The Feral Cape Buffalo

On so many of my travels, I seem to have collected near-death experiences.  In Africa, it was not lions, crocodiles, not the sly leopard, but the cape buffalo who threatened my life.  Twice.  We had traveled to Ngorongoro Crater, a paradise isolated by two thousand feet of collapsed caldera.  Our lodge was situated on the eastern ridge, open-fenced and perched as if to launch itself into the wild beneath it.  My sister and I were leaving the dining room after dinner, giggling and chatting our way back to our bungalow.  I heard a strange noise off to my right, something crunching, tearing.  It persisted, so I turned my head to look.  “Oh shit!”  The words escaped me before I could even register.  The beast started.  Our eyes locked.  It has been over four years, and I still remember every detail of him.  How he was grey and not black, the imperfections in his coat, the gravelly bumpiness of his horns, how a piece of grass hung from his charcoal maw.  It’s still crystal clear; it’s still completely frozen in my mind.  Seconds, minutes, decades; all could have passed while I stared into this bull’s eyes.  Finally he turned his head and went back to eating the grass.  My sister and I ran, though we did turn back to see.  We wanted to know how close we came.  It had been too close.

2008-01-01

1/180 sec, f 6.3, ISO 100, 250 mm

Cages

The bars that keep us from some places are plain and obvious.  The bars that enclose us in life are less conspicuous.  But I stood before an obvious barrier on my quarter-century expedition.  There is no curiosity like that which longs for the past.  The black and white mosaics made me long to stride on them  Their simple geometric patterns called to me.  Yet I was forbidden.  A gate is to be respected in the sharp and physical realms, but a gate is just an invitation when it comes to our own abilities.  Every person possesses all the keys for our own lives.  We can struggle and yell and crash against the things that hold us back, but in the end, those cages are made of only our own minds.  I do hope that you and I are old enough to see these keys, to let the locks clack open and be as nothing.  We only limit ourselves through our perceptions; maybe we should all let go of our “cannots” and follow our “cans.”

2009-07-18

1/180 sec, f 6.7, ISO 100, 23.13 mm

Sick Day

Taking a sick day; it's been a tiring weekend.

Madre's Flower

I asked mi madre last night what she would like to see on my photoblog.  Her first response: something with color.  Her second was something green.  So here it is, a delicate Sierra wildflower.  A friend and I attempted camping last summer.  Alas all the campsites were full, but we managed to have a fantastic hike anyway.  It was August, and yet the hillsides were still alive and painted with wildflowers.  Our hike was long and breathless, yet I can say that I gained an appreciation for elements of dwarfish beauty that such grand mountains could contain.  There is a balance between the gigantic and the miniature, a symbiosis between the tiny paint strokes and the masterpiece itself.  This strange upside-down parasol was a part of the whole creation.  I’m just glad I noticed her before someone crushed her scarlet petals.

2011-08-13

1/400 sec, f 8.0, ISO 800, 250 mm

Happy Four Years!

Four years ago, I returned from Africa, fired with a passion for photography.  I wanted to do something real with my pictures, something meaningful, and I was struck with the idea to start a photo-blog.  I haven’t always been consistent in my postings, but I’ve always come back, and it has always been important to me.  And here I am, celebrating four years of pictures, four years of writings, four years of exploration.  I hope that my words have touched someone, that maybe I inspired someone else to take up a camera and start traveling.  That would be more than wonderful, even though just sharing my pictures and my perspective are more than enough.  It is the doing something that matters most, creating something outside of myself.  It has been a good four years, and I hope for many more.

2011-12-30

1/100 sec, f 4.5, ISO 100, 29.38 mm

Gold Plumage

The landscape was stark, all browns, greens and greys.  It was hard not to be overwhelmed by the mud, the rain and that ever-present fishy penguin smell.  Yet the landscape was dotted with brightness; vibrant flames of orange and gold lit up the hillside, a hundred thousand strong.  This was Gold Harbour.  They are the Kings.  The most regal of penguin and named in honor of His Majesty George, handsome does not begin to describe them.  I think the thing I adore most about them is their voices; they trumpet.  Neither riotous nor cacophonous, a King penguin’s fanfare is magnificent, their children’s whistling comforting, and for me, I found myself enamored with their royal presence.  Yes, several hundred thousand; yes, loud; yet how could I not adore their curiosity in me, their innocence, their complete love of being an aquatic avian.

2012-01-03

1/320 sec, f 6.3, ISO 200, 250 mm