n : people + places + things + concepts

This is a collection of images based on people, places, things and concepts met while visiting locations throughout Washington State for ten weeks in the spring of 2010. I found the concept of mental mapping intriguing, and wished to apply it to portraits as a theme for this book. Each insight shows the process from the inception sketches from my field journal to the finished product. I have also included writings: some descriptive, most fictional and all reflective. My thanks to Dr. Susan Digby, Ms. Cameon Geyer and Dr. Don Seavy for their amazing enthusiasm at their crafts; for their humor and patience; and for their exhaustive knowledge on all things that fly, grow, reproduce, move, effect, swim, smell, see, taste, hear, touch, work, change, and have a story to tell in the Pacific Northwest; and a very special thanks to each and every other person from the Life on the Edge project, without whom these insights would not have come to be. The following insights are presented in the order that they were conceived: 1. Eagle Scout - Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge, WA 2. Smooth Style – Pioneer Square, Seattle, WA 3. Live Tonight – Crescent Beach, WA 4. Ocean Calling – Crescent Beach and Port Madison, WA 5. What I keep Collage – Life on the Edge 2010; clockwise from top left: Klondike Gold Rush, Pioneer Square; Lunchtime, Guillemot Cove; Basalt Chimney, Columbia National Wildlife Refuge; Battery Mitchell, Manchester State Park; Torpedo Storehouse, Manchester State Park; Home is where you are buried, & God is in Control, Sequim and Crescent Beach; Jane, Bonneville Dam; Basalt Columns, Columbia National Wildlife Refuge. center: What I keep, Life on the Edge.

6. Fish Maker – Port Madison-Suquamish, WA 7. Claddagh at Morgan Lake – Columbia National Wildlife Refuge, WA 8. Petroglyphs & Public Art – Horsethief Lake, WA 9. Kitteridge Homestead – Queets River, Olympic National Park, WA

Gary Lucas was a friendly stranger.

It was early afternoon; the rain was inevitable, but still a ways off, and the wind whipped up off the saltwater, bringing a fresh bite to my cheeks. I was looking across the valley, trying to spot the herons, when from the side of my eye, I saw a man with a camera to his face. He held it up to his eye, looking through the viewer, using real film, and I smiled at this. He struck up a conversation, somewhat with me and somewhat with himself, about the eagles and the geese. The geese, it seems, didn’t care for the eagles, and the eagles did not care for the geese. He looked at me and smiled an easy, open smile, unabashedly friendly. He told me he had seen an aerial battle between the geese and the eagles recently. Asking if I

would like to look at his photos, he sidestepped swiftly to the cab of his truck. I couldn’t help but notice that he was well over 6 feet tall. He stood erect and moved with ease, although his manner told me he was in his late seventies. His hands were large and had seen the labor of splitting firewood for most of his years. His complexion was the most amazingly clear, cream porcelain, especially for a man who scrubbed and shaved his face and neck early every morning without fail; his skin was practically perfect in every way, all but for a small red mark on his right cheekbone. He brought back 3 shiny folios from the drugstore photo-shop, spilling with color photographs and negatives, and splayed them across the hood of his pickup. As he leafed through shot after shot of geese, eagles and killdeers, all from at the Nisqually Game Preserve, he chatted on about the day he had taken this picture, or that picture, and about the people he remembered talking to on that particular day. I wondered if, when the pictures shot today were shown to another stranger, would I then become part of his story? He was fond of the geese, and enjoyed photographing them often, but his passion was for the eagle. The story unfolded of the day that he had witnessed an eagle attacking a goose in mid-air, and how the birds had swooped, and dived, and chased, screaming and honking. As Gary told me the tale of the eagle and the goose, I realized I was not just hearing a story about the eagle’s aerial assault; I was hearing a story about Gary. When I told Gary that I was with a student group, he began speaking enthusiastically about salmon. Would my class like to see a salmon hatchery? Today? He proudly pulled from his pocket a small notepad, filled with names, numbers, and business cards, bound with a rubber band. He passed along the name of the director for the fish hatchery, instructing me to call right away. I could see the plan simultaneously hatching within him, and the words came quicker. He would drive his truck to the hatchery, and we would follow him there, and he would be our Scout. The wind was colder, and stronger now, and I headed for the bus to see if there was any interest in this side-trip. There was; but after a short conversation between the hatchery director and Dr. Seavy, clearly today was not to be the day for a visit. I made my way back to the truck, where Gary waited. I thanked him for his kindnesses, and I felt a little sad to tell him he wouldn’t be our scout that day. He was disappointed, but smiled a kind smile, and we said our goodbyes as he opened up the sky, letting loose full force – full-sized hard nails of rain that came in sideways under my hood, into my ear.

