HDR Photography
When St. Lawrence’s newest dorm, Kirk Douglas Hall, was designed, its dramatic glass bridge was brought into alignment with the Avenue of the Elms and gap between Richardson Hall and Gunnison Chapel. When the sun rises over the North Country landscape, I am drawn to the focused geometry of the landscape. (And glad I awoke to fly my quadcopter.)
The rise of an almost-full moon, framed between branches. Autumn arrives early in the North Country.
The weekend marked a Hunter’s supermoon—one that also coincided with the moon rising along the axis of Main Street in Canton, New York, as well as coinciding with the local period of peak foliage. Can one small town handle all of those events? My quadcopter and I were on hand to investigate. From 100 meters up, Main Street looked just about perfect. You can spot the awning of the Chinese restaurant and the movie theater that I’ve photographed previously, but the same structures take new meanings.
Rural college campuses have components I’d never considered: rivers and boathouses and forests. The arrival of (slightly) colder weather means the canoes and kayaks will be closed away for the winter. Autumn, here we go!
Autumn in the Northeast has its particular look and feel, but it comes quite a bit earlier to the North Country than to elsewhere. Canton, New York is looking its most charming and just over the horizon, Ontario, CA is doing the same.
My background as a chemist, rather than a biologist, is most apparent when words to describe my environment fail me. I can discuss fall colors and grassy areas near streams, and I understand the molecules involved in producing both structures at the microscopic level, but I’m bereft of the ability to precisely identify the transition occurring here.
After classes end for the day, there’s still an astonishing amount of activity on St. Lawrence’s campus. My favorite detail about this picture (other than its, “Hey, I can see my house from here!” vibe) is the chapel tower sneaking over the horizon. It’s mirrored on either side by a water tower and a cell tower that are, uh, a bit less dramatic.
Cabins and homesteads have accompanied the Grasse River through the North Country for hundreds of years. Photographing those structures from a GPS-stabilized quadcopter hovering a meter off the water’s surface? That’s kind of new.
Johnson Hall at sunset in the North Country. No other comment needed.
The DJI Phantom 3 quadcopter is giving me a new appreciation for Canton’s “small town America” landmarks, like the Appleton Arena. The way oblique solar rays reflect from its arcing roof puts the ice rink and the Grasse River in a reflective class of their own; nothing else in town is reflecting the sunset in the same way. Perhaps it’s appropriate that the ice rink and the flowing river, both full of water (though covered, in Appleton’s case) are the most reflective moieties.
The lights mark the border between forest and manicured athletic fields. In real life, crossing the border means risking ticks and perhaps a run-in with a deer; in the realm of science fiction, I can imagine much more terrifying consequences from crossing the border from light into darkness as the sun sets.
Shipping containers are ubiquitous yet mysterious. Because they’re used to transport almost everything, they could contain almost anything—and that has been used to great effect by a variety of my favorite authors. There’s little doubt over what these particular containers are holding—mostly supplies left in dorm rooms by St. Lawrence students at the end of the year—but there’s still a healthy dose of mystery in their juxtaposition with the regular structures of a college campus.
St. Lawrence’s campus includes far more natural settings (and transitions far more quickly to them) than any place I’ve previously experienced. The Wachtmeister Field Station is a field laboratory that feels like a “candle in the wilderness,” despite being within (drone) sight of campus.
On a clear summer night, with the campus quiet and mostly studentless, St. Lawrence’s Japanese zen garden reaches its most silent and, well, zen.
Coming to St. Lawrence, I was not prepared for the amount of forest space on the school’s 1000-acre campus. Flying above the Grasse River, campus looks wild and vaguely Nordic. I’ve never run into a frost giant on the way to work, but now I’m sort of wondering whether I need to prepare for that, too.
Decaseconds 