Several hours driving from Sarawak, Malaysia on Borneo (the island is also home to Brunei and a portion of Indonesia), we arrived at the Batang Ai Dam and transferred our things to our boat. We spent the next four days with these two boatmen and our guide traveling by river, deep into the jungle, staying at indigenous “longhouses.” Along the way we picked up the younger boatman’s wife, so that’s six of us in this boat. And all our stuff. And all our food and drink. The river would get so shallow sometimes, the guide had to get out to keep from scrapping bottom; then I would have to get out, then the boatman’s wife, then one or both boatmen, pushing and pulling instead of poling or paddling. I think I waded half the miles we covered. Barbara could not get out. The day before heading out for this excursion, she tripped on a root and fractured her ankle when we were hiking in another national park. She could barely hobble along and missed the two hikes I was able to do, spotting two orangutans in the wild. At least it was something large and orange, but high in treetops, so I’m making an assumption.

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My wife, Barbara, is a golfer. So are many of our neighbors. I am not. These Dog Days of summer in the Deep South, the midday temperatures routinely reach the mid 90’s, not counting the heat index. So, when they say they are going out to play golf, I think of this place. “The Devil’s Golf Course” is a section of Death Valley not far from Badwater, the lowest point in North America. This rough ground may look like a plowed field to someone who has walked through one, but these “clods” do not crush underfoot. It’s sun-baked as hard as stone and the ridges can be as sharp as a knife’s edge, and even walking carefully one could slice into a rubber soled shoe. And if you fall down….

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I was in DC for a conference, with an afternoon to kill, and thought I’d catch up on my monuments. As a young soldier stationed there in the 60’s, if we had out of town guests (Mom and Dad), we visited the Washington Monument and the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, but there have been many monuments added since, filling the spaces in-between, some of which I had not yet seen. Taxi to the Vietnam Memorial, the Wall, the Three Soldiers, Women’s Memorial, walk up to the Lincoln, across to the Korean, on to MLK, then FDR, and finally, Jefferson. They are all impressive presentations, and I really enjoyed the leisurely walk, taking time to read all the inscriptions/quotes. But even so, Jefferson continues to be my favorite for aesthetic and philosophical reasons. Wherever you fall on the revisionist history of Jefferson, you have to admit the Declaration of Independence was audacious!

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From Marrakesh we started our drive early, heading southeast, through the Atlas Mountains (spectacular), to the Moroccan part of the Sahara. Around Tagounite we switched vehicles and drivers for something more appropriate as we came (literally) to the end of the road, and moved onto a vast sandscape. From there on, the driver could have been making up the route as he went, for all I could tell, but he did get us where we were supposed to be. This could be what infinity looks like.

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First, you have to take a cable car about a mile up the mountains. Then you hike even higher to get to the lodging options. Next, you ramble the high altitude forest trails, from one spectacular vista to another. Some, like this one, “Monkey Watching the Sea,” are named, marked with a sign in Chinese and English. Other signs/admonitions were posted as well. The first we saw I assumed was the Chinese equivalent of “Take only photographs, leave only footprints,” but the English translation was awkward, “To leave with the memory, please leave behind your virtue.” That could work.

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Some stale bread and croissant wrapped in a red napkin from dinner the night before. A wedge of cheese acquired somewhere along the way. Peaches from the lobby of the inn. Strong coffee. Maybe it’s just me, but the simplest makeshift breakfast in a French country courtyard feels curated, sophisticated instead of thrifty.

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For some years now, I’ve had a bit of a lazy streak when it comes to photographing Savannah. I used to carry a camera all the time, everywhere. Not so much anymore–my aging and reluctance to carry any weight, but also, too often, when I start to photograph something locally, I think, “Done that. It’s somewhere in the files. Why add another copy to that pile?” I assuage my conscience for not sustaining a “commitment to carry” indefinitely, with the idea the smart phone in my pocket means I always have a camera. I have made some photographs with the phone that I like, and I will never forget the message woven thoroughly into me by my mentor that images are not about hardware, but seeing. Still, the phone camera will never feel as serious to me; more like a niche art, like the Diana camera. So, a foggy morning tempts me to pick up my “real camera” bag and go for a walk, before the first cup of coffee, and gifts me with an unusual high tide along the downtown waterfront, a new picture.

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In Flanders Fields

By John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
    That mark our place; and in the sky
    The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
    The torch; be yours to hold it high.
    If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
        In Flanders fields.

Visiting these cemeteries fills me with sadness, humility, respect, and immeasurable pride in those who gave “…the last full measure of devotion.”

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We were supposed to be in eastern Europe, but that trip had fallen through. Since we had the time blocked out anyway, Barbara and I picked another destination, a place we had not visited–Scotland. Starting in Glasgow, we wandered the city a bit and happened on the Kelvingrove, and this fascinating, and slightly disturbing, exhibit. Moving on, we drove through the scenic Trossachs, seeing the famous Loch Lomand, and winding up on Islay, an isle in the Hebrides At the time Islay had seven Scotch distilleries, including one of my favorites, Lagavulin. Their 16 year old single malt is so peaty it’s like drinking dirt. The ferry ride over was smooth, like the scotch. The ride back was not.

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“Our life is frittered away by detail. Simplify, simplify, simplify!” Henry David Thoreau

That also is advice E. B. White gave for writing. It works for photography as well. So often, pictures attempt too much information, sacrificing emotion or clarity. On this morning at Tybee the haze in the distance made the exposure of the sunrise more manageable. Taking the exposure and editing to a darker tone helped emphasize the graphic intent.

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