Black and White
I’ve been delving into taxes this week, and my mind is feeling addled and burnt out from crunching numbers. So, I’m taking a break this morning to post a few photos I took in January. These were shot with my film camera using BW400CN, a film stock recommended by my friend Clark. Clark has been developing his own black and white film at home lately, and he suggested this film stock as a cheap, easy alternative to true black and white photography. BW400CN is actually a color film that is developed using the ubiquitous (and cheap) color process, but it produces a quite effective black and white image. Here are the results:
Phil of the Bowerbirds sings at the Grey Eagle.
Yann backs him up.
James drinks.
The Bowerbirds are a new favorite band of mine, and they played a great show at the Grey Eagle on January 12th. James Michael and Anne went along with me, and they were both very impressed with Yann’s multitasking at the drums, keyboard, and backup vocals. I thoroughly enjoyed every aspect of the show.
Bowerbirds music can best be classified in the alt-country and freak folk genres. This latter genre title is new to me and doesn’t seem quite appropriate for the music itself (in fact, many of the artists labeled as freak folk resent the title), but it’s the most specific classification I’ve found yet for this brand of contemporary folk; so there you have it. Whatever you call it, this is music well worth checking out.
I also participated in a pair of cold-weather kayak races in January: The Iceman Championship on the Saluda River and the Chattooga Race. I left both events feeling I’d underperformed and fallen short of my potential, but this is a regular theme for me in competitions. I almost never feel like I’ve done as well as I ought.
Chris Gragtmans boofs onto the finish line at Sock'em Dog rapid, Chattooga River.
In the Chattooga Race I made a strategic error coming off the starting line and got swallowed in the pack of twenty boats that were all vying for position. In a head-to-head start it’s essential to get out front early so that you don’t waste energy fighting with the pack, but I got myself stuck in the thick of the racers, all of us paddling behind the two-foot wake that the leaders were raising across the narrow river bed.
I spent the rest of the race trying to gain ground, and I managed to work up to fifth position (still about a hundred yards behind the front group of three). I would have been somewhat happy with a fifth-place result, but at the final rapid of the race, Sock’em Dog, I pulled a weak boof stroke and back-endered into the hole. I was stuck in there long enough for three or four other paddlers to boof in atop me and pass right at the finish line. I was too exhausted to fight out of the hole and eventually left my boat, was recirculated three times, and finally caught a rope to be pulled out. No glory there, but still a thoroughly fun day on the river with friends.
The racers gathered together around a fire, relieved to be at the finish rock.
Here is the last picture of the set and my personal favorite. It was taken at my friend Bryan’s house on a night when he had several people over to enjoy a backyard bonfire and a pony keg of Pisgah Pale Ale. This is the best of mountain living in winter, though by now everyone around these parts is ready to bid winter farewell.
Well, I’ve been playing the avoidance game long enough–it’s time to turn back to my least favorite harbinger of Spring: taxes. Thanks for visiting, and please leave a comment if you’d like.
-Chris
14 Days in the Grand Canyon
Last August, when Adam Goshorn offered me a spot on his winter Grand Canyon trip, I thought at the time there was no way I could swing it. The base cost of permits and travel combined with the extensive gear I would have to acquire loomed large. But the idea lodged in my mind, and after it worked on my imagination for a few days I laid down the $100 permit deposit to hold my spot.
Flash forward four months, and I’m standing on the beach at Lee’s Ferry with the six other members of my group preparing to launch onto the Colorado River. In the weeks prior to our December 5th launch date I had managed (with extensive help from my local outdoors shop, Diamond Brand) to put together the equipment necessary to make this journey–a three-season tent, 15-degree sleeping bag with fleece liner, gloves, wool socks, drysuit and insulating layers, etc., etc. With these items packed away in my drybag I was feeling pretty confident for the journey ahead, but the ranger giving us our orientation that morning seemed to have other ideas. She went to great lengths to impress upon us the seriousness of the expedition we were embarking on, warning us about the various critters that would try to steal our food and share our sleeping bags at night all the while making foreboding references to a heavy winter storm coming our way. In reference to the whitewater we would encounter downriver she said simply, “You’re going to be surprised.”
Our group of six about to put on the river.
