HDR Photography
Driving through the Adirondacks during these first few weekends of fall, the summer vacationers are in full retreat. The rear guard hangs on for a few more weeks as the trees turn to oranges and reds, but the end is near. Even if I know rationally that the sea plane is grounded (watered?) for the night, I can’t help but imagine the plane waiting to carry away the summer’s strong survivors.
A spooky edge creeps into the mood and the lighting of laboratory spaces when the lights are off and the everyday staff have gone.
A beautiful new dorm with geothermal heat, a fleet of bicycles, and the reflections of a spectacular sunset in the windows: this must be St. Lawrence.
St. Lawrence is an amazing place to spend time in mid-September: the lushness of summer is just barely beginning to crisp into fall, an autumn chill creeps into the evening air, and students (and faculty) have settled into the rhythms of another year.
When the waters come loose from the dam above and run through the trees, the fallen limbs and detritus arrange and align.
Hiking the Raquette River made me constantly aware of the water that produced these geometries—and that was a bit intimidating. When the dam upstream opens, I would imagine that this is just about the “view” of that the enormous surge.
This torrent of water is, if you can believe it, the Raquette river at a low point. (The gates of the dam up-river would be opened a week or so later, burying this area under an extra blast.) The primal force of a waterfall just calls for you to stick your hand in it—if you’re brave enough.
The North Country is green and lush at this moment, but it’s worthwhile to look back on the recently-thawed saltscape that was spring. I still feel a certain sense of amazement at the number of fierce winters homes like this have survived.
Summer means ice cream! There’s no more fitting place for a crowd to be during the Dairy Princess Festival than crowded around the local ice cream stand. The contrast is strong and the setting is familiar in that “classic Americana” kind of way. Even the edge of the house next door adds that bit of small-town welcoming spirit. A scene of Norman-Rockwell-esque friendliness.
Up early in the morning (to photograph a horse show, naturally), I watched a storm brew over St. Lawrence’s fields. The model-railroad trees and fences and the morning colors scattered through the clouds made it worth being up at such an hour (almost).
Independence Day is a great time for an extra shot: down Park St. in Canton, NY on the first night of the Dairy Princess Festival. Ice cream and muscle cars and John Deere and music in the street. America!
This past weekend, I photographed the grand prix event at the Lake Placid Horse Show. With a $75,000 pot, a lot of money was on the line. (You can see more of my photos of the competition and candids of the audience at the Plaid Horse.) This particular shot of Mario Deslauriers, one of the grand prix competitors, really caught my eye. Watching his competition, with that knowing smile, seems like the confident move of a seasoned pro. Jumper competitions are so fascinating, with competitors of all genders and ages.
This tiny island sits in Tupper Lake’s appropriately named Rock Island Bay, amid this quintessentially Adirondack-y landscape of rolling hills and coniferous trees. This particular island has always been notable to me because of the degree to which it aligns with my boyhood ideal of “where to hide out.” Swimmable, but just barely for a 10-year-old, from the shore. A tree for the barest shelter and a twig, now and then, from which to craft a fishing hook. When the day of adventures is over, a little island like this one would be just big enough for a boy-sized lean-to for my childhood self. Wouldn’t that be paradise?
The entrance to a Shinto shrine is normally marked by a torii. The posts on this cross country course at St. Lawrence University coincidentally share a similar structure with torii; I wonder if the American variety shares any of the spiritual properties?
Rivers cast a net over the northeast, one usually escaped with myriad bridges. Most are schlubby, utilitarian affairs, existing only to convey traffic (and never to inspire.) This particular through-arch bridge south of Canton, NY, however, brings a certain class to the whole “crossing a river” affair. The wood construction puts me in mind of Viking longboats and Scandinavia in general—very appropriate for the North Country. When even the patterns in the clouds align with the bridge, the drama is only heightened.
Decaseconds 