PHOTO OF THE DAY 12/10

Petrikov, Czech Republic

I couldn't understand a thing.

Everyone at the table was speaking a language foreign to me. Everyone at the table knew I was foreign to them. I tried to make out their words—and sometimes I did, but after awhile it all just became a mumbled blur, and I would find myself looking up at what looked like about a thousand little shot-sized bottles of alcohol lined up on the wooden shelves along the pub's backwall. Occasionally my girlfriend would pause in her conversation and try to explain what they were talking about, to which I would give her an understanding nod, a half-hearted smile to go along with it, and sip my beer. And before too long, I would be sitting there in my own separate world again, alienated and alone, still sipping my beer and staring at the little bottles on the wall.

When I got up to use the restroom, or as they call the WC, nobody at the table paid much interest. I was after all, only going to take a leak. And it wasn't like I was anticipating anything more than that either. Perhaps the pub's restroom would be dirty or have a wet floor—most of them did, it seemed. Or maybe it would smell bad. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.

But rather than reading Czech graffiti or simply staring at a tile-wall while I stood at the urinal, I found myself instead staring out of a window at a most peculiar scene—one I would not have thought up on my own.

Nobody at the table so much as blinked when I returned from the restroom, yet when I grabbed my camera and went back in for another visit, eyes suddenly began to dart in my direction. Eyebrows began to raise. Whispers amongst the table.

There would be questions when I returned—not that it mattered.

I was on my own, and had found my quest.

What Fools These Mortals Be

—August 8th, 2005

The legend, as it was told to me, goes something like this: Long ago, when the Earth’s plates began to shift and the Madison mountain range first started to erupt from out of Montana soil, Lady Hilgard fell in love with and married the Dutchman. Their love blossomed, and for thousands of years the two of them were happy, growing up alongside each other, becoming ever more rugged and beautiful as time passed. Yet as all things must sometime end, so did the Dutchmen’s growth—his final height falling just short of 11,000 feet above sea level. But Mother Nature had not yet finished with his lovely wife, and the Earth’s plates continued to push her upward. The Lady Hilgard rose higher and higher until she had surpassed her husband and reached an impressive pinnacle of 11,316 feet. Even more beauteous than before, the surrounding land began to look up admiringly to Lady Hilgard—and could not help but love her. Her husband, on the other hand, having lost his impressive stature—his majestic nature shamed, was unable to live beneath the shadow of his wife, and ended the marriage. Her heart broken, the Lady Hilgard wept a woeful song—a tearful melody that sailed over the Dutchman, rushed down waterfalls, bounced off canyon walls, and could be heard all the way on top of the following mountain—another impressive rock standing at 11,211 feet, which as a result, came to be known as Echo Peak.

...or maybe I’m just making all this up.

However it happened, Echo, Dutchman, and Hilgard are all lined up consecutively along a rocky ridge in the southern portion of the Madison range. And for Gunnar and I, who for seven consecutive weeks had hiked to the top of a peak exceeding 10,000 feet, the idea of conquering all three of these was incredible. It would be our greatest hour—an awesome feat that would bring our peak count to ten.

There would be three of us this week. Gunnar and I of course, and Daniel, a Polish guy working with us at the Ranch, who’d been with us on two of our other outdoor excursions. We knew Mother Nature would have to be on our side if our Monday goal was to be accomplished, but as luck would have it, it was raining when we left the Ranch on Sunday evening, and the skies didn’t appear that they would be improving any time soon. We drove through the rain and an hour later, at 6pm, we started hiking up the Beaver Creek trail under overcast, but dry skies, at an elevation of just under 7,000 feet. The three of us made good time, reaching our destination, Blue Danube Lake just after 8pm, with plenty of light still to set up camp.

After eating salami, pepper-jack and cream cheese sandwiches and a little Top-Ramen, we hung up the food, beyond the reach of possible bears, and laid down on a grassy meadow and watched shooting stars. The sky had become crystal clear and I wondered where Mars was. The red planet was supposed to becoming more and more visible lately—as big as the moon they said.

