This past Wednesday, I spent a few hours visiting Julian, California with my buddy Will. On the way back, we stopped at a roadside turnoff I'd passed countless times before, but never really thought to explore. This place, called Inaja Memorial Park, consists of a small parking lot leading up to a short looped trail which offers a stunning view of the Santa Ysabel valley. Located at near the headwaters of the San Diego River, this site serves as a memorial to eleven men who lost their lives while fighting a 1956 forest fire [1]. Though we only stayed for a few minutes as we hiked the short trail, I had a chance to snap a few photos and shoot some b-roll.

Something about the empty (yet slightly hazy) sky led me to capture the negative space of the moment. Photographs like these, though simple and barely exciting, instill a sense of serenity and paradoxical focus. While lacking a true "subject," landscapes favoring negative space often speak volumes to the viewer. There's something inherently simple about a photo in which the vast majority of the frame is filled with either a solid color, or a slight natural gradient. It's modern, yet classic. And at the intersection of these two elements, one can find peace.

During the school year, my ability to go out and take photographs on a whim greatly diminishes. Coupled with the fact that my main camera was out being repaired (but is finally back!), I just didn't take that many photos in January/February. This shot, however, is one of the last frames in a roll of film that took much longer to process than I ever intended. I can't remember exactly when I shot most of these pictures. I vaguely recall the crazy events of that day, and I recall having my camera that night at Extraordinary Desserts, but this image was a pleasant surprise when I finally got around to scanning it in.

You see, this roll stayed in its canister for roughly two weeks before I finally got around to developing it. Then it spent another two weeks or so hanging in my room to dry, a process which actually only took an hour or so to complete before it morphed into being a mere symbol of my laziness. Yet here it is, a photograph from that elusive roll of film. With my main camera back, I can't wait to see what photos dwell in my near future.

Here's a shot from one of the last batches of photos I took with my Pentax K-5, which is currently sitting in a warehouse in Arizona awaiting repair.

If it's not already apparent, I've started to take a new approach to my photography as of late. Though I repurchased supplies in the fall to develop black and white film after a two-year hiatus to digital, only recently have I begun to take advantage of what the medium has to offer. The photograph above was shot en route to Julian, California on a Pentax K1000 with a custom-modded Minolta lens. Those figures in the foreground are cows, by the way.

Photographed using cheap Chinese-made black and white film, this image is more the result of random events than it is any organized planning. The combination of a guerilla art installation in a eucalyptus grove that I stumbled upon, and the breaking of a roll of film while trying to load it into the developing tank, resulted in this visual cacophony of shadow, light and oddity.

Maybe it's the chaos. With random bursts of light illuminating San Diego's Christmas on the Prado in historic Balboa Park, well over a hundred thousand people crowded into tight corridors to experience a single snippet of time. Walking around was a chore, and it became nearly impossible to find a place to stop and rest as the night went on. With vendors flanking the walkways, and long lines forming to enter the many museums, all I could think of was photographing the people around me. So many faces, yet so little time.

Some faces were familiar. The street vendor here, a cheerful man with a kind face, was a pleasant surprise. Only a couple of months prior, I had purchased a journal made out of homemade Nepalese paper from him at a swap-meet-style event at my school. Glad to see him and his wares once again, I made sure to stock up on goods made out of this beautiful paper, never sure when I might stumble upon him once more.

For the most part, everyone at this hectic event seemed to be in a similar state of slightly overwhelmed confusion, though most individuals tried to persevere. In such a maze of constant motion, it can be near impossible to stop and smell the roses. To make matters worse, the only roses to be found were wooden ones, sold in bundles at a popular corner stall. Though they looked beautiful and almost real, that last element of life and authenticity was missing. I worked hard to restrain myself from purchasing a bundle of these wooden roses, and I ultimately left the park with a surprisingly minimal amount of unnecessary purchases.

While a crowd might provide for an abundance of photo opportunities, raw human interaction can often be lost in the process. Just over a year ago, the only thing I wanted to do was move to a big city. The dream and allure of a city that never sleeps, and of the crowded existence of urban life, seemed to be such a beautiful and poetic fantasy. But I've since learned of the beauty of solitude and space, and while that wont stop me from going out in the crowd, there's a good chance I'll always return to a more natural state of human life when all is said and done.

