Tourists are a mixed bag for me. This morning I left early to photograph Lost Creek and Lost Creek Falls in Bayfield County, near Cornucopia (where Eric and I visited the Lake Superior Ice Caves two years running). When I arrived I was the only car in the remote parking area. A 1.5 mile hike into the creek and falls that was peaceful after my third cup of coffee. I managed to shoot a half dozen exposures with the Rolleicord and two film holders with the Harmon Titan 4x5 Pinhole before the hordes started to arrive. The rest of the morning was spent away from the falls, as it is a magnet for them. They are typically wealthy vacationers from Bayfield that houses many million dollar sailboats and expensive bed and breakfasts. They don't litter and seem eco-minded. They spend a lot of money, which in the long run, helps pay for the upkeep of public lands. That said, I overlook the fact that they are a pain in the ass to work around
Never mind the distances traveled, the companion
she made of herself. The threadbare twenties not
to be underestimated. A wild depression that ripped
from January into April. And still she sprouts an appetite.
Insisting on edges and cores, when there were none.
Relationships annealed through shared ambivalences.
Pages that steadied her. Books that prowled her
until the hard daybreak, and for months after.
Separating new vows from the old, like laundry whites.
Small losses jammed together so as to gather mass.
Stored generations of filtered quietude.
And some stubbornness. Tangles along the way
the comb-teeth of the mind had to bite through, but for what.
She had trained herself to look for answers at eye level,
but they were lower, they were changing all the time.