"Sometimes the hardest part of writing is just sitting still long enough to begin."—Stephen McConnell, 2009.
Reckless by Design
Posted: May 1, 2025 | 14:04
As I get older and my long-distance desert hikes get shorter, I was asked why I hadn’t considered renting a bicycle for a desert photography trip. It would extend my range and be less stressful.
Funny enough, I had thought about it—but a bike adds a layer of logistical complexity that doesn’t fit my minimalist setup. There’s the hassle of renting it, figuring out transport, and returning it afterward. It also cuts into the time I’d rather spend on foot, keeping things simple and direct.
Carrying gear into the desert isn’t the issue. My Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) after landing usually includes two stops: picking up a 4×4 from the rental company, then heading to Walmart for two propane canisters for my Jetboil cooking system, a cheap sleeping bag, and an air mattress—both of which I donate to Goodwill the day before I leave (since my last night is usually spent in a luxury hotel, where I can steam the grime out of my pores using the sauna and hot tub). Once I arrive at my base location, I’m on foot from there in. My range depends entirely on the heat and how much water I’m carrying. On days when temperatures top 115°F, I’m only covering about five miles before heading back to base.
To stretch that range, I’ve occasionally dropped off water by vehicle to create makeshift caches I can hike to later. A handheld GPS (I use a Garmin Map 66sr) makes all the difference—I can stash water in undulating terrain riddled with wadis, scrub, and cactus, and still navigate back to within six feet of it.
As I get older, I’ve come to value the comforts of an air-conditioned vehicle and the ability to cook and sleep under the stars—all from one location, a kind of patrol base built around the vehicle. I travel light: sleeping bag, air mattress, no fancy tent or anything like that. It lets me drop off the grid—usually about three hours from any roads or civilization. I’ll stay out there five days without human contact, then it’s back to a hotel for a shower, laundry, a steak, several single malts, and on to the next location to do it all again. It gives me the solitude I need now and then.
My wife’s written instructions for every trip include the locations I expect to be, with date and time ranges, plus GPS coordinates for my base area. I always leave a note on the vehicle’s dashboard: which direction I’m heading, how far I plan to hike, how much water and food I’m carrying, the date and time I left, when I plan to return, and the GPS coordinates of my turnaround point. Each time I get back to the hotel before moving on, I call to check in. If she doesn’t hear from me within the agreed timeframe, she contacts the authorities.
My wife often warns that by heading so far off the grid, I’ll one day take a tumble, get stranded, and probably die in the desert. I’ve earned my reputation for scrambling over rocks in pursuit of photo locations and falling more than once, limping back to the vehicle with skinned knees and elbows. My reply? At least I’m doing what I love. I may not pick the time, but I get to choose the place. I’m told that’s a selfish attitude—so be it!
Although I’ve seriously considered using a bike, the logistics—finding a rental close to the airport in a major city isn’t always convenient—make it impractical. Then there’s the hassle of picking it up, dropping it off, and coordinating all that with returning the vehicle. It’s just too much of a logistical headache. From a safety standpoint, given my reputation for taking a fall on two feet—usually while chasing a better panoramic view—adding a bicycle just increases the chance of a more serious injury. Speeds are higher, terrain is unpredictable, and I’m no seasoned cross-country rider.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve often given solid advice to others about heading off-grid—practical stuff grounded in military training and survival skills. But I don’t always follow it myself. I’ve taken real risks—edging out on loose rock to set up a tripod in some ridiculous spot. It’s not advice I’d give anyone else, and truthfully, I’ve had a few moments that felt one slip away from a Darwin Award. So, if truth be told, I consider myself too reckless to take a bicycle three hours from the nearest highway, with no cell phone service beyond an emergency text via satellite. As I get older, walking shorter distances—especially in 115° heat—has become a natural progression.
"Live fully while you can—once you’re gone, regret won’t have a chance to find you."
~ Stephen McConnell (May 1, 2025)
Downsized
Posted: April 30, 2025 | 10:00
I’m downsizing. I’m sick and tired of humping photography gear around I don’t use. My Nikon Z7 II is fitted with an NB-11 battery pack—which basically increases weight to that of a normal DSLR—It feels like I’m carrying around a D-850 again. I primarily shoot landscape photography—I don’t need that extra burst capability that the power pack provides.
