Waterfalls pepper the landscape of Western North Carolina. This particular one comments Daniel Ridge Falls, can be found in the Pisgah National Forest, about thirty minutes outside of Asheville. It was a hot, dry summer, but I am told that in the early spring when the showers are abundant in the snow is melting, the falls are spectacular. Despite the dryness, everything was green and alive.
Kemper was much younger then, and he made the hike in a pack on Anna’s back. He has seen this photograph of the falls, but I doubt that he remembers them personally. I, too, have memories of places that I’ve been through pictures, such as climbing on the rocks in Bar Harbor, Maine. My grandparents used to spend months of the summer in a rented house on the coast (Down East), and when we visited them, I was, apparently, enamored with the rocks.
I am not sure what memories Kemper will have of the places we have taken him as a child. Nevertheless, I have recorded everything and every place that we have ever taken. Thus, he may have memories of places through the photographs that he would never otherwise have. He has seen England, California, Maine, and others; the photographs themselves are memories, but for a child they are sometimes all that exists to trigger the memory of the place.
I have vague memories of scooting down the hill in Bar Harbor, but because there are no photographs, the memory is just a blurry snapshot. I do, however, remember vividly (whether by first-hand knowledge or more likely through the photographs) climbing on and through the rocks on the coast, the smell of the bay, and even the way the barnacles and seaweed felt under my young feet.
This photograph of Dupont Falls in the Pisgah National Forest is but one of the waterfalls contained in my portfolio “Falls.” The sheer scale of this one separates it from the others, however. What I remember most about the hike up to the falls was the difficulty I had climbing the steep incline of the path. I was near the heaviest weight that I’ve ever been, and I was incredibly out of shape. Over 80 pounds lost, I look forward to the hikes in North Carolina, where I once feared and loathed them.
When I decided to have weight loss surgery (vertical sleeve gastrectomy), I worried about the stigma, specifically that people would think I was taking the easy way out. I worried about not being able to enjoy food like I used to or lean upon it as an emotional crutch, which is precisely what got me in that predicament in the first place. Nevertheless, I was tired of constantly watching the scale rise and being unable to do simple things like hike a short distance to take a picture of a waterfall without great difficulty.
Having the surgery was one of the most difficult decisions ever made. Nevertheless, one year removed, I would do it again in a heartbeat. That is not to say that the journey has not been difficult. My stomach has still not fully regained its fortitude, and perhaps it never will. However, watching the reactions of people who hadn’t seen me since before the surgery, and feeling younger, healthier, and more energetic than I had for years (longer than I can remember), makes it all worth it.
I am no longer ashamed that I sought out medical intervention to help with my weight loss journey. As I was counseled in the beginning, the surgery is not a panacea, but is instead a tool. It has been an incredibly useful tool, one which I utilize sometimes more appropriately sometimes less, but that I will always have at my disposal. I still have a ways to go, but 80 pounds is a great start. Perhaps next time we are up in North Carolina, I will turn even further up the path for another angle of what the falls have to offer.
This photograph was taken just before the golden hour in the Pisgah National Forest in Brevard, North Carolina. A combination of heavy snows just weeks before, warm weather thereafter, and torrential rains contributed to an incredible amount of flooding, especially along major tributaries like the Davidson River, which is pictured here.
As we hiked along the banks of the Davidson, I was shocked to see a water line about a foot and half up on the trunks of the trees, even a hundred yards from the river. Limbs and leaves and detritus were scattered along the muddy paths, and Kemper found great pleasure in stomping in the mud and his wellingtons. In fact, the mud puddles seem to be the only redeeming factor in many of our walks which he begrudgingly accompanied us on.
The snowfall, the likes of which had not been seen in decades, knocked many large trees down, as evidenced by the fresh sawdust on the trails where the park rangers had come through earlier that week with chainsaws. It is humbling to think, despite the power that we wield, the sheer power of nature is unparalleled. Having grown up in Florida, I am accustomed to this come July through September when hurricane season is in full effect. I am sure the next time we go up, new growth will have taken the place of the grand old black pines, whose time it was to cede to a younger generation of saplings.
This photograph was taken in Glacier Bay National Park in Southeast Alaska, just west of Juneau. President Calvin Coolidge proclaimed the area around Glacier Bay a national monument under the Antiquities Act on February 25, 1925. Subsequent to an expansion of the monument by President Jimmy Carter in 1978, the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act enlarged the national monument by 817.2 square miles on December 2, 1980, and created Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve.
