Clouds, Rain and Fog

I pinned my face against the cold window as the plane broke through the clouds over Mt. Hood on its initial decent into the Portland area.

The loudspeaker blasted, "Current weather; 42 degrees, overcast with an 85% chance of showers today."

Eagerly searching for familiar sights, I quickly spotted the radio towers pushing through a sea of heather gray. As our plane followed the Columbia River towards PDX, occasional holes in the clouds exposed suburban blocks nestled in ceder trees. Water droplets coated my window. A few seconds later, the clouds disappeared, exposing the familiar sights I had searched in vain for a few moments early.

Jerry Seinfeld once said on a visit to Portland, "The Pacific Northwest has two seasons: a rainy winter, and that one day in August." Although the truth is not quite as extreme as Jerry's quip, I learned to love the two-season climate growing up in and around the Portland area.

Unhampered by the clouds, rain and fog, I enjoyed the beautiful outdoors on my recent trip home. Like any obstacle barring from a fun activity, the constant rain only made the end result that much more rewarding. Here are photos from my 12 days back home.

Muddy.

The Columbia River Gorge.

Bonfire.

Whiteness.

Buffalo Steaks from Yakima.

Twilight.

The affirmation of the outside chance that I will one day, grow a beard.

I don't need an umbrella.

Here are some more links,
Clouds, Rain and Fog (Picasa).

On the Road

The story reverted to the beginning of chapter 8. Fumbling for the case in the center console, I grabbed CD five, ejected CD four and continued the audio book. Unsympathetic to my interest in Moby Dick, the lights of a late 80's pickup flashed twice in the rearview mirror before unleashing its liberally muffled v8. In a cloud of blue smoke and the glimmer of a Bush/Quayle 92 bumper sticker, the truck passed on a double yellow.

"Bush/Quayle? Who the fuck was Quayle?" I chuckled, referring the question to my dad with a grin.

"Bush Senior's vice president..." he sardonically replied.

"Oh no, you don't say...I mean who was he?"

"He was an incompetent Senator from Indiana; a "Family Values" advocate."

"Only in Yakima, Washington would one of those be kicking around," I said, motioning to the truck as it passed around the corner.

Spending the majority of my time in Manhattan makes exploring country roads to the sound of audio books all the more appealing. Starting on the 23rd of December and ending the 2nd of January, I explored the roads of Pacific Northwest with my friends and family. I hiked, snowboarded, shot guns and took photos along the way.

My mom's Irish terrier, Lucy.

Behind the market, Seattle.

Looking East, Bingen, Washington.

Blasting away in Prindle Washington.

Red gate near Mt Saint Helens.

Straight from Alaska.

Hours before catching my red-eye back to New York, I walked down an abandoned road in the Columbia River Gorge. Lucy, my mom's spunky Irish terrier, ran ahead, chasing a quail. Despite the beauty and serenity of my surroundings, I looked forward to the bustle and energy of New York. Nine hours later, I landed in Newark. It's a crazy world we live in.

Here are some more links,
On The Road (Picasa),
Side of the Road (ART).

Two and a Half Hours

The train headed north from 125 street. On the two hour ride, I listened to Mr. Dylan and responded to emails in typical Saturday morning fashion. By noon, the train made its last stop in northern Connecticut, and half an hour later, I was walking down the snow dusted driveway of the Wijnberg's house in Ashley Falls, MA.

Worlds away from my Manhattan apartment, I set down my pack in the mudroom of the 200 year old house and set off on a walk with Nick, Jacob and their eight month old puppy.

The cold New England air and rolling farmland took me back to my time in Maine, clearing my mind of the distractions amassed spending 12 hours a day in an office building in Midtown. As we trolled down the country road, the occasional farm dog barked and ran to the edge of the fence. Every so often a pickup truck gave us a wide birth, slowing and echoing a friendly honk.

Making it back to the house at twilight, Lorenzo (the Wijnberg's eight month old Italian Spinone) fell to the floor in a deep sleep, resting on his crossed paws. After starting a fire and stocking it with enough wood to last a few hours, I followed suit, measuring my length on a couch.

Late afternoon's light.

Wood smoke.

The woods.

104 years old.

Early morning light.

A dusting.

The next morning, I woke early, cherishing the country quite and cold before heading back to the city. Like sitting in a hot tub and then jumping in the snow, the contrasts invigorate, making each extreme more pronounced and apparent.

Here are some more links,

Two and a Half Hours (Picasa),

Foster Huntington (Twitter).

Prints

Prints go in frames. They go in albums and hang against the wall. Despite representing the same image as a digital file, they tell a much more tactile and approachable story. As a student of the digital photography and blog era, I mostly experience images through the screen of my iMac. This makes prints all the more impactful.

Recently, I ordered a handful of prints to give to friends and family for the holidays as gifts. Seeing and touching these prints and the happy results from their recipients made me realize that some of my readers maybe interested in ordering prints of my photos.

Here are a few images that I had printed on 8x10 recently shot on a turn of the century butcher block.

I love this Willys. It's now on my wall.

Prints are availible in in 8x10 ($40) and 11x14 ($80). If you are interested, take a look at my online albums, (Picasa), send me an email (foster.huntington@gmail.com) with the images you are interested in and sizes and I will get back to you with information about payment and shipment.

Here are some more links,

Foster Huntington (Picasa),

Prints (Picasa).