I have humped up the Peralta Trail in Gold Canyon, Arizona, with a backpack containing a selection of equipment for every possibility, for fear of getting to the top and realizing I’ve left something in the car. And! Every time I do it, I don’t use the majority of it and I always question myself—why did I carry it up here?
So for Montana, I am having a complete declutter. I bought myself a Billingham Hadley bag, large enough to hold my Z7 II with a Nikkor Z 28-70mm f/2.8 S. It also carries a Nikkor Z 50mm f/1.8 S prime, three batteries, an SD card case, and the Garmin MAP66sr for geotagging in Lightroom. Because of the potential for portraits at the Crow Powwow, I’m bringing the Nikkor 70-200mm f/2.8 S VR.
That’s it—I’m downsized. No more Lee graduated filters, neutral density filters, Nikkor Z 14mm f/4 S wide angle lens, Nikkor Z 24-120mm f/4 S, battery packs, second travel tripod, digital cable release, and all the other crap I buy on B&H Photo just to carry in my backpack and never use.
The Crow, Revisited
Posted: April 30, 2025 | 09:02
I’m finalizing the itinerary for the trip back to Montana and Wyoming, set for August 7–18, 2025, during the period of the Crow Fair (Powwow). Flights, accommodation, and transportation are booked—just working on photo locations now to get the most out of the ten days there.
I first ventured into Crow Country in August 2016 with a plan: walk the Little Bighorn Battlefield, photograph the monuments, and maybe capture a few portraits at the Crow Fair. Back then, it felt like an obvious choice for a historic photo shoot. I had followed the career of George Armstrong Custer through the Civil War and studied his campaigns—from the Battle of Aldie (June 17, 1863), the Battle of Hanover (June 30, 1863), and the Battle of Gettysburg (July 1–3, 1863), to name a few. But the story I found wasn’t the one I came for. I arrived with a soldier’s narrative in mind, but what I encountered was deeper, more controversial—a history buried beneath history. I had planned only three days in the area, staying in Hardin, Montana, roughly 20 miles from the battlefield, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to grasp the full scope of what happened there. By the time the powwow began, I was out of time and out of my depth. I left with photos, but no deeper understanding of the Crow’s complex history.
The story of the Little Bighorn Battlefield has been told many times in books and films. Heroic tales, such as They Died with Their Boots On (1941), starring Errol Flynn as Custer, are classic Hollywood portrayals that present a romanticized view of the general. These films crafted a narrative in which the army is seen as helplessly massacred. Only in recent years has a fuller version of the story begun to surface—one that reveals not just the tragedy of Custer’s defeat, but also the brutal and often barbaric actions of the Seventh Cavalry. One such incident, the Washita Massacre, took place in 1868 when Lt. Colonel Custer led the Seventh Cavalry in an attack on a Cheyenne village along the Washita River. The assault resulted in the slaughter of women, children, and the elderly—an atrocity that casts a dark shadow over the cavalry’s glorified reputation. In hindsight, events like these reshape the narrative we’ve been fed about the army’s moral high ground at the Little Bighorn.
In 2016, I traveled to Montana with the intention of tracing the legacy of an American icon at the Little Bighorn Battlefield. Custer had long been celebrated as a national figure, his reputation solidified by his role at Gettysburg, where his leadership was considered integral to the Union victory. That image of Custer as a gallant warrior was reinforced by a symbolic gesture from General Philip Sheridan, who, after the surrender of General Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Court House on April 9, 1865, presented Custer’s wife, Elizabeth, with the table on which Lee had signed the terms of surrender. Sheridan’s accompanying remark read, “There is scarcely an individual in our service who contributed more to bring this about than your very gallant husband.” This portrait of Custer endured for decades, perpetuated by books and films that shaped the popular image of the battlefield. I, too, had viewed him through this lens—his legacy largely untarnished by the events at Little Bighorn. But at the battlefield, I encountered a very different story—one that dismantled the image I had long carried. The reality of Custer’s actions revealed a far more complex and troubling legacy, prompting a reevaluation of the narratives surrounding his life and death.
