to endure, so that they may enjoy the remaining summer.  

   Despite this, I love to spend time with my children, watching them interact with each other. I am lucky that they are close, and enjoy each other’s company. They seem to spend most of the week laughing.  

   I am proud to say that both of my offspring are experienced campers, with strong backpacking skills. “Car camping” is thus a breeze; one of my joys is watching my kids as they set up in the evening ( I generally sit in a comfortable chair, eating corn chips with a nice spicy salsa, with a cold drink close at hand). Of course, I critique their efforts as any good parent would.  It is rewarding to watch one’s children demonstrate competence in skills that they will undoubtedly pass on to their offspring (though they adamantly deny that this will ever happen).  

   I admit to some issues. I do snore… apparently, in fact, loudly. We bought Gus a backpacking tent a year ago for use at the Philmont Boy Scout Reservation.  He now demands to sleep in it, on our trips, as far from where I am sleeping as the campsite will allow. Brigid tragically, is stuck in a two room tent with me. The dividing wall is made of nylon which offers little in the way of sound insulation. She sleeps, no matter what the temperature, with her head buried in the “mummy bag” groaning at me occasionally when I reach a crescendo.  

  Like most teens, my kids have a delayed sleep phase, preferring to “sleep in” for the morning. This has begun to work out for me as I can’t seem to sleep past the first bird call in the morning, which as it turns out, in the first weeks of June, happens about 5am. Now that the kids are older I am more comfortable leaving the campsite while they sleep.  I arise before the sun, my gear already prepared in the car.  When the weather is right, this can work out really well.  

In Vermont, several weeks ago, we had pitched on the shores of large lake on what was already an unseasonably cool night.  

A front passed, dropping an hour’s worth of rain just after we had retired to the tents. The sky then cleared and the temperature dropped further, ultimately into the low 40’s.  

 I knew on awakening that the atmospherics would be interesting… and they were. The lake was shrouded in a fog that moved deliberately over the water. A more subtle mist clouded the atmosphere elsewhere, leaving heavy dew on the marsh plants of the boggy wetlands that were a prominent feature of this state park. I spent the hour or so around sunrise walking on the lakeshore and exploring the surroundings, shooting with both the Nikon D700 and the Panasonic GH1 to a soundtrack of flutelike birdsong and distant loon calls.  

   Finally with the passage of time, the sun angles became less interesting and the fog very suddenly dissipated. I trudged back to the tents, the kid’s rhythmic breathing signaling that for now at least, they remained oblivious to the beautiful day evolving around them. It still being chilly I restarted the fireplace, zipped up my fleece and made coffee, then settled in with a book, waiting for them to awaken.  

  With Brigid on her way to college next year, I don’t know for sure for how many years I will have this time with them in June.  

  I love this trip.  I really hope we have at least a few left.

 

My daughter, Brigid Louise, was graduated  Cum Laude from Wyoming Seminary in Kingston, Pennsylvania this weekend. 

This was the 166th commencement ceremony and was beautifully organized. It was chock full of traditions, some of which were lost on this parochial school graduate. They were not lost on the graduates and their parents, many of whom were multi-generational alumni.

Congratulations Brigid. 

And thanks to the teachers and Staff at “Sem”,  for her wonderful  education.