This is the Johns Hopkins Glacier, named in 1893 by H.F. Reid after the Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland, which sponsored an expedition to this glacier. It is the only advancing tidewater glacier now (its advance started in 1924 when Grand Pacific Glacier started receding towards Tarr Inlet) and is combined with Gilman Glacier (first got attached to Hopkins in the 1990s, broke off and rejoined several times and once again it appears joined since 2000); both are advancing as one single ice block, and at the waterfront, has a width of 1 mile with a depth of 250 feet, rises to a height of 250 feet and stretches to about 12 miles upstream.
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This little piece of lichen (Usnea Florida) was the first photograph I took in North Carolina when we arrived in late December. I had always known that the property was surrounded by natural beauty, but I took for granted the embarrassment of natural riches that the property had to offer.
I have spoken before about my reconnection with nature which coincided organically with taking up photography seriously in my late twenties and early thirties. I had already begun a phase of my photography journey in which I was concentrating on lichen, and mushrooms, and other overlooked pieces of nature, and so when I arrived in North Carolina with that focus, I was almost overwhelmed by the proliferation of mushrooms and orchids pushing up from beneath the dense layer of fallen leaves.
As I mentioned previously, we go to North Carolina with my family – my parents, my sister, my niece and our clan of Nora, Kemper & Anna. As much as I enjoyed spending time with them (and it was the best vacation we have ever taken in that regard), when everyone else was resting from a long hike, I would often try to sneak off with my camera to capture the little bits of nature that ordinarily go without notice.
Invariably, my father or mother would want to come with me, as they get to spend so little time with me during the rest of the year because of work (even though we live less than half-an-hour apart). I was always happy to have them come along, and my dad even took it upon himself to be my “spotter” when I was so busy behind the lens to quite literally see the forest for the trees. When I was accompanied, however, I always felt that my pace quickened, and I was not able to amble as slowly as I would have liked to take in as much as the wilderness had to offer. That being said, I would not have changed those walks with my parents for anything. Someday I will get the chance to walk alone through the woods, and I know then that I will long to have my “spotter” with me (or to have my mother asking whether I am taking my vitamins regularly, as mothers are wont to do).
Like this photograph, it is all about perspective.
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My family became the subject of a number of portraits during our post-Christmas vacation in Brevard, North Carolina. On the whole, the portraiture was done mostly willingly (except my mother, who loathes having her picture taken – much like me). I did not push her, except for one photograph with the grand-kids and one family portrait, which even I deigned to sit for. This photograph was a candid of my father admiring Schoolhouse Falls in Panthertown Valley.
Although the falls were admittedly beautiful from the front, the view from behind the falls was something else entirely. We had met a sweet older lady on the hike, just as we were about to turn around, who advised us to take ten minutes and hike to the falls that were running more strongly than she had ever seen due to the rain and snow melt. She said that if we were careful, we could even hike behind the falls, which piqued my curiosity. As soon as we turned the corner onto the side path, we heard the crashing of the falls. The hike was easy to the falls itself, and I took a number of photographs of the falls that I have added to my portfolio “Falls.”
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As I stared at the tall, sheer rock face of the long-abandoned quarry, in the middle of the Pisgah National Forest, my dad reminded me that one of my relatives had been a dynamite man for a quarry back in Maine many years ago. Whether he was deaf from the work, or simply unsocial, my father never knew. The long drills would bore vertically into the solid stone, and then he would carefully lower the dynamite into the channel to blast thousands of tons of rock and rubble from the mountainside. Most of the bores in the Pisgah quarry were high on the stone face at least ten feet long, irregularly spaced, but distinctively smooth interstices in the jagged profile of the mountain. The small paper birch trees were deceptively omnipresent in all of the photographs I attempted, and I was not satisfied with any of them–even as I took them.
As we began to walk on, however, I saw this remnant of a small bore, and I snapped a quick photograph of it, not thinking too much about it at the time. This hole was unique from the others. It was only a foot or so long, and its edges were not smooth like the channels higher up. The crevasses and splintered stone that surrounds the bore suggests that it was an afterthought, and the jagged striations within the shallow channel evidence a blast that wrought the uniformity from it.
This photograph is a microcosm of the quarry, but far more representative than a wide-angle shot of the sheared-off face of the mountain with its uniform bores. It is evocative and telling that the work was violent and loud and dangerous, but the quarry no doubt was necessary in supplying building materials for the early denizens of Brevard. Though Robinson Jeffers noted, as I have quoted before, “Not everything beautiful is pleasant,” I have to believe that the opposite might be true. The violence of a volcano or a blast-torn bore can be beautiful if the time is taken to appreciate it.
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