Cities. Towns. Country.

Driving Home

We rose at 4:45am to leave Helena, MT.  With a fifteen hour drive to Sioux City, we preferred to start in the dark rather than finish in it.  Our trip was nearing its close, a two day drive to St. Louis, and we were anxious to return to the comfort of home.  No more living out of a car where the ice in the cooler was always melting and the crumbs collected in the seat grooves.  

In constant motion, I could hardly keep track of my small belongings.  Emily was lucky.  Her possessions orbited around her wherever we stopped, never dwelling too far, whereas mine scattered with centrifugal force—motel keys, water bottle lids, bathing suits, all spun away from me in the flurry of moving from one place to another.  It is so much easier to lose things than to keep them.

Small mishaps make home’s comfort all the more inviting, and for this reason, we did not stretch out the final drive.  The thought of home had invaded the trip, and our need to get there, abated curiosity and patience. 

That morning in Helena, we loaded the car and took off south on Highway 15.  We would eat breakfast in Butte, an hour away.  Only a few cars on the highway, ours alone lit the reflectors on the side of the road.  The sun rose slowly, revealing the fog that hovered over the ground, enshrouding the ponderosa pines and telephone poles.   

I knew that we would be home soon, and this moment would slide into memory as easily as it had slid into life.  Trips have a strange way of folding in on themselves.  At their passing, they too feel like objects left along the road, as real as they are now absent.  

Two days home, on my porch in St. Louis, I can hardly believe that we spent a month on the road.  Still, I know that it was wonderful.  We stepped outside of life for a while—to see new things, to say goodbye to old ones, for freshness.  Now rejuvenated, we are ready to return to the lives that we have made. 

To see photos from our last week on the road, including photos from Portland, Seattle, and Helena, click HERE.

Bookstores

Emily and I are book lovers.  We love to read, but we also love the object itself, the weight of content, the tangibility of turning pages.  I love grabbing some random scrap of paper, a receipt, a train ticket, and dubbing it my bookmark, tracing progress in millimeters along the spine.   

And so, it is not surprising, that on this trip we visited several bookstores and libraries.  The Northwest, in particular, proved to be a haven for books.  

Powell’s Books, in Portland had the most incredible selection tucked into different colored rooms—blue, green, purple, depending on the genre.  It is the largest independent new and used book store in the world.  At every stack, someone sauntered along the aisle or perused a volume of varying interest.  People swept from room to room.  The place had a vital movement about it, which comes from the constant flow of patrons.

In Seattle, we admired the Central Library, an architectural tribute to literature.  Opened in 2004 and designed by Rem Koolhas, the building has a sweeping modernity with high ceilings, vast geometrical windows, and exposed concrete.  Inside, neon colors accent the structure’s pervasive gray.  Words in different languages and fonts had been etched into the lower level floor boards.

I am happy to see places like these, especially driving along the highway and passing countless strip malls with Borders, all going out of business.  

It was colder on the Coast than we expected so went into a mall in Eureka, CA to buy pants and warmer clothes. There was a Borders, so we decided to go in.  

The classics were 10% off.  So was literature and mystery.  Calendars and History were 20% off.  Romance, 30%.  Everything lay under black and red banners with bold yellow writing, “Going out of Business,” “Store Closing,” “Everything Must Go.”

Values tangled, money and culture.  Paperback page turners had the same price reduction as The Odyssey or The Great Gatsby.  Time and history were even less valuable.  They could go for twenty percent.  Here the consumer could see what flew quickest from the shelves, what people bought.  No enchantment, these books were just things someone was trying to get rid of.  Everything must go.

The books were stacked haphazardly on the emptying shelves.  Disheveled, they fell out of alphabetical order.  Abandoned metal shelf carts stood in the middle of sections with stacks of random and unrelated books.  Employees remarked that people were laxer in their attitude towards the books since the announcement of bankruptcy.  Customers threw books around, left them in the wrong places.  They didn’t used to do this.

It was a hard place to stomach.  Emily left early because it depressed her.  I stayed a little longer.  I found a book I’d been looking for, a collection of essays by E. B. White.  When I went up to the counter, I asked the check-out guy when the place was closing.  “Sometime in September,” he responded.

