Hunter of the Firelands
This one started with our honeymoon cruise through the Mediterranean. We traveled through Greece, Italy, Turkey, and some of the islands. One of them had those famous white buildings with blue domes. I can’t even remember the name now, but I remember the feeling of being there.
It was November, yet the sun felt incredibly warm—one of those strange kinds of warmth that stays in your memory because it didn’t feel like November at all. We came ashore from the cruise ship by smaller boats, saw donkeys wandering around, and took a bus ride across the island. It was just a beautiful part of the world.
Later, near Pompeii, I photographed Mount Vesuvius.
That mountain carries a different kind of feeling. You know what happened there. You know what it was capable of.
When I came back to the photograph years later, I kept looking at the crater and thinking, Something belongs in there.
Not something pretty.
Something menacing.
So the volcano became the home of a dragon—dark rock, fire running through its body, almost as though it had been formed from the mountain itself. I didn’t want a dragon simply sitting on top of Vesuvius. I wanted it to feel like the rage of the volcano had taken shape.
The original photograph was a memory from our honeymoon.
The dragon was what I saw hiding inside it.
And somehow, looking at the finished picture, Vesuvius feels a little more like the mountain history remembers.
Above the Falls
Silver Falls is one of those places in Oregon that never disappoints me. There are waterfalls all through the park, and if you do the longer hike you can see something like nine of them along the way. It’s roughly a 10K kind of walk, although these days we usually stay around South Falls and explore from there.
Even that can keep you paying attention.
The trail can be rocky, wet, and uneven, with roots and branches mixed into everything. Sometimes I’ll look down at a shiny rock and think, Oh shit, this is going to be slippery, and I’m already reaching for the log railing. Surprisingly, the footing is usually better than it looks. The bigger concern is rolling an ankle because you’re trying to watch the trail, look at the scenery, and move around other people at the same time.
That’s one reason I love going during the week, especially in winter. Fewer people. Less weaving. More time to simply look.
This scene is near the top of the falls, where people often gather to watch the river gather strength before it disappears over the edge. I loved the peaceful feeling of the original photograph, and when I began imagining another life for it, that peacefulness stayed at the center. The cabin, the bridge, the forest, the little pieces of wildlife—it became the kind of place where you could imagine stepping away from everything for a while.
But the photograph carries another meaning for me now.
Not long before I made this piece, a 21-year-old young man went too far out into the stream above the waterfall. He slipped, was carried over the falls, and lost his life.
Twenty-one years old. So much life still ahead of him.
So although this picture brings me joy, there is some sadness inside it too. I think that is all right. A place can hold more than one feeling at the same time.
I dedicate this one to that young man.
Wherever the hereafter may be, I hope he has found someplace as peaceful as this