It’s a common misconception—one I’ve encountered repeatedly—that the Crow stood alongside other Plains nations in opposition to Custer. But the truth, as history often reveals, is more nuanced. The Crow were not enemies of the U.S. Army that day; they served as scouts—its eyes and ears on a land they knew intimately. Their role at the Little Bighorn, long obscured by myth and oversimplification, underscores how Native alliances during the Indian Wars were rarely straightforward. The Crow rode with Custer not out of loyalty to the U.S. cause, but as a strategic choice against long-standing tribal enemies. In the years that followed, they paid a quiet price for that decision—alienation from other Native nations and a kind of erasure from the national narrative, which still tends to favor simpler stories. Standing on the battlefield today, it’s impossible not to feel the tension between these two histories: the one we’ve been taught and the one that lies beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered and understood.
This time, I’m going back with the aim of spending more time on the ground, walking the terrain, and trying to understand what really happened that day—beyond the myths. I’ll be working on a photo essay that brings together images of the battlefield and surrounding landscape with a more balanced account of the events and the people involved.
The Real Cold Mountain
Posted: April 29, 2025 | 06:14
After watching a recent HBO screening of the movie Cold Mountain, I decided on a whim to get up at some ridiculous hour and drive the 340 miles to the Appalachians. Cold Mountain is both a real peak in western North Carolina and the namesake of a 2003 war drama based on Charles Frazier’s bestselling novel. The film, a fictional love story set during the final years of the Civil War, was adapted for the screen and directed by Anthony Minghella. It starred Jude Law, Nicole Kidman, and Renée Zellweger.
The plot follows Inman, a wounded Confederate soldier, as he makes his way home from Raleigh to Cold Mountain and to Ada Monroe (Kidman), the woman he loves. Because the story is fictional, many people don’t realize the landscape behind the romance is real—Cold Mountain lies southwest of Asheville, a small city in the western reaches of the Appalachian Mountains. Once known as the Land of the Sky, Asheville grew into a booming cattle town during the war. Today, it’s a major tourist destination, drawing thousands of visitors who come to explore and drive through the mountain region.
Cold Mountain itself is part of the Shining Rock Wilderness in Pisgah National Forest. It’s the tallest peak in the area, standing at 6,030 feet. This land originally belonged to the Cherokee Nation, but beginning in 1796, white settlers with land grants from the state moved into the region, forcing the Cherokee onto reservations.
The mountain has changed very little since the Civil War. It still carries the feeling of stepping back in time. The region and its people—those who live in the rural, mountainous parts of southwest Asheville and across Appalachia and the Ozarks—are often lumped into the stereotype of the Hillbilly. The image usually evoked is of a backward, violent people: isolated, stubborn, resistant to outside influence. But that’s far from the truth.
The derogatory image of the Hillbilly, as shaped by popular culture, took hold through films like Deliverance, the 1972 drama directed by John Boorman and set in the backwoods of northern Georgia. The film’s use of “Dueling Banjos” helped reinforce the association between mountain folk and rural isolation. Although it ran for nine seasons from 1962 to 1971, the CBS television show The Beverly Hillbillies did just as much to cement stereotypes of mountain communities as backward and uneducated. Later, the History Channel’s 2012 miniseries Hatfields & McCoys, starring Bill Paxton and Kevin Costner, dramatized the violent feud between two mountain families on the West Virginia–Kentucky border in the post–Civil War years.
The region had been settled in the 18th century by immigrants, mostly from Ulster in Northern Ireland. These communities carried over the Irish-Scotch traditions of independence and self-reliance, forming a culture that grew largely apart from the mainstream. As the population spread through the mountains, a distinctive musical tradition also emerged. Influenced by bluegrass, gospel, and country-western, Appalachian folk music—or “Hillbilly Music”—relied on portable instruments like the fiddle, banjo, and guitar. The songs reflected worship, love, hardship, and loss, often telling family and neighborhood stories through lyrics and rhyme. Cold Mountain drew heavily from this tradition in its soundtrack, with contributions from Jack White, T Bone Burnett, and Gabriel Yared.
I thoroughly enjoyed the story told in Cold Mountain—it’s what inspired me to visit the area. Still, like many films based on history, it has its share of inaccuracies. I’m not interested in tearing the script apart—I liked the film—but I do want to point out a few things from a historical perspective, and add a few facts alongside the fiction. I’d start with the opening scene, which takes place on the morning of July 30, 1864, in the Confederate entrenchments outside Petersburg.
