I’m not stuck in Lodi again.  I’m stuck at PDX (Portland, OR Airport), waiting for the 4pm flight to Klamath Falls.  ‘Left Whitefish at 4:45am.  Actually, didn’t even sleep last night, tho’ I attempted for an hour or so.  The Lodge at Whitefish room was too intoxicating, the sublime view of the frozen lake transfixing in its solitude and quietness.  ‘Nary a sound except the Amtrak slipping through after midnight.  I watched the train’s lights trail through the forest, heading west—a study in tree shadows on the lake’s edge sliced by the engine’s light, forever moving and slipping through until the forest became mute and indistinguishable again.  Earlier in the evening I had dinner with the Lodge at Whitefish director of sales Dawn Jackson.  We sat at one of the tables nearest the lake, the sunset subtle, filled with subtle tones, contrasting delicately with the frozen ice tones of the lake.  The Washington state cab Abeja was fine, more than fine.  It was superb, as was the evening special of Atlantic salmon. We talked.  We shared journeys in words and life experiences in words.  I commented to her how much I like the Lodge’s photographic décor of old and dated sepia tones prints, all historically connected to the lake and region.  She asked about my life’s greatest adventures.  I asked the same of her.  Later I would be treated to great conversation with Sandra and David.  David—a sage of the Whitefish—keeps in his pocket a pad whereas he writes epigrams…words of wisdom that he shares such as “Life is a great place to be if you’re there.”  “The power of the moment is eternal.”  I add one to the list: “With truth, there is liberation.”  I go to the room and pack and await my wakeup call.  I call the front desk, telling them I’m awake before 4am.  The young gentleman from the Lodge that drives me to the airport is fascinating.  He tells me stories about his time in the military while in Colombia and Mexico, helping to fight the cartels.  He says, as I think, too: the problem is here: in the USA with its’ appetite for the contraband.  If the appetite is stopped here, there is no need to send our soldiers to foreign countries.  I go through security.  The lady is interested in my flask.  She says, “Is it empty?”  I say “yes” as I had finished off the Jagermeister on the Big Mountain slopes two days ago.  She laughs, and says, “My husband skis, too, and Jaeger is his friend, too.”  The flight to Seattle is quick.  I marvel at the dawn’s beginning light over the Cascade Range.  Seattle is dreary.  The airport a study in gray and caffeinated flyers.  I change my flight plans, getting on stand by, and on the second go around, I’m called first.  The big bird quickly gets my window seat to sunshine.  The Cascade peaks are drenched in the beauty of the day’s first light, most notably Mount St. Helens.  I snap away and talk at the same time with a delightful lady from Toronto.  The light is delicious all the way to Portland.  The flight is too quick.

So now I sit at the Rogue Brewery.  The conversations around me are varied, mainly about Iraq and Afghanistan.  The gentleman across from me is heading to Afghanistan, but before he does, later this afternoon he flies to Hawaii to meet his brother who is about to embark on his third tour of Iraq.  He’s from Minnesota, as are the other folks at the bar—coincidently so.  I overhear their conversation.  They talk about St. Cloud, about fishing, about St. Paul, about living as simple a life as they can, though careers interrupt such.  One guy at the bar jabbers away in both English and another language which I cannot decipher, thinking it is east European or Russian.  He’s loud.  Some people feel that they have to share their spoken thoughts to everyone.  The airport announcements continually speak about security.  I’m finally feeling secure.  It has been drummed into me so much.  Earlier, I had photographed frequently upon my arrival.  I did a series of photos of John English “The Voice”, a tribute to Frank Sinatra (www.klrfocus@msn.com) who is center stage at the airport Wednesday and Thursday, crooning away timeless songs from “The Chairman.”  I did some abstract work of the airport’s architecture.  A policeman came by and sat in the corner near me, munching away on a red delicious apple.  I felt awkward photographing with him near, but I remembered on previous stopovers that where he sat was a favorite for the officer’s breaks.  Later I found an abandoned airport corner where I tried to sleep with earplugs but to no avail.
Boarding time is now near.  I look forward to the big bird in big light over the Cascades, taking me home again.

The view from my The Lodge at Whitefish Lake room is of frozen Whitefish Lake.  There is a lone walkway leading to a lone boathouse that extends form the lake’s shore near the lodge.  Looking north is Big Mountain where Whitefish Mountain Ski Resort makes its home as it has since my birth date year of 1947.  The view from the top of Whitefish Resort (accessed by Chair 1 Big Mountain Express) is magnificent, reserved for words such as grandeur and “holy s___, is this real?”.  The towering peaks of nearby Glacier National Park and Canada’s Waterton-Glacier International Peace Park leaves one speechless, giving one pause to reconsider skiing and just to spend the day in and out of the Summit House tracing the nuances in the play of light over this breathtaking landscape.