Once we slipped our four kayaks and two rafts into the cool, green waters of the Colorado, we quickly forgot the ranger’s gloom. Our group of seven had pulled together around the gravity of Adam’s organization: there were his four college buddies from the Radford University Outdoors program (Chris “Odie” Odell, Brandon “Beadle” Dale, Herb Crimp, and Dave Goodman), there was his co-worker (and the only woman on the trip) Kim, and then there was me, a friend made through several days spent together on rivers around the Southeast. If there was any common characteristic that bound our party together during those first days we were getting to know each other, it was that we shared a vibrant sense of humor–a cardinal virtue when you have to spend fourteen days in the wilderness together.
The air was comfortably cool and the skies clear and sunny as we floated down the river that first afternoon. The canyon walls began to rise around us, and a still quite replaced the bustle and conversation that had dominated our morning preparations. We drifted beneath the Navajo Bridge (the last sign of civilization for many, many miles), and the tiny silhouettes of people high above looked down and waved at us. We whistled and waved back and forth to them.
Beadle and Odie take in the early Canyon beauty.
Adam Goshorn rounds a river bend. Day 2 on the river.
This river journey was unlike any boating I had ever done, and I had a lot to learn. I learned how to efficiently pack my personal drybag. I learned not to pitch my tent beneath the tamarisk trees. (While setting up, the prickly needles dropped down my pants and stuck to my longjohns). I learned not to thaw the congealed olive oil in the pot of hot water intended for drinks.
Day by day our team of seven tightened up our routine and the distribution of labor. Due to scheduling conflicts, we had allotted only fourteen days to complete the Canyon (normal winter trips take nearly twice that long). This meant that we had to average twenty river miles each day, which was a heavy load for the rafts. Our three dedicated oarsmen (Kim, Herb, and Dave) all had minimal rafting experience and were learning the slow-moving, eighteen-foot oar-rigs for the first time. I found the rafts to be an exciting challenge and took many opportunities to share in the oar work. Lining up for a class 4 rapid is pure fun in a kayak, but in a huge inflatable weighing over a thousand pounds it becomes a daunting challenge.
To my surprise, one of the greatest challenges in the raft proved to be the flat water. The river would often meander through mild stretches of long oxbows and pools. In certain pools, nearly all the current dove below the surface, creating a river-wide eddy current that the oarsman would have to fight to cross. In swifter water, the main concern was being swept into a recirculating eddy where the swirling current would trap the raft behind eddy fences and keep it spinning in circles, unable to re-enter the main flow.
Looking down on Nautiloid Camp: our home for night 2.
Our raft dwarfed by the Canyon walls in one of the calmer stretches of river.
On our third day out, the character of the river bed was particularly fickle and the effort of downriver progress exhausting. We stopped at Lower Nankoweep Camp in the early afternoon, and as we unloaded the rafts a light rain began to fall. The winter storm had finally caught up with us, and it rained off and on throughout the afternoon as we hiked up the canyon walls to visit the ancient Indian granaries. By nightfall the rain was falling steadily and gave no indication of letting up.
The storm blows in over Nankoweep.
Kim and Adam had managed to pitch their tents before things got really wet, but the remaining five guys all elected to huddle up under the kitchen tarp for the night. I attempted to set up my tent fly and poles under the tarp, poking several people in the face before all was said and done. A cold, windy front blew through camp as the darkness became complete, and the tarp overhead soaked through until it sagged and dripped all over. A few sleepless hours into the night, a major gust lifted the edges of our tarp and brought pots and pans cascading down atop the heads of the guys trying to sleep beneath the kitchen tables. A chorus of colorful language followed.
Shortly before midnight, the falling rain and sudden drop in temperature conspired to set off a series of rock slides on the canyon walls around us. It was an eerie, thunderous sound–each long rumble was followed by expressions of awe from beneath our tarp. Balled up in my sleeping bag and trying to stay dry, I thought to myself that if there was anything that could redeem this miserable night, that sound was surely it.
Calm and very cold: the morning after the storm snow blankets the canyon rim.
The next day dawned clear and very chilly. The night at Nankoweep would be the worst weather we encountered on the trip, but it set off a stretch of persistently cold, wet days that were trying for our group. There was a tradeoff of this miserable weather, however: the wintry conditions produced some of the most beautiful scenes we would witness during our time in the Canyon:
Herb and Dave row below the snowy rim.
Passing through the narrowest point on the Canyon. Some of the rock here is Vishnu Schist, a tremendously hard, black stone that has been carved into elegant, curved formations over eons of time (also the oldest layer of rock in the canyon).
Afternoon light.