For those of us who did not grow up with elaborate book stores and libraries, Borders promised fresh pages and summer reading lists.  It is sad to see it go in the wake of the Kindle and other growing online media.  I understand the efficiencies of these things, their practicality, but they neglect the book’s material pleasure, the weight of thought, the progression of pages.

Carlton Winemakers Studio

A few states away now, we’re just sitting down and uncorking a bottle of wine that we bought in the Willamette Valley at the Carlton Winemaker’s Studio.  The wine that we’re drinking is a Tabula Rasa 2008 (white blend) made by Andrew Rich and chilled by our red plastic cooler and the Idaho wind. 

When we went to the Carlton Winemaker’s Studio, we had the pleasure of witnessing Andrew Rich blend one of his newest batches.  I wish that I had asked him what he was sampling.  We were sitting at the bar, and he was a table away with at least ten glasses of golden wine and a spittoon all balanced on a small table.  

Andrew Rich is one of twelve winemakers at the Carlton Winemaker’s Studio. A photograph representing each winery hangs on the Wine Bar’s back wall.  The pictures are lighthearted.  A woman leans out of a tractor shouting and waving while a man drives.  A man balances up on top of his vines, each foot on a trellis.

With a collaborative space, these winemakers are able to produce a high quality product for a great price.  And even better, it was the first winery built to LEED standards.  The wine that we’re drinking now is a steal for the small price of $15.  It came highly recommended as a solid everyday wine from Wine Director, Jeff Woodard. 

While sitting at the bar, Jeff talked us through the selection, telling us what to expect on the palate as well as anecdotes about the wineries.  He told us that people often confuse him with the picture Mohamad Ayoub, from Ayoub Vinyard. When someone mentions the resemblance to either man, each will claim respectively that he is the better looking of the two.

We tasted the Pinot Noir flight (Pinot Noir is Willamette Valley’s most famous grape), as well as a few others—a Pinot Gris, and a red blend called the Coup d’Etat.  Jeff even poured us a Pinot Noir that was not on the tasting menu.  It was instantly our favorite: a velvety 2007 vintage of his sister’s label, Retour Wine Company.

In the hour or so that we spent here, we enjoyed this community.  The people we met were generous, and the place was elegant, but free of pretensions.  We had a great time and bought a few bottles of wine.

When we walked out to the parking lot, Emily turned back, deciding that she wanted to buy one more bottle.

A few men were standing around the bar with Jeff.

“I’d like to buy one more—a bottle for my mother,” Emily said.

“Yeah, your mother.  I bet you already drank what you bought in the parking lot.”

It seemed like the perfect ending to our experience.  A bottle of wine with a little banter.

California Coast

After we left the redwoods we spent the day driving up the coast of Northern California. The view was completely different every time we stopped, even at beaches only ten miles apart. Here are some of the beautiful places we stopped at:

An old track near a fishing pier in Eureka, CA.

The view from the fishing pier in Eureka, CA.

One of our first beach sightings - cold and foggy.

The last beach we stopped at, finally some sun and blue sky!

To see more photos from our drive up the California coast, click HERE.

Humboldt Redwoods State Park

This trip has provided me with the unique opportunity to photograph dozens of completely different landscapes in a matter of days. I have compared the obstacles created by blinding all-white sand dunes, bright full moons, and deep shadows in uneven  valleys to those created by fog that creeps over every part of the landscape, melding land with sky, water with shore, and 300 foot-tall trees, forests cast entirely in shadow with bright white light streaming down in blinding rays. Each of these places, though stunningly beautiful, resists the camera in some small way.

In the Painted Desert I emerged on the top of a large mound after a brief battle with the deceptively soft earth, camera in hand, covered in scratches and bruises, only to sit for over an hour, attempting to capture the grandiosity of the full moon. Its bright white reflection cast shadows all across the desert, but had also a tendency to appear on camera as a tiny, shaky white light. I climbed before sunrise, sacrificing rest and even a little blood to attempt to capture those magical moments as the sun rose and set. Eyes bleary with sleep, I snapped almost 200 photos, which, after some intense editing, were reduced to six.