But I came to ski and ski I did, sometimes having runs all to myself as I attacked the mountain like a kid given free rein to pick up all of the free toys wanted with a five minute window.  Two days Whitefish Mountain (known as Big Mountain to the locals and on the maps) sang unforgettable ski songs to me.  The one most memorable though will be watching, photographing and chatting with the Montana Special Olympic Winter Games participants as they competed in a variety of ski and snowshoe events over the last two days.  Gold, silver and bronze medals were awarded yesterday to the winners.  But, they’re all winners for participating.  One of the most moving scenes was when a father placed a gold medal around his son’s neck for winning a snowshoe division.  It was heartwarming and moved me to tears—tears of joy as I was witness to an ongoing greatness in the hearts and souls of these special humans, made even more special realizing that they were doing this out of pure enjoyment.  The caveat of money and sponsors is not on their radar.

A couple really stands out.  Twenty-four year old Chris Zieo from Missoula, dressed in patriotic red white and blue, went up the chair with me and he was as excited as a young boy receiving their first red wagon.  “I love this.  I love this.  I just want to ski all day,” he shouts.  Later I would see him below me (from the same chair) as he yelled after lifting his left ski off the ground, “Look at me, I’m skiing on one ski!”  Nineteen-year-old Daniella from Columbia Falls climbed up onto the snow podium where there was a lit torch and she beamed broadly with her gold medal, thanking me for photographing her.  Mrs. Montana 2009 presented medals to the winners as did other notables from the region.  Hats off to the participants and to all of the Montana folks attached to this event.

I’m on the last leg of a ten-day journey that began with a skunk spraying my luggage while departing my Malin, Oregon home in the wee hours of the morning to catch a flight from Klamath Falls to Whitefish.  The baggage attendant at the K Falls airport didn’t have much of a sense of humor—and rightfully so—when I arrived to get my ticket.  Later in the day when I claimed my luggage in Whitefish, the attendant had enclosed it in a large, sealed plastic wrap.  Tia Troy of Glacier Country Montana picked myself and three other journalists up and immediately I assured them that I intentionally had not placed on skunk which was used as the scent for perfume in the Middle Ages.  They laughed but on occasion I’m sure it would not have bothered them had I missed the flight and the entire trip!

The Montana adventure began with a 20-mile snowmobile trip (my first snowmobile experience) into the wilds of  the Whitefish Mountain Range.  We arrived at the Valhalla Adventure (www.valhallaadv.com and www.winterwonderlandsports.com )  yurt in the early evening.  Fred and Nate and their crew served us a memorable steak dinner.  The brilliant Montana wilderness sky pulsated with stars.  The orange glow of the yurt made for great photos.  The following day, I cat skied, making fresh lines through two feet of powder.  Departing in the afternoon, we made our way off the mountain where we would stop for a half hour of snowmobile racing on Upper Whitefish Lake.  The ladies kicked ass, beating Mike and I during the first two rounds. It was great fun and I exceeded 60 mph on one run.  After “roughing it” in the 30 foot yurt, our second night was in the Hilton Garden Inn in Kalispell.  San Francisco travel writer Janice Nieder joined us there.

The following day, we took a side trip into Glacier National Park’s Apgar Village along  Lake McDonald.  If you haven’t been to Glacier NP, put it at the top of your “got to see this before I die” list.  Crossing the Going to the Sun Highway in summer or autumn is a grand adventure.

After leaving the Park, we headed to Big Fork along Flathead Lake, stopping for sushi at Vinnie’s.  This colorful figure, Vinnie, is a one-man sushi show, making some of the best in all of Montana and maybe the very best for the price anywhere.  Take note of a limited edition, signed Babe Ruth print while sushiing it up with Vinnie.  That evening we spent in cabins—under the spell of a full moon– at the Rich Ranch (www.richranch.com)  outside Seely Lake.  Belinda and Jack Rich are hosts extraordinary at this guest/dude ranch, steeped deeply in the outfitting history of Montana’s Swan Range Mountains.  Jack is a walking, talking history book.  He guided us the following day via snowmobiles along the flanks of the Swans.  A small group from Indiana the day before had seen a cougar on their excursion.  We weren’t as lucky but it was a blue bird day of memorable views and backcountry travel on the metal Montana winter horse.  The evening was spent at the Double Arrow Lodge (www.doublearrowresort.com) which was once owned by Jack’s parents.  This great old lodge has a great history connected with Dutch nobility and the Hollywood set, including June Allyson, Dick Powell and Glen Ford.