It took me a long time to get used to the size of our group in the Canyon. Many nights, while sitting around the campfire, I would look up and wonder who was missing, only to count and rediscover that we were just seven, and all present. For me, this new sense of scale was the most impressive part of the experience. Being way down in the Canyon truly puts a person “in his place.” We’re forced to recognize how small and insignificant we are in the context of creation. This is a humbling thought, especially in light of the out-of-scale impact that we humans frequently have on the natural world (for example, the two enormous dams that bookend the Grand Canyon).
The Canyon is an embarrassment of riches in natural beauty, and for the avid photographer it can be a challenge to simply pull back from the lens and be present. As our journey progressed, I found I had to remind myself to spend time apart from my cameras in order to take it all in. Here’s more evidence that I was not entirely successful in this effort:
Adam at work on a cold, cold day.
Kim, still smiling despite the rain.
The blue waters of Havasu Canyon, a tributary to the Colorado.
The group enjoys an afternoon snack at Below Redslide Camp--first sunny day we've seen in a while!
The author looking a bit weather-beaten after nine days on the river. (Photo by Dave Goodman)
Looking upriver from Below Redslide.
Campfire and stars that night.
In addition to the wonderful scenery, the Grand Canyon offers a lot of high quality whitewater. Our whole journey down the Colorado I lived in dread of a raft flip, and as luck would have it, I was the only person to come close to actually tipping a raft over. We were fortunate, though: Our three oarsmen/woman navigated every challenge with grace. The whitewater of the Grand Canyon can be pretty well summed up thus: big waves, big holes, big fun.
Kim looking small in the approach to Lava Falls.
No whamy, no whamy. Whamy! Deep breath.
Herb & Dave roll through the meat of Lava Falls. (photo by Adam Goshorn)
We made our mileage quotas, and by day eleven we were able to take a layover at Whitmore Wash Camp. We slept in, hiked to a nearby pictograph panel and continued up the adjacent lava flow to the rim, and in the evening we ate as much of our remaining food stores as we could stomach. At Whitmore we savored all the best aspects of the Grand Canyon in winter: no crowds, no motorized traffic (helicopter or boat), driftwood campfires, and minimal threat of embarrassing exposure while grooving by the riverside.
After nearly two weeks on the river, I’d finally grown used to the small size of our group and the remoteness we felt each day in the Canyon. As our journey neared its end I began to feel some reluctance about re-entering the “real world.” You might understand the quotation marks here, for in many respects a wilderness trip like this is much more of a substantial experience than the day-to-day grind that forms our customary routine. That’s why we hunger for wild places. The natural world is good therapy for the culture-addled mind and heart. Take away culture, take away cell phones and television and the Internet (and yes, even cameras sometimes), and you begin to pay attention on a different level. You watch the play of light across the carved landscape, you smell the dry sage aroma of the desert in the morning, and at night you hear the river and are exquisitely aware of the absence of any other sound.
Light and shadow: the difference between T-shirt weather and shiver weather. The Canyon is a place of stark contrasts.
Barrel Cactus way up high in a landscape meant for hardy creatures.
View from the rim above Whitmore Wash.
Two days after our layover at Whitmore Camp we rose before dawn and floated one final mile downriver to our takeout at Diamond Creek. Drifting out of the Canyon in the pre-dawn stillness felt like a fitting way to conclude our trip.
This journey down the Canyon took me by surprise in so many ways. It was one of the greatest adventures of my life. I’m grateful to the folks at Diamond Brand who supported me in this journey, and I thank you readers for participating in the story this far. In closing, I’ll leave you with two final images from the Canyon. Here’s to adventure and to sharing it with good friends:
Film Photography
Here are a couple of photos that I shot this past November while paddling the Green River with my friend Spencer:
Unknown boater entering Bride of Frankenstein rapid.
Spencer boofing into Bride at the start of the run.
Spencer, Sunshine Falls.
This was my return to shooting film (Kodak 100NC in this case) after a few years hiatus in the digital realm, and I found it very refreshing. To me, shooting film has all the warmth and nostalgia of listening to an LP. There’s also more interplay with the medium in film photography. Shooting with a digital SLR produces immediate, controlled results whereas the film process requires more patience and often produces surprises in the results. It’s a hell of a lot more expensive to work with film, but in the weeks following this first photographic venture I would go on to shoot my first rolls of slide film and 120mm print film (in a Holga camera: Holga on Wikipedia). In my opinion, the expense proved well worth the results. Yes, there’s much more to come.