The three of us crashed that night with heightened hopes—the warm air and clear skies giving us the faulty illusion that the storm was over. We found out otherwise at 4am, waking up to howling winds which tested the tent stakes I had pushed into the ground hours before. Lightning flashes in the distance and thunder echoing through the mountain basin where we slept. I listened to the rain pattering the tent for several minutes before finally fading off again.We got a late start, finding a pause in the rain, but with the skies overcast and still threatening. After breakfast, filtering water, and fighting off whole battalions of malevolent mosquitoes, my two comrades and I set off again, going “off trail” for the first time this expedition, up towards the top of the ridge which would take us to first Hilgard, then Dutchman, and finally Echo.

The going was a lot tougher than anticipated. Boulder fields tested our balance while wearing full packs, and every rock that looked solid, wasn’t about 25 percent of the time. But we topped over the ridge sometime before noon, reaching an elevation of 9,900 feet (according to Gunnar’s GPS), and were rewarded with a stunning view looking down into the valley where Papoose Creek flows into the Cradle Lakes.

Gunnar and I had thought the going would be a lot easier once we had achieved “the ridge.” But the line on the map looked a hell of a lot simpler than it did up there. Those little topographical lines that indicate a drop or increase in 100 feet of elevation are just so easy to overlook. Once again, the going was a lot more difficult than anticipated, especially wearing the full packs. We had intended to hike nine miles that day, completing all three peaks, and setting up camp in Hilgard Basin—just east of Expedition Pass, but by 1:00 we knew there was no way.
Still, the ridge-walk was incredible. To the west, five alpine lakes lay below us—one of them with little white specs I wasn’t sure were sheep or rocks. To the east, from which we had come, lay five more lakes, one of them Avalanche. We topped two unnamed peaks on the way to Hilgard—if for nothing else, to summit something. The first was 10,300 feet, which we named Avalanche. The second was 10,450 feet and had a tall cairn of stacked rocks that had looked like a person while we were standing atop Avalanche.

We named it Lioness, on account of Gunnar’s dream the previous night involving a female mountain lion that spoke to him from a porch deck of a modernized and suburbanized Madison wilderness. Lioness offered an amazing view that was worth the trip whether we made it any further or not. The view was also beneficial because it gave us our first glimpse of Hilgard, standing with her majestic beauty beyond what seemed like an impenetrable rock wall of ups and downs.

A light rain came soon after our descent from Lioness. Behind us the sky was scattered with blue and white, but everywhere else...black and gray. From the east came lightning flashes with their thunderous counterparts, putting us on edge, making us wonder what we would do if they got closer. The tree line was just below us, yet not always obtainable while hiking and climbing up and down and along rock ledges.

At this point, Dutchman and Echo were gone—lost causes, only to be obtained on another day...but we still wanted Hilgard. We would settle for Hilgard and then drop down into the basin where Avalanche Lake lay and camp there for the night.

And then came the rain again, pelting us hard and cold...on the brink of sleet. We picked up our pace, still moving forward. Not only to achieve Hilgard, but also because at this point there was really no sheltered place to go. The rocks were becoming quite slick and all three of us were glad when we came upon a long section of the ridge covered mostly in grass. There were also some stunted trees which we took shelter behind on the eastern side for a few minutes while waiting to see if the weather would improve or worsen. We could have possibly gone down into the basin then, but without being able to see all the way down, we weren’t sure if it would be safe to descend. We decided to continue.

A little ways further the ridge forked off to the east and we topped over the eastern fork. It gave us yet another awesome view, looking down on Lake Eglise and up towards the route we would take up to Hilgard. It was around 3pm. The Hilgard summit was perhaps two hours away, if we ditched our packs, which wasn’t an option. While the bears may not be up this high, there are still plenty of other critters that would chew through nylon in order to snack on some granola bars. There was either the possibility of descending down towards Lake Eglise and setting up camp, then going after Hilgard, or going after her wearing full packs and hoping to make it back down to Avalanche before dark. Either way, it would be cutting it close. If the weather hadn’t been an issue, it wouldn’t have even been a question. We’d have gone for it. Gunnar and I wanted Hilgard...bad. Yet it was one of those crazy moments where it’s blue above you and the sun shining, but it’s also still drizzling on you at the same time. And everywhere else was dark. Patches of heavy rainfall seemed to be working their way closer to us every minute that passed. We had to make a decision, and soon.