We were standing at the light, waiting to cross the busy arterial, when the

man who had sauntered up to my left began to speak. At first word, I knew he wasn’t asking directions, or flattering us, and after a few words, I figured he would bum a smoke. But after a few sentences, I knew this was way too much preamble for a simple cigarette. I knew it would be money. Damn. He told his tale of hard times, living on the street for two weeks, and he hadn’t slept for days. It was a line, and a bad one. It was bad because his skin had a healthy glow, no dryness from dehydration, no roughness from lack of shaving, no puffiness or circles beneath his eyes. And his eyes: he held my gaze directly, with no shame or awkwardness. In fact, he seemed surely amused, as if he knew that I knew that he knew it was a line.

He told his line like a player, the player that moves down the bar of the club until some gal lets him buy her a drink, only this cash flow was in the other direction. I was impressed with his… audacity is almost too strong a word. His pores were clear, his clothes showed no signs of going unlaundered, his teeth were clean, I could smell no strong scent of unwashed person. He was confident in the telling of his story. It was less of a plea for help than an obligatory introduction. As my friend was starting a story of her own, a story that ends with him getting lost, I couldn’t help but to fish into my pocket, because, well, I believe in supporting the Arts, and his performance was wonderful, even if his costume was all wrong. I remembered that I had slipped a few bills into my front pocket after lunch, and pulled them forth. I looked down, and cussed myself for folding my bills so haphazardly. There were three ones, and a five, with the five on the outside. “That five will do me just fine,” Shameless said with a sly smile. I smirked inwardly and peeled it off, slipping it into his palm. My friend was near speechless with disbelief that I had paid his fee. The light changed, and he crossed the street, striding easily ahead of us. His walk was free of any outward display of lack of confidence, or remorse about his choices. He was business. And as he pulled ahead of us, my eyes were drawn down to the hem of his jeans, the edge frayed to show bright white threads, cleanly dusting his steps behind him. What can I say? I liked his style.

He toed the back door ajar, and then pulled it towards him with the back of his calf,

finally swinging it open wide, letting the late afternoon sun spill on the old worn plank floor. A few daytime drunks turned to face the day’s intrusion, shielding their eyes with forearms, grimacing at the glare before facing back to the bar to pull again at the longnecks beading up with condensation.

“Good morning, young lady,” he called to Judy, still pretty after the birth of her grandkids. “And good morning to you, rock star,” Judy answered as she turned back to the well, his bottle in one hand, and a rocks glass in the other. She thrust the glass into the ice, twisted it a few times, pulled it up, eyed it for lipstick, and sat it on the bar mat. She poured to the rim, and pushed it forward.

“How was last night, Judy?” Chuck asked as he brought the shot to his lips, inhaled, tipped it back, and sat the glass back on the mat, exhaling slowly as the burn spread pleasantly. “Good, good… we had a bunch kids come in, real amateur night, you know,” and they both let out a short laugh as she topped him off. “Wanna set up, hon?” she asked, already reaching for the pitcher. “Sure, that’d be great,” he smiled. “I’ll bring it up to ya,” “You’re the best, babe,” he called over his shoulder. “You know it,” she called back, smiling as she topped off his pitcher of soda with a twist, a scoop of ice, and a straw.

He straightened as well as he could, and carried his guitar case and gig bag to the stage at the head of the house. Too many years of loading his own gear, and that last time he laid down the bike before he finally gave up riding had given him a certain stoop between the shoulder blades. He sighed inwardly, seeing the broken guitar strings and cigarette butts on the stage. Amateur night indeed.

He squatted to the floor, knees popping, and opened the case. Ah, sweet guitar. The best thing he ever bought, and the final straw for wife number three. He shook his head, half smiling. Women come and go, but good gear is forever. As he lifted her carefully from the velveteen interior that smelled of old cigarette smoke, leather, beer and sweat, he slipped his glasses into the case and snapped it shut. No need for these damned things. He hated wearing them; they made his eyes look small, and rode funny on the bridge of his nose. He straightened back up, one hand on the barstool, his guitar in the other, and caught his reflection in a Budweiser mirror. Good god, when did he get so old? You should be grateful, he scolded himself. Most guys your age are fat, or bald, or both. And he had a great head of hair, still, and he wore it long. The boss gave him a hard time for it, but to hell with that

bald cuss.