Here, in the redwoods, it is a completely different story. The moment I am surrounded by these massive trees I become completely enchanted by their regal beauty. Jessie mused that perhaps it is that they make us feel so small, so child-like, that appeals to people so much. Wandering the redwood forest my imagination runs wild, and I half expect to see a brontosaurus peeking out from around the nearest fallen tree, or hear the thunderous footsteps of a t-rex off in the distance.

The redwoods present their own obstacles – height, for one. Capturing the sheer hugeness of a redwood in an image is extremely difficult, and sometimes feels impossible. As I dart around the woods, attempting to shoot at least a few interesting and representative photos of this particular environment, I often find myself off the trail, on the ground, pressing myself to something uncomfortable or itchy, just to get the angle I want. Sometimes I become so wrapped up in attempting to get a certain shot that once I have taken the photo I am confused, unsure of how exactly I got there and with no idea as to how to get out. With these photos, I hope to convey a bit of that wild imagination, that magic that I feel when I stand in the middle of a silent redwood forest.

- Emily

To see more photos of the redwoods, click HERE.

San Francisco, CA

San Francisco is a place of curvy hills and winding roads.  A web of cables with retro street cars connects its neighborhoods, and houses have managed to grow out of the hills like hanging gardens. Homes are colorful with unexpected trimmings.  I saw several with wooden mermaids carved next to front doors or looking out from balconies.  On at least one building someone has painted an eye.  San Francisco is so full of whimsy that not even AT&T Stadium can escape its character.

We went to see the Giants play the Brewers on a Friday night. Up in the nose bleeds along the first base line, we had the wide view of the stadium.  Throughout, people were dressed in orange and black, and many wore panda bear hats in honor of Pablo Sandoval.  As people settled into their seats for the first inning, the fog approached the stadium.  Giants fans bundled in hoodies and scarves in anticipation of its arrival. It loomed with slow determination and finally engulfed the rafters with a damp chill.  

Sailboats swirled next to the stadium on the bay—people who had just gotten off work could not resist the water.  Kayakers sidled up to the stadium.  One even waved a baseball in his hand and appeared on the big screen.  And at times, bubbles erupted from one of the upper decks behind home plate. 

By  the bottom of the ninth, at least fifty seagulls circled over the stadium, waiting to descend upon the peanut shells, the hot dog buns, the plastic cups.  Maybe the lights drew them, maybe they grew bolder with the retreating crowd, but somehow they knew that the game was coming to a close.

It was a short game—fast innings, easy outs, the home team lost—but even if the game was a bust, the stadium was entertainment enough.  What can I say—little things bring pleasure to life, and San Francisco has mastered the art of magical detail.

To see more photos from San Francisco, click HERE.

The Library Archives of San Bernardino County

An essay led me to the archives of the Norman Feldheym Library in San Bernardino County.

Joan Didion’s “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” tells a story of death, a love affair, and a pregnant woman on trial—the quintessential “tabloid monument,” immortalized by clean prose and the shrewd observation that the media was beginning to change the way people acted.  Or, as Didion put it, “the dream was teaching the dreamers how to live.”

I’ve been pulling together an essay of my own in response to Didion’s. I sifted through old newspaper articles about Lucille Miller, the woman whose trial inspired “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” with the question: what happens to a tabloid star after her moment of fame has ended? 

Photo found at: http://framework.latimes.com/2011/05/18/circle-of-evidence/

Las Vegas, NV

We arrived in Vegas at noon.  Many of the lights were turned off in the daytime, and the high sun washed out the flickering screens. We drove down Las Vegas Avenue, “the strip,” to catch the famous sights, Paris, New York, Egypt, The Mirage—they are countless on this four mile stretch.  Then we parked at the Miracle Mile Shops and walked out in search of a lunch buffet.  We heard that they used cheap food to lure tourists into the casinos.

 There were mostly older and middle-aged people on the street, a few families.  Perhaps the younger ones were still sleeping off their hangovers from the night before.  Older women with big hair dominated the noon slots, playing at machines with themes like “Sex and the City,” “Chinese Adventure,” or “Playful Penguins.”  

