Tag Archives: Landscape Photography

Mostly True Stories, Places

Storm over Paradise, Samoa

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IMG_0900_Samoa_web
A calm before the storm settles over the bay on Upolu, Samoa.

The air was heavy, oppressive. Dark clouds rose above a steel horizon. The humid air made it hard to breathe. I took a shower that morning, but never dried off, still dripping. The clear ocean called to me, but a storm was coming. I could feel it in the quiet slowness. No one was in the water. Most of the locals were resting on mats in their fales. A Samoan home, or fale, is mostly built with bamboo and thatch, allowing maximum airflow. The air was not moving.

 

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Storm clouds bloom over Upolu Island, Samoa.

I watched them come, the dark clouds. The weight of wet-hot weather pushing, pushing down on my chest, holding me in place as I watched them grow, the clouds. I wanted to lie down and not move, sleep until the dark dream dispersed.

 

When the rains came, it was sudden, as if the ocean moved onshore. The sky was water. The air was liquid. The drops were waves, crashing to earth. The sound rose and swelled, drowning all other sounds.

 

Then, quiet.

 

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Talofa lava–a young boy waves in greeting.

The rains ceased. Clouds moved on, a pleasant breeze chasing them. The sun emerged from hiding. Children were the first to awaken, laughing and playing in streams winding back to sea. Steam rose above fluorescent flora. The world sparkled with brilliant color.

 

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Rain and mountains make for spectacular waterfalls in Samoa.

I witnessed a transformation of the island, Samoa, sea, sky, land. What I didn’t see, couldn’t see then, was the change Samoa wrought in my heart, not until I left that place.

 

I have not been back, yet, I long to return, to reconcile the man I am with man I hope to be, in paradise.

Namu’a Island, Samoa, just a short swim away.
Gentle breezes blow through swaying palms in Samoan paradise.
Rain and mountains make for spectacular waterfalls in Samoa.
A woman walks home on a rural Samoan road.
Waterfalls and rain are never far away on Upolu, Samoa.
Samoan wildflower
Samoan wildflower
Samoan wildflower
Giant electric green ferns thrive in the Samoan forests.
Samoan wildflower
Lush vegetation of many colors grow in the Samoan jungle.
Lush vegetation of many colors grow in the Samoan jungle.
Tapa cloth designs create a homey warmth in the Samoan fale.
Rain drops bead on leafy green vegetation in Samoa.
Beautiful flowers grow wild in Samoa.
Coconuts grow wild on Upolu, Samoa.
A boy watches warily, before taking a swim in the ocean.
Samoan boy.
Samoan children pose for the camera.
Brothers, Samoa.
Fresh from a swim in the sea, a Samoan boy leans against his house.
Talofa lava–a young boy waves in greeting.
Coral reefs protect palm-lined sandy beaches on the island of Upolu, Samoa.
Lava flows bear witness to Samoa’s violent geological past.
Drift wood and lava adorn many Samoan beaches.
Put your feet in Samoan sand. You may not want to take them out.
Bench seats.
Perhaps in need of paint, the wooden canoe is still seaworthy.
Samoan canoe.
Hand carved canoes point the way for Samoan mariners.
Samoan Canoes.
Palm trees protect aging canoes from the sun and rain.
Known for centuries as great mariners, Samoan still navigate the seas in wooden canoes.
Peaceful bay in Upolu, Samoa.
Lava Lavas and sandals are formal attire in Samoa.
Storm clouds bloom over Upolu Island, Samoa.
Trade winds push fluffy clouds over coconut palms in Samoa.
A calm before the storm settles over the bay on Upolu, Samoa.
Mostly True Stories, Places

Into The Woods

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I was thirteen when I went into the woods. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I had no idea what I would find.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and spruce and fir and cedar. I recognized the smell from the pine-sol my Mom used, only different, better. The smell of the woods carried a warmth more like baking bread, and camp fire.

Moss grew on every side of the giant trees blocking out the sky. Drizzle above coalesced as drips below, shocking the back of my neck at random intervals.

The other boys in my troop had run ahead, anxious to capture a flag I had no interest in. Their voices dampened then faded into silence. I was in no hurry. My backpack was not so heavy that I could not enjoy the walk.

I looked up and caught another drip on my nose. I could not see where it came from. The light of the woods was surrounding, directionless. The trees grew into the darkness of an attic above.

The roof was leaking.

The trees were tall and wide and quiet. I would not say they could not speak, for I felt their soughing voices softly whispering above me. I was not afraid. I was in awe. The stillness was reverent.

The mossy trail-loam began to squish as I came to a small stream. I knelt down and slurped a drink of the cold sweet water. I could feel the coldness go all the way down to my stomach and I shivered. The taste was wonderful. I slurped some more.

When I stood up, I imagined that I was alone, or, that I was the first human to visit these woods. The spirits of the trees were watching me. I had not been taught to reverence the woods. Yet, in that moment, I felt something…good. Teaching was no longer necessary. I could feel the peace of sacred places.

“Hey, come on.”