“Here ya go, babe,” Judy deftly turned aside to avoid the head of his guitar as he turned around. Dammit, he didn’t hear her come up behind him; too many years in front of the amp. She sat the pitcher on the side table, along with another shot and an ashtray. “You’re too good to me,” he smiled as she slipped a smoke from behind her ear and laid it along side the drinks. “You know it,” she called back over her shoulder as she returned to the bar.

What makes home, home? Is it heart, is it longing, or is it merely

familiarity? I want to love the beach, the salty water, the briny air, boats. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s nice and all. I just don’t love it, and I feel like I should. It seems, well, somehow normal. I’ve surely been around it enough to be comfortable with it. I’ve lived within a short walk of salt water ever since moving to Western Washington years ago. Really, where can one go in Western Washington and not be within a stone’s throw of the ocean, the Sound, the Canal, or a tributary moving in that direction?

There are people who get where they need to be when they can feel the wet sand compress beneath their feet. What would this be like, I wonder, to feel the pull of the sea? What is it for some people who are drawn to take off their shoes, or disrobe and swim, anytime they are next to the ocean, or a lake or a river? Is it because of where we are born, or how we spent our first years that make us a water lover or merely water indifferent? Is it because I spent my first years in the desert that I only feel truly right when I can see for miles across the flat expanses, or smell the tang of sages? I can surely appreciate the vitality and necessity of waters. The shoreline is as beautiful as it is varied in Washington: ocean beaches of sand, stone, rocks, and high cliffs; the great fjord of Hood Canal, with mud flats, inlets, incredibly varied sea life; Puget Sound’s waterways of migration, commerce and transportation; the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the Ports of Tacoma, Seattle, Olympia, Port Angeles and the ties to the rest of the world; the Columbia River’s massive might. And then there are the lakes, rivers, streams and springs that play their part in making Washington truly the Evergreen State. Can passion be created or destroyed, or does it merely change forms? Is it enough to appreciate, respect, and understand water – can this serve as my kind of love?

Find something that you love doing and you’ll never work a day in your life.

Perhaps. But more importantly, find people that you love working with, and you’ll like it even better. Or, find an environment filled with beauty and ever-changing wonder, doing something you enjoy, with people who share your respect and affection for the land, and you will smile everyday. He could have chosen to work for the state, or a federal agency, or even for a private corporation, making more money, but Paul Dorn chose to work for the tribal fishery. Of course, there was a benefits package as part of his

compensation. Most people would be reticent to even mention their means, but he spoke freely about it, as he did about most everything. The job itself seemed interesting enough, and with duties that varied day to day, season to season. But the most remarkable thing about Paul and his co-workers was the sense of peace that exuded from them all, as if they were walking with their god in their day to day labors. So many smiles, and the overall calm strength. Surely, the human resources for the tribe hadn’t hired all of them this way? What was it about the work that nurtured this community? It could have been the environment in which they performed their labors: the constant and ever-hanging shore at the spit, or the humid calm of the old growth at Cowling Creek, or the act of nurturing the baby fish. Always somehow, having time to recognize the marvelous environment in which they work and exist. Always hopeful, always believing in the future. After all, to garden or to farm is to believe in the future. And to raise children or animal stock is the manifestation of the same hope. Surely, the compensation received by the team at the Port Madison Hatcheries is the richest of any to be found.

There was once a young lad who lived in a seaside village, and who loved a

young girl who lived there. Although they were young, they were very much in love. One day the boy was kidnapped by slave-trading pirates and taken to a far away land, where he came to be sold to a goldsmith, who lived with his wife. The goldsmith was not a bad man in general; the keeping of slaves was in his time and place considered normal, and a sound business practice as well. The goldsmith began training the boy in the metal arts; and being bright and skilled with his hands, the youth took to it very well. The smith did not treat the lad poorly, and the lad did his very best to work hard for the smith.