The following day (after a morning massage) was an epic one as we snowmobile (www.kurtspolaris.com)  67 miles, which included dinner at the funky, charming Trixi’s in Ovando, a ranching community near the Blackfoot River.  I drank a couple of Moose Drool beers and had scampi and a sirloin steak, both excellent.  Trixi, who passed away four years ago in her 90s, was a famous trick roper and horsewoman who at one time had a brothel business on the side (so the story goes).  Our night ride back to Seely Lake on forest rides was quite the adventure.  One time while stopped, Janice and I were treated to the hoots and calls of either gray or great horned owls.  Wolf and cougar are abundant in the Lolo National Forest so we would not have been surprised had we seen some—preferably not on our back tho’, trying to hitch a ride.

While the rest of the group departed a few days ago, I continued north to Whitefish.  I’m still here.  The sun just came out.  I’m looking down at the outside spa pool.  Time to sign off and get caressed with hot water along the bank of this beautiful frozen lake.  I think that the skunk perfume has finally left my luggage.  The baggage attendant tomorrow early am might be nice to me.

I’m hunkered down in my cozy winter home, back in my hometown of Malin, Oregon after three years away, living in Eugene, Surprise Valley California and Whitefish Montana.  It has been an interesting journey, but it always has been and I suppose always will be.  Home alone this time, for the first time since my wife’s passing ten years ago.  I’m happy to report that the young man who we adopted in 2003, Matt, is home safely after his second and final tour in Iraq.  He arrived back to US soil last week and hours later was greeted by his partner and their young child Inga who had driven up to Fort Lewis to welcome him.  My son Steen lives in Jacksonville, Oregon and is the executive chef of the McCully House (www.mccullyhouse.com).  He has a wonderful culinary talent (his degree is from Le Cordon Bleu Texas Culinary Institute), largely thanks to his Mom JJ’s kitchen tutoring growing up.  Try his crab tower and his special seafood preparations while in Jacksonville.

Since my last blog, I’ve traveled to Arizona and Mexico, along with staying at my friend’s Double Tree Ranch (www.double-treeranch.com) outside Merlin on the wild and scenic stretch of the Rogue River.  New places explored in Arizona were Carefree, Cave Junction, Wickenburg, Bisbee, Karchner Caverns, the many faces of Tucson and the enchanting wine and cowboy country southeast of Tucson en route to Nogales.  I’ll write a story sometime about searching for damiana liquor, the secret ingredient—thanks to my friend Michael Sykes of www.floatingislandbooks.com– in the world’s best margarita.  I think that one is more apt to find the treasure of the Sierra Madre before a bottle of damiana in the USA.  I now have three bottles.  I’m sorry; I’m not listing my address!

‘Just released a new story on www.highonadventure.com about Wausau, Wisconsin.  ‘Had a photo published in The Atlantic (formerly The Atlantic Monthly) in December.  The Winter Wings Festival (www.winterwingsfestival.com) , coming to Klamath Falls, Oregon in mid-February, has featured a photo of mine as their brochure and poster cover.  The current cover of Range Magazine (www.rangemagazine.com) is mine also.  ‘Tooting my horn a bit, but, what the hey, that’s what blogs are for.

Now, I’ll toot someone else’s horn.  I highly recommend for any photographer (writers and others included, too) to attend Shooting the West (www.shootingthewest.com) in Winnemucca, Nevada March 10-14.  It’s a hoot for one thing, along with the best darn bang for the photographic seminar buck that you’ll ever get.  The Basque food and picon punches will make you happy, too.  My recommended place to stay is the Shady Court Motel, replete with funky architecture and an indoor pool.  The chalet-like rooms each have names such as Santa Agnes, Santa Monica, etc..  ‘Don’t think they have Santa Claus, tho’.

In this neck of the woods in winter, while not putting another log on the fire or cookin’ a pot of beans, it is a great time to be outdoors at Lower Klamath National Wildlife Refuge, Tulelake National Wildlife Refuge, Lava Beds National Monument, skiing Mount Shasta or Willamette, cross country skiing or snowshoeing Crater Lake National Park.  A nice finish to the day is a pint of nitro (that’s a beer, by the way) at The Creamery or a micro-brew at Mia and Pia’s in Klamath Falls, accompanied by conversation with friends and potentially new acquaintances.