On the sidewalk, someone had strewn cards with pictures of naked women named Hope and Monica, stars photoshopped over their unmentionables.  Mascots leaned in the shade waiting for photo ops.  Near Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville, Mario and Luigi were engrossed in conversation.  They had pillow-like heads and bodies, and wore fanny packs that read, “Tips.”  At one point, a little boy came up to them to take a picture.  They gave him a perfunctory wave and continued talking.  They only stopped when they noticed that the boy was still standing there, his parents with camera in hand.  Then they knelt around the boy and posed.

I talked to two women fully decked out in show girl outfits—headdress, brazier, everything made of blue rhinestones—and asked them if they worked for a casino.  “We’re freelance.”  The older one responded.  There was a significant discrepancy in the two women’s’ ages, at first unnoticeable because of the costume and make-up, but one was in her mid-thirties, at least, and the other couldn’t have been more than eighteen.  

The older woman had a story you’d expect for a street side Vegas Show Girl.  She was from “all over” came to Vegas for the shows.  She was in a show at night too.  The girl had moved here with her family.  I wanted to talk to them about the city—How did they perceive it? What did it promise to those who stayed? Did they like living in Las Vegas?  Within minutes of entering this city, it is hard not to wonder what kind of people make their lives in a place run through with decadence and flash.  Perhaps this feels particularly true at noon, when the unflattering sun makes the city more tawdry than glamorous.

But a few questions in, some tourists wanted a picture with the show girls, and our conversation was over.  Nothing distracted them from the real reason they were standing on the street in the Nevada heat—they were there to make tips. 

We only spent two hours in Las Vegas.  We ate our fifteen dollar lunch buffet at the Harrah’s Casino and left.  We were ready to leave.  There is something unsettling about a place that makes most of its money on tourism.  Caught up in the idea of itself, the place becomes a parody.  So luxury becomes gaudy, so the gentleman’s vice turns into a silly woman’s pastime.  But, who cares? Las Vegas is about having fun—all day, everyday—and a whole fleet of people maintain this facade.  They make ceaseless revelry.  They live on tips and sleep in constant light until their rhinestones might as well be diamonds.

Zion National Park, UT

This weekend we visited the famous Zion National Park in Southern Utah. Its beauty did not disappoint. Here are a few things we quickly learned about Zion:

• Chances are, you will not understand a single word anyone is saying while on one of the more popular hikes. We heard seven languages on one hike before we lost count.
• You can’t drive anywhere in Zion - you must take the shuttle, which is great because it is much more environmentally friendly, but also reminds you more of Disneyland than a national park.
• Don’t trust the posted information about each hike - a hike listed as strenuous may take you less than an hour while a hike listed as moderate may involve a 1,000 foot climb, chains to keep you from slipping down a high cliff, and scrambling over high boulders.
• The wildlife is completely unafraid of people - even the deer wander up to campsites and munch on trees only feet away from dining tourists.

We had a great time camping out in Zion - to see more photos, click HERE.

Painted Desert, AZ

You descend into the Painted Desert, and instantly it is somehow familiar.

It is like an island you visited once. The desert mounds stand tall, weather worn and unadorned with plants, just as the islandʼs black rocks stood. They make the same shadows in the sun. But these formations are burnt red, and though they look immutable from a distance, they are crusty and mar with the slightest pressure. It is easy to understand how wind and water shaped them.

This place is nothing like Michigan, yet the rocky descent reminds you of climbing down to the lake at summer camp. Maybe it is the way the sun felt that you remember, basking by the waterʼs edge and then withdrawing along the cliffʼs slanted shade. Somehow the dry bed speaks to memories of water.

You could walk in any direction and hardly know the difference. At one hour, one space might be the same as another. It is not that the formations look the same, but that their size is more impressive than their distinctiveness, and the effect of a range surrounding you, more memorable than the infinite groves and color fluctuations of one surface. True variation comes with time and light. The sun paints the desert—orange and tan at noon, black in the evening. At dawn, the formations glow a spectrum of purple. The best time is the evening when the formations look like sleeping elephants.

It is a place both familiar and foreign, a dreamscape that invites memory and invention.

To see more photos from our travels in Arizona, click HERE.