The voice shattered the silence. The sound was incongruous, not supposed to be there. I hadn’t yet made sense of what the trees were saying.

“What’s taking you so long?”

Standing at a bend in the trail, one of the boys in my troop was gesturing for me to hurry. I was suddenly homesick, not for my own home, but for the stillness of the forest. I could not go back. The boys were calling my name.

We pitched our tents that night, in a meadow, under the stars.

Just after sunset, the sky catches fire on the Columbia River, Oregon.
Sunset through the trees.
The sun breaks through the trees lighting the forest floor on the trail to the top of Multnnomah Falls.
Eleven switch-backs lead to the top of the falls, on the Multnomah Falls Trail.
Columbia River Gorge, Oregon.
AT 620 feet, Multnomah Falls is the tallest waterfall in Oregon and is arguably the second tallest year-round waterfall in the United States.
The Pacific Northwest–another gateway to Narnia?
In the Pacific Northwest, Moss grows on all sides of the tree.
With lots of rain, the moss grows on everything.
Dare to be different.
Sunset on the Columbia River.
On the Oregon side of the Columbia River Gorge.
Mostly True Stories, Places

Just a Few More Minutes in Venice, Please

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Venice is beautiful, rain or shine. The sun was warm and the sky was blue for the 90 minutes I spent there. I was fortunate. The weather changes every few hours.

IMG_8680_Gondola PrepVenice is romantic. If you find yourself in Venice with someone you love, take a Gondola ride. ‘O Sole mio…

Venice is old. Walk the cobblestone streets on stones older than the renaissance. See nightmarish masks on display in the shops. Now worn for carnival, the Medico della Peste mask became a symbol of the  ravages of black death from dark ages.

Venice is sinking. Originally built on 117 islands separated by canals, scientist think the fabled city is sinking by approximately 7 inches per century. It may be that you want to get your scuba diving certificate.

Venice is vibrant. Whether you know her as the Queen of the Adriatic, the City of Water, the City of Canals, the City of Masks, the City of Bridges, or the Floating City, the radiant colors of Venice will entice you to stop for a visit, and, perhaps, to stay for few minutes.

Places

Venice, Italy, 1

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IMG_8584_Fresh ProduceThe sun was up, but it was still early. Most of the shops were not yet open. Sleepy shopkeepers were drinking coffee in the morning light–steam rising from their mugs. Tourists were beginning to mill about, anxious to find bargains.

I had to catch a plane in two hours.

I often regret not having enough time to spend in beautiful places. Sometimes that regret prevents me from enjoying what I can see. If you only had an hour to spend in one of the world’s most visited and storied cities, what would you do?

Antonio Vivaldi, recognized as one of the greatest baroque composers, was born in Venice in 1678. He attempted, quite successfully, to capture the Four Seasons in four violin concertos. I didn’t have enough time to listen to them.

So, I took my camera and tried to capture the moment.

Mostly True Stories, Places

At the Beach

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We weren’t dressed for it, but we couldn’t resist. We had three hours before our flight. Wait in the airport, at LAX?

I don’t think so.

Before the engine of our rental car shut down, my wife was out the door and on the beach. I carefully took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pant legs, grabbed my camera and sauntered after. The sand felt good on my toes, cool and rough.

IMG_3734_Beach Tent_webWe have a little saying in our bathroom at home, at home where it’s cold. “If you’re lucky enough to be at the beach, you’re lucky enough.”

IMG_2381_Shadow Lovers_webI must be very lucky. I married a California girl. Like a rechargeable battery, she draws life from the sun, the sand and the waves. I draw life from her. We don’t live in California anymore, so it’s probably okay that I look like a tourist. I wasn’t born here. I don’t live here. But I did, sort of, adopt this place. I’ve lived here longer than any other place.  So, we visit often, to see our children, and, although I don’t feel old, our grandchildren, and, the beach.

IMG_3738_Footprint Pair_webI could mark the years of my life in the footsteps on the sand, but I always lose track when the waves wash them away. The feelings remain as the memories flood in and out with the surf. I could come back here and know that I would be welcome.

Life guard tower 42 at Manhattan beach, near Los Angeles.
Beach Volleyball anyone? Near the lifeguard tower at Manhattan Beach.
Maybe not the most green approach to power, the Manhattan B
Places

Winter Wonderland

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A powerfully frigid cold spell set in when the magic of Christmas Eve brought a white Christmas. While it is no secret in my family that I don’t like to be cold, I still try to see the beauty around me. With my boots, gloves, hat, parka, snow suit and camera, I don’t mind, much,  walking in a winter wonderland. It was too cold to take many pictures, so, I only took a few.

Happy Holidays!

Winter Wonderland
Christmas Berries
Winter Trees
There is light behind the clouds
Pine trees, pine cones and pine nuts
Storm clouds swirl in American Fork Canyon.
Snow covered pine bough.
Tibble Fork Reservoir.
Mostly True Stories, Places

Eiffel Tower Lights

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The longest night of the year. Darkness. Winter. Rain. Snow.