Although he had adjusted to his lot, the lad never accepted it as fate, and always dreamed of returning to his home and spending the rest of his days with his one true love. He spent his idle time designing the ring that he would give to his lady one day upon his return. The design had a central heart, to symbolize his undying love; above the heart was a crown, to show his loyalty to the fair lady, and on either side of the heart, two hands reaching in to hold the heart, showing the unbroken bond of their friendship. Surely, when he presented this ring to his true love, she would know how he had never lost hope that they would reunite, and she would be his betrothed. Bit by bit he began saving pennies with which to craft the ring, and buy his freedom to return back home. Years went by, and the young man was now the best and brightest goldsmith’s worker in all the land. The old goldsmith had a great affection for the young man, and thought of him more as an apprenticing son, than as a slave. When the master questioned his slave about the design he had made, the young man told him of his true love and the ring he wished to present to her upon his return home. The old man was so moved by the telling of the tale, that he demanded the young man to craft the ring, and that the younger allow the master to assist in the making. After the two men completed the ring, they were both moved by its beauty, and all that it symbolized of love, faith and loyalty. The goldsmith gave the young man his freedom, paid his safe passage back home on the next ship, and gave him a small purse of coins to begin his new life. When the man came back to his childhood home, he found that the girl had become a beautiful and kind woman, and that she had never married. Secretly, she thought he would never return, but she never did tell him that. They both had changed so much during the years that he had been away, but she did her best to adjust, and never complained about it.

What is the difference between graffiti and petroglyphs?

A few thousand years, perhaps. Were the paintings at the Columbia River Gorge religious in nature? Were they a diary, or a warning, or musings? Did the person who painted hold a revered place in the societal group? Surely, it wasn’t a misbehaver, a daredevil who painted these, or was it? Were they all painted by one person, or one family, or one particular group within the community? How long did painting go on; was it for years, or centuries? Was it randomly performed by different societies, over a long period of time, even? I would think the paintings were important to those who knew the paintings

from the time they were painted, since they were preserved, not defaced, not at least until they were buried beneath the progress of the dams. Perhaps part of the treasure is the thoughts that are provoked by a remnant of lives beyond history. And why, today, if one were to paint animals or musings on these rocks, would it be not only destructive, but sacrilegious? What makes one inscription worthy and another not? Once a place is holy, is it wrong to add to the offerings? We know there are places on Earth that have always been holy, no matter who inhabited the area, no matter how the people worshipped. What, then, if there are inherently spiritual places? Does the writing or decoration of anyone at anytime make those places less holy? Surely, a place that is holy becomes no less holy simply by the actions of people. Is the difference between good and bad simply intent? At what point does defacement become a treasured artifact? I really don’t have the answer to that. One may as well debate what is good art and what is bad art. It all comes down to opinion, even after all the words.

The two big sycamores stood sentry at either corner of the front porch at

Grandma’s house. At seven, I would stand under their relative coolness, begging for the hot breeze to stir up the red dust of the road and cool me temporarily. I would lay my fingertips on their bark, perching barefoot atop the bumpy roots that bulged from the clay, and slide down to feel the silty soil between my toes, always wary of the fire-ants that could be anywhere. In the early evening cicadas would whirr incessantly, just like the alien ships in War of the Worlds. She liked to tell the story of how her daddy had brought back those two seedlings one day, and she and her sister Sybil had carried water every day up from the creek to keep them alive until they were strong enough to survive on

their own. She also liked to tell the tale of the time she had shot the neighbor dog after it had gotten into the turkeys one year, and she had buried the carcass under the flagstone at the foot of that porch. Days later, the neighbor had come around looking for his dog, and had stood on that very flagstone, looking up at Grandma behind the screen door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Haven’t seen that dog of yours for days,” she had answered, looking him in the eye, seeing her answer sink in as he thanked her, tipped his hat and went on home. Mom told us of the tin soldiers that Uncle Bill had played war games with beneath those sycamore trees. He would orchestrate battles, complete with casualties, and hold military funerals for his soldiers, burying them at the feet of those trees. We would pour over the front yard as children with Grandma’s metal detector, hoping for a tiny soldier grave, or an old “V” nickel. We never did find souvenirs of that sort; just like we never did find the cache of Spanish silver that was said to be somewhere out near the Macbride fence line. Legend had it that the old padres had left the Old Spanish Road and followed Camp Creek in their doomed attempt to escape the wrath of hostile Comanches. They had ditched two mule loads of Spanish silver near a flood wash on the edge of her property, marking the spot with a long gun, in hopes of returning to the treasure, but never did. Old Man Macbride had once turned up an old musket stock as he plowed his field, but no other signs were ever found. Perhaps that load of silver ended up as concho belts somewhere, which seems right, anyway. Even if that loot didn’t make it back to where it was stolen, I like to think there is a chance that it was made into a gun-belt for Poncho Villa. When anyone who ever heard the old stories is gone, and the telling is long forgotten, will those sycamores still seem as rich and full of history? The trees will remain, giving their shade to the cicadas, guarding the tombs of fallen dogs and soldiers. Perhaps that is enough.