Some photo tips for winter shooting: keep a spare battery or two in a warm pocket next to your body (cold temps drain batteries quickly), shoot with a pair of open gloves (i.e., a pair that allows you to cover or uncover your fingers quickly without having to remove the entire glove) and pre-set all camera settings for the potential subject that you’re looking for (shutter speed, ISO, aperture, etc.) whereas you can respond quickly to get the shot (make sure that your camera is on at all times).

‘Happy start to 2010 everyone!

The October light is fading late in the day at the Lake of the Woods cabin.  It has been a momentous two weeks in my life.  With my truer timid nature, writing a blog—and this is my first—is not an easy thing.  To share one’s life with the general public or even with others that I personally know — or portions would be a better summation—is the antithesis of my character.  I am basically a person of deep solitude, and the greatest troves of treasures in my life have been derived from the deep vase of solitude.  But I have a gregariousness, too, that I must tend to.  I make my living with the camera and the pen and that requires rolling one’s sleeves up and getting into the marrow of human and all life, my own not excluded from this statement.

I’ve always felt that life is a journey of becoming as unselfish as one possibly can become.  Not a journey of accumulation, of having the biggest and the best and the latest and greatest of everything.  I don’t need that.  I don’t seek that.  But I rely on the emotional and everyday life sharing with my family, my friends, my acquaintances, and my fellow human to survive.  I am not an island entire into myself.  I am connected to the main of humanity.  I’m a bit different.  But, aren’t we all?  I’m a documentarian.  I record through the camera and the pen life.  Everyday life with its beautiful simplicity and its’ intricate fabric of complexity.  I’m working on a puzzle that is fluid, constant, ever changing…recording a passage of time within my own life and that of others (meaning life: animate and inanimate).  I’m a viewer, a participant, a judge, yet in the truest sense of the word, I aspire to be no judge whatsoever because within that is a confinement of ideals, philosophy, religion and the trappings that humanity needs to transcend.  If you’re different, so what, as long as you’re not viciously stepping on one’s toes and trying to gouge their eyes out.

As I write these words, I’m seated bare-chested in a plastic-woven lawn chair on the deck of my brother-in-law’s family cabin—a place which I have sojourned to for over 30 years.  I thank them first— along with my sister LeAnne and Rob’ sister Judy and her husband Jerry—for their generosity in allowing me this space.  I could be in a tent—which I was over two weeks ago in Oregon’s Forgotten Corner: The Owyhee’s—but this is comfortable with the change of season.  I can also listen to the baseball playoffs and the World Series from here (those damn Yankees are leading the Twins right now!).  Later the wind will die at sunset and the lake will become serene and placid.  There will be a crackling fire and the deep quiet of night will come.  I know that beyond the cabin’s French windows and door, the stars will be lucid and there will be the silhouette of Mount McLoughlin across the lake.

The sun is a half-an-hour from setting.  There is a slight wind.  The sky is blue, blue, blue.  No clouds.  Not that I dislike clouds.  I like the mix of sun, clouds, mood, transition, light that is varied and has attitude.   There is but one boat on the lake.  I come here in the off season.  I’m a kayaker, a canoer.  I’m neither a jet ski nor a boat kind of guy (though boats sometimes have their value and purpose).  There is no phone or television in the cabin.  It is a cabin that belongs at the lake.  Not a Taj Mahal type of cabin that some have built in recent times.  This one smells and oozes of years past.  The heartbeats of the predecessors that used and enjoyed it are palatable, undeniable.

I come here in autumn because my spirit soars here—in quietness, purpose, memory and in celebration.   I come to write, read, fly-fish, hike, and reflect, to chop wood and to build a fire in the old hearth.  I think about all of the people that have helped me celebrate –whether living or deceased—life while I am here.  I think about the future, too, and ponder roads ahead that are well and sometimes less traveled.

So this first blog is a thank you to all who have helped me along the way, especially to my son Steen and my former partner Amy Hartell.  To my Mom and Dad, brothers and sisters, to Ann and Dan Cavanaugh of www.smithbates.com (and to Deanna and David, too) , to my niece Lanie who helped develop my website www.larryturnerphotography.com, and especially to the memory of Jeannette Turner, my wife that passed through into immortality nearly ten years ago.

Virginia Wolfe once said, ”If one does not lie back and sum up and say to the moment, this very moment, stay you are so fair, what will be one’s gain, dying? No: stay this moment. No one ever says that enough.”  However, photographers say that when they make a poignant photograph and the moment is captured forever.  So is my quest: “to stay this moment” through photographic images, whereas moments are made still forever.  Keep tuned in as I continue to share this journey.

Larry Turner
Lake of the Woods, Oregon