I’m looking for, longing for the light.

A beacon from the City of Lights calls to me.

The Eiffel Tower, built in 1889, pierces the dark of night and illuminates the light of love, by day.

Over 1000 feet high, the Eiffel Tower stood as the tallest structure in the world for nearly 40 years. Originally criticized for his design, Gustave Eiffel created the iconic symbol of France which has become one of the most recognizable and most visited monuments in the world.

Last night, as I shop-vac’d nearly 100 gallons of rainwater from an outside window-well at my house, I thought, for just a moment, that I could see a beacon light piercing the clouds, lighting the way. I was back, back in Paris, standing under the Eiffel Tower, eating nutella crepes. Then, the rain turned to snow and a cold drip ran down my neck. I hate it when that happens.

Even on the longest, darkest night of the year, even in a storm, the Eiffel Tower still lights the famous City of Lights. I guess just I’ll have to look at my pictures.

The City of Light, and liberty.
The Eiffel Tower beams a welcome, across the bridge.
Two boats pass at dusk, on the Seine River.
A vintage rainy day in Paris.
The Eiffel Tower beams a welcome, across the bridge.
Mostly True Stories

Falling Into Winter

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The weather in my home town is unseasonably warm. It is as if winter is hiding, just around the corner, afraid to come out.

I’m actually okay with that.

I don’t like to be cold. The worst day when it is hot, is better than the best day when it is cold, speaking specifically of the weather.

No matter how many clothes you put on, winter coats, winter hats, gloves, long underwear, sweaters, down vests, etc. the cold still finds a way in, like needles.  When it is hot, you can always take clothes off, right? You can always drink more water.

Ah yes, water.

It hasn’t rained here in days, maybe weeks. Snow? Haven’t seen any. Weird.

It should be snowing. I should have a sore back from shoveling (no, I never invested in a snow blower). I know we need the water. So, I know we need the winter.

The sun has moved farther south. The days are shorter. But, the temperatures are still warm. I could live with this, for awhile. However most of the leaves have fallen and the bare trees just don’t look quite right, silhouetted against a deep blue sky still warm.

Perhaps winter will come out when autumn can no longer prevent the north wind from frosting the brittle fallen leaves decorating my once green lawn.

Until then, I will turn my face to the sun and hope that perhaps this year, we may skip through the darkest days of winter, without having to dawn snow boots and snow tires.

Tines and spokes connect to the circle of seasons.
Abandoned irrigation equipment marks the end of harvest season.
Meadow grasses dip to drink from the mountain stream.
Fall leaves cover the ground before winter snow buries the leaves.
A small stream snakes through the golden meadow.
Laden with the remnants of summer growth, autumn’s remnants glow with future promise.
Fall portends sleep and death, yet, in the meadow, among the teasel, there is hope for renewal.
Waiting for wind, meadow weeds cling to seeds that will carry life to new meadows and pastures.
Late fall sunsets mean shorter days and longer nights.
Mostly True Stories, Things

You Shall Not Pass–South African Rhinos

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IMG_0454_Rhino Pass_webThe road was rough. The land rover bounced around a corner and there he was, a South African White Rhinoceros, standing guard in the middle of the rutted road. I lurched forward as the guide stopped the vehicle abruptly. The Rhino’s ears twitched. He watched from immovable feet. I held my breath. I could hear a huffing snort and the buzzing of insects.

The guide spoke, “Perhaps we will find another way.”

The land rover jerked in reverse. The Rhino stared at us, unblinking.

You Shall Not Pass.

You Shall Not Pass
Posing for a profile.
Grazing.
Coming or going?
Blending in.

 

Mostly True Stories, Places, Things

African Elephants

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The Range Rover bounced through the trees like the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland, then, mercifully, stopped. Our guide shut off the engine. I could hear the ticking of hot stressed metal. My body was just as stressed. I may have developed a tick.

Over there.

I could see him, hiding, a giant bull elephant, trying, it seemed to me, to be inconspicuous.

I began taking photographs. Through the lens, the elephant looked annoyed. With crunching footsteps, he lumbered out of the trees into the open, staring at us. We stared back at him. He came closer. Closer. CLOSER. I reached for a wider lens.

Hold very still, our guide whispered. He reached for his rifle.

The giant elephant stopped, three feet away. I could hear him panting. Snorting. I could SMELL him. VERY BAD BREATH.

From my open seat in the Range Rover, he was massive. His tusks were stained red near the sharpened points. He looked down at me with huge, tired eyes.

What are you doing here?

I came to see you.

He sniffed, his snake-like trunk sampling the air around me. His giant eyes blinked. I could see myself reflected in their rich, deep brown. He looked…sad, maybe. Resignedly tolerant, perhaps. Proud, certainly.

He moved on.

I realized that the pounding I could hear was my heart, not his footsteps.

Our guide put down his gun and started the Range Rover. The roar of the engine shattered the quiet surrounding us and we moved on.

A thirsty African elephant takes a healthy drink from his own personal well.