Rain, Gravel Roads, and an old Toyota.

This year, one of my top goals in photography has been to capture the story right in front of me. I haven’t always had success at it. I still get caught frequently chasing the grand landscape or the great vista - which of course isn’t bad, and I’ve captured some of my favorite landscapes this year - but the goal has been to tell my own story.

I have to remind myself frequently. Social media has undoubtedly had massive influence on me as a photographer. But the more I grow as a photographer, the more I realize how unhealthy that influence can be. If it changes the way you look through your lens - if it changes what you point your lens toward - it might be as harmful as helpful.

But I’m starting to think that what makes a great photograph isn’t just a technically perfect, jaw-dropping landscape. They’re great, no doubt. Landscapes are what drew me to photography - the desire to capture natural beauty without the input, necessity, or destruction of man - a reminder that it was all this beautiful without our help or influence - is calming to me. It provides perspective. There is a special kind of peace that comes to me being surrounded by mountains that are thousands or millions of years old, an ocean so vast we’ve yet to see it all, and stars too numerous to count, numbers too vast to comprehend. It reminds me that I am small, that my problems are small, that my life is a short breath in the grand scheme, and I ought not to waste it imagining small problems as giant monsters when they are but shadow puppets on a large wall made by small hands in front of a light some distance away.

But there is more to photography now than there was when I started.

This year, in particular, I’m moving toward the need to capture photographs that mean something. Perhaps that’s a landscape, but maybe it isn’t. The weather doesn’t always turn out even when we put in the effort - another reminder that we are not in control. That used to be the end of it. Pack the camera up, turn back and head home. Try again another day. But to do that, I’m discovering, is to miss a massively interesting opportunity and to waste a story. Capture THAT moment. Capture that hike out in the rain. Show those laughs getting soaked, miles from the privilege of shelter in the truck. Because those are the memories you want to keep. Those are moments earned. Those are the photos that make us feel something inside.

I’m starting to understand and when I can remember, to aim, to capture not just an image but an emotion with my photography.

I want you to feel the picture, and I want it to do something to you.

Nikon D750 + 24-120mm f/4 @ 40mm | f/11 | ISO 640 | 1/160

I took a drive yesterday to a fairly well-known trail in North Carolina on coin-toss motivation due to high chance of rain. I’d originally planned to go backpacking, but I decided: 1) If you plan ahead for a trip, schedule vacation time, and that’s the only time you can go and it’s supposed to rain, you probably go anyway, BUT 2) If you’re between jobs and can go anytime you so please, but you choose to go backpacking in the rain, you might be an idiot. So, I decided to go for a hike a little closer to home, hoping that afternoon storms might lead to wonderful light if they broke up around sunset. Spoiler alert: That didn’t happen.

But the shift in my thinking away from the grand Appalachian landscape at sunset or potentially a really cool milky way composition actually happened before I ever set foot on the trail.

It was a wonderful, familiar feeling. I love when the pavement ends. Only minutes off the highway, the asphalt stopped and gravel forest-service roads began. Anecdotal evidence here, but I’m happier on dirt roads than paved roads; there are a significant number of trials to support my claim, but I’ll happily continue to gain evidence as I await published validation… kidding. Sort of. The air seems fresher. It’s quieter. You drive slower. I’d be interested to see my blood pressure/HR data side-by-side driving on the interstate vs. a dirt road. These are the things a physical therapist thinks about on dirt roads…

But as I was winding up the mountain, I noticed a long straightaway in front of me with a hallway of foliage lining the road. I decided since there wasn’t a soul around that I’d like to stop and take a photo. I wanted to show the landscape but also the element of adventure in that landscape. At the time, it seemed like the photos of my truck might be a fun addition to the collection from the trip, but these photos were extremely helpful for shifting my mind away from the conditioned goal of capturing the landscape toward the goal of telling a real, personal story of adventure.

At the top of the ridge, I parked the truck and took off on the hike knowing I had about a 50% chance of getting caught in the rain. I was at the trail’s end for ten to fifteen minutes simply enjoying the view and taking only a very few photos (none that I ended up liking) before the clouds completely engulfed me. Within minutes, it was pouring rain. I put on the rain jacket and stood in the rain for another ten minutes, letting myself experience it but constantly questioning just how water-resistant my backpack full of camera gear really was. Eventually, I decided to call it off knowing that the forecast called for worsening weather. The hike down was a slog. The trail had become the drainage for the top of the ridge, meaning the path on the way up was essentially a creek on the way down. I found it safer to walk in the water where erosion had accumulated stones rather than slipping on the edges with more than a few important possessions on my back. As I negotiated the trail-become-creek, I started thinking about how I would tell this story - or rather, what the purpose of this experience was.

A few photos from the brief moments at the top of the ridge before I was immersed in the clouds and scrambling for shelter from the rain.

When I arrived back at the trailhead it was pouring rain and I could see the cloud itself blowing across the road. Deciding the conditions would make for a great photo, I used the truck as a subject to take the shot below, which I think is my favorite of the day. The muted greens, raindrops in the headlights, and fog in the trees give this photo texture - almost like you can feel yourself standing out there in it.

Our brains are wired to store information and experiences that are unique. We forget the mundane because it’s repetitious, redundant, and voluminous. When’s the last time you just let yourself stand out in the rain? Or when’s the last time you got caught in the rain and soaked to the skin? What did you have for lunch last Tuesday? You see what I mean? When I got in the car to go home I decided immediately that the day had been a success, because “the going” in itself was success. Being in this place, getting caught in the rain, getting soaked, and playing around with a camera taking pictures of this old truck is unique. It’s a memory I’m happy to keep, and it’s a reminder that you’ll always have a story to tell if you get off your butt and go.

I’m thankful for this old truck and all the places it’s taken me in the past 14 years. Here’s to a few more ten-thousand miles, rainy days, state lines, and gravel roads.

Until next time,