One of the greatest things I've discovered in recent years is the invaluable art of pursuing your goals. We all love to put things off until the next day. Or wait for the next chance to arise. Or, better yet, just tell ourselves that now "isn't the right time." But if an opportunity comes up, the best thing you can do is take advantage of it until you've exhausted all your energy. If you're running to the store, grab a camera just in case. If you see an ominous bush in the corner of your eye while closing your eyes on a camping trip, put off sleeping for another ten minutes or so and grab your camera. Better yet, if you don't even own a camera but have longed to take photographs, why not succumb to the next sale you find?

Success takes a whole lot of patience, and a whole lot of luck. It's not often that you manage to capture a meter ripping a hole in the sky while perched on a hill overlooking a shrinking reservoir. But if you didn't have your camera out in the first place, even that slight possibility is erased. As difficult as it might sound, always be ready for the unexpected, and take every chance you can grab ahold of. In the end, it will have been worth it.

What makes Hume Lake so special isn't the scenery. The Sequoia National Park and Forest is full of wonderful scenes of nature in all its glory. Between giant trees and trickling streams set against the bluest sky you've ever seen, the natural beauty of it all is enough to bring you to tears. But Hume Lake has something more. While the nature is stunning and pristine, much of this place is perplexingly unnatural. The shallow lake itself is man-made, created as a logging pond for one of the many short-lived logging operations in this area. A dam holds up one end of the lake, dotted with remnants of an industrial past. The other end of the lake features a stunning complex of buildings that seem to blend in perfectly with the surrounding colors of brown and green. If anything, this dichotomy between the natural world and the man's own ambitions is what sets this place apart as a wonder to behold, and a haven for self-awakening.

One of the main attractions of this place is the large Christian camp complex, illuminated at night in the photograph above. From the stories I've heard, it's a place where great change happens in the lives of thousands of individuals every year, and is something that I'd very much like to experience one day. Additionally, a state-owned campground flanks one side of the lake, and the water itself offers plenty of recreation opportunities. Tenmile Creek, which flows into and out of Hume Lake, also offers plenty of chances for adventure along its increasingly enthralling banks. And the surrounding roads and trails make one's travel options limitless.

My only regret is the fact that I only had a couple of days to explore and capture this great area. With any luck, I'll be back up there sometime soon to attempt to capture this place in photographs once more. Until then, I can only try to bring a sliver of this peace and serenity back to my own environment.

My new Amazon Kindle 3 came today. Having never really used one before, I wasn't sure what to expect. Having no idea when the delivery man would come, I waited the better part of the day for a mere knock at my door. And when it finally arrived, it was every bit as beautiful as I had hoped.

One quirk with the Kindle is the e-ink display. Using no power to actually display an image (only to change it), the minds over at Amazon thought up a fun way to jazz up standby mode. Instead of showing a blank screen, a random image from the literary world is shown. As I put the device to sleep moments ago with every intention of falling asleep myself, an image of John Steinbeck appeared on the screen. Having read his works in the past, but never putting a face to the name, it was somewhat of a pleasant surprise. And in many ways, this element of uncertainty in that quick flash of the e-ink proved to be for the better.

As a photographer, uncertainty is a part of my everyday life, at least when a camera is involved. Whenever I'm shooting an event, posing a model, or simply hanging out in the waves waiting for a good swell, I'm never sure what my camera will capture. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's mediocre. The lighting can change at a moment's notice. The settings on my camera might happen to be wrong. There could be a giant smudge on my image sensor, and I'd never know it until reviewing my images. All of these factors make photography more difficult. Yet at the same time, they make it all the more interesting as well.

As beautiful as all this might sound, that joy for uncertainty doesn't translate over well into most other circumstances. When your life is as unorganized as mine is at this point in time, you tend to cherish and cling on to every little ounce of certainty you can muster up. Hearing a solid answer, be it "yes" or "no," is a thousand times more pleasing to the ear than the dreaded word "maybe." Why is it, then, that the word "maybe" has continued to haunt me over the past few months? Plans for a trip of Kerouac proportions fell through with a thud. The pleasant equilibrium I reached in my workflow was blown to pieces by last-minute hardware changes. Even my allergies can't decide for certain whether or not they'll plot to kill me on any given day.

Despite all this, there are still a few (relative) constants that I know I can hold on to in my daily life. Be they talents, beliefs or relationships, these constants have proven time and time again to be the anchors that get me through till morning. That is, unless they impede with the very act of sleeping itself, as the constant pile of laundry on my bed so sourly beckons me to fold it.