The scene portrays the Battle of the Crater. In a daring move, Union commanders relied on the 48th Pennsylvania Infantry Regiment—many of whose soldiers had been miners before the war—to dig a tunnel beneath the Confederate defenses and pack it with explosives. After weeks of preparation, Union engineers attached to the regiment detonated the mine at 4:44 AM. The explosion sent up a massive shower of earth, men, and weapons, killing approximately 360 and destroying the fortifications in the immediate area. The blast occurred in total darkness, as Union commanders hoped this would add to the confusion. In the movie version, however, the mine detonates in broad daylight. The famous crater—also dramatized in the film—is shown as much wider and deeper than the historical record. Period accounts measured the cavity at 170 feet (52 meters) long, 80 feet (24 meters) wide, and 30 feet (9 meters) deep. Though now reduced to a depression in the earth, the site is still visible today.
As Union troops charge into the crater in the film’s opening battle scenes, they carry 50-star American flags—an anachronism, as that version of the flag didn’t exist until Hawaii joined the Union on August 21, 1959. During the Civil War (1861–1865), four official U.S. flags were used, featuring 33, 34, 35, and 36 stars. At the war’s outbreak on April 12, 1861, the 33-star flag was in use, despite Kansas having just been admitted in January of that year; its star wouldn’t be officially added until July. Notably, the stars representing the Confederate states were never removed—Lincoln insisted those states remained in the Union, though in rebellion. The correct flag for the Battle of the Crater on July 30, 1864, would have been the 35-star flag, which included West Virginia, added on June 20, 1863, after it broke from Virginia. Nevada would later become the 36th state on October 31, 1864, producing the final wartime flag under Lincoln’s presidency.
At the start of the story, before the war even begins, Ada asks Inman if he has a tintype—a photograph. The term tintype didn’t come into use until 1864. Before the war, such images were known as ambrotypes or ferrotypes. The ambrotype, introduced in the 1850s, was the first use of the wet-plate collodion process to produce a positive image—essentially a photograph on a sheet of glass, lacquered and then mounted on a black background to bring out the image. By the 1860s, the ferrotype had largely replaced the ambrotype. It used the same process but produced an image on thin, black-lacquered iron, and was often difficult to distinguish from an ambrotype when placed under glass.
The term ferrotype was common in the early 1860s, and as the war progressed, so did their popularity. They were not only inexpensive but also relatively easy and quick to produce. Many soldiers had ferrotypes made and sent home. By 1864, the less formal term tintype had taken hold, likely reflecting the cheap, tinny feel of the material. While I could go on about period weapons, references to actual events, or even the geography of Inman’s journey back to Cold Mountain, I won’t in this short piece. I’ve decided not to quibble any further with a good tearjerker.
Shaconage
Posted: April 27, 2025 | 20:48
Tucked into North Carolina’s westernmost corner lie the legendary Great Smoky Mountains, a range that stretches along the Tennessee–North Carolina border in the southeastern United States. They’re a subrange of the Appalachians and part of the Blue Ridge region. Long before European settlers arrived in the late 1600s, the Cherokee people lived throughout these mountains—and their presence is still felt today. The Cherokee called this place ‘Shaconage’ (Sha-Kon-O-Hey), meaning ‘land of blue smoke’—a reference to the soft bluish mist-like haze that rises from the valleys after rainfall.
Loose Ends
Posted: April 25, 2025 | 19:05
Loose Ends is a space for the in-between—fragments of thought, bits of research, half-formed ideas, and observations that don’t quite fit into a photo essay but still feel worth keeping. It’s where I gather the leftovers: things that might lead somewhere, or maybe just sit here for now, holding their own quiet shape. Whether it’s photography, travel, history, or something else entirely, this is where I leave the thread hanging, just in case I want to pick it up again.
Some of these entries might be disjointed—just things I needed to put down before they slipped away. They may stay raw and unedited, or eventually grow into something more. Either way, this is where they land first. Sometimes it’s just an idea for a trip, a place I’d like to explore with a camera, or a thread I might follow later. Think of it as a kind of preview—if anything here starts to take shape, it may show up somewhere else down the line.