It was then that Daniel, in his broken English, pointed and asked: “Scott, this is eagle?” I whirled around to see that yes, not only was there a bald eagle, but this enormous and beautiful bird was flying directly towards us, probably only 30 feet away and 15 feet higher than where we stood—10,000+ above sea level. The eagle rose higher and higher, circling us for close to a minute before flying off and becoming a dot in the distance.

I should have taken it for a good omen, for moments like these are a rarity and should be cherished. But instead, we threw in the towel—officially putting an end to our hopes of reaching Hilgard’s summit. Our mission: a failure. Time of death: 3:05pm. I turned back and blew Lady Hilgard a kiss, letting her know that our courtship had not ended. I would be back to see her soon.

It was hard to turn away from her, but it was also very rewarding to explore yet another amazingly beautiful part of the greatest state I have ever known—a place I hope to someday call my permanent home. We passed two of the lakes we had seen from Mount Lioness before coming upon Avalanche Lake—a crystal body of mirrored green surrounded on two sides by ridged rocky peaks—and another wonder that has yet to be tarnished by the likes of us.

PHOTO OF THE DAY - 12/09/2008

"After the Kiss" – Brno, Czech Republic

I remember seeing the couple standing there, waiting for their tram to arrive.

The streets were wet with melting ice and snow–the city's natural cleansing–but the cleansing wetness hadn't been able to disguise the fact that this was still a city. It had overlooked the grime beneath Brno's fingernails–the abundance of wet cigarette butts scattered around the tram-stop, flicked uncaringly to the pavement alongside abandoned soda-bottles, old wads of chewing-gum and saturated scraps of paper–some failed advertisement that probably never even got read. And it hadn't been able to mask the city's bodily odors–the burnt smell of tram brakes and distant factory smoke were still heavy in the air, along with the stench of rotting tobacco.

I don't remember what color her hair was, or what her face looked like–or his for that matter. And I don't remember what their expressions were when they looked into each other's eyes...though I think I can imagine them.

And I don't know what time it was when he leaned forward to kiss her. I just know it was sometime late in the afternoon when the colors seem to be at their peak and such details become lost inside silouhettes...and that I snapped the photo about a half a second too late.

It's still one of my favorites...

PHOTO OF THE DAY - 12/08/2008

Brno, Czech Republic

In December of 2003, I went to the Czech Republic for six months, where I lived in the city of Brno and found a couple jobs teaching English as a second language. Not only was this my first European experience–having grown up in Florida, it was also my first "real" winter. It may not have snowed as often as I would have liked, but every so often I'd walk through town on my way to work and find the streets covered in light snow.

The streets never stayed white. The snow always melted fast, and what little there was quickly became a slushy, sloppy mess and got muddied up with footprints and tire tracks. Walking to work became a challenge. There was ice to worry about, and the sidewalks weren't the flat sections of pavement I was used to, but cobblestone walkways built by hand, hundreds of years ago–brick by brick–and therefore, far from perfect. There were bricks missing or broken, and rounded depressions everywhere that formed puddles.

I was lucky if I made it to work with dry shoes.

But it was during these walks to work and my explorations of the city that I began to really look at the puddles–began to really stare into the puddles. I saw centuries-old architecture from new angles, trees growing down instead of up...and of course, people.

I would see them coming down the cobblestone sidewalk, and point my camera not at them, but into the water. Often times, they walked right on past without a glance at me, but occasionaly they looked at me odd, and would glance down to see where my camera was aimed. And by then it was too late.

Click.