Distorted Realities?

These are not distorted realities.

They’re not illusions.

These are photographs of exactly what I saw.




This is Marymoor Park in Redmond, Washington.

More specifically, the fringes of the park’s off-leash dog area. With forty acres of fields and woods to run in and the Sammamish Slough to swim in, the off leash area is where “dogs can be dogs.”  At 6pm on a September evening most of the dogs and their friends are heading home. The sun slips behind a cloud bank, then inches back to set the scenery aglow. Matted animal and human paths wind through stands of tall grass.  A few blackberry leaves have turned rose red, the berries themselves are shriveled from the drought.  A land snail holds tight, five feet up a dried tansy stalk.

Past the field and through the woods a boardwalk bends out over the tip of Lake Sammamish. Here, lily pads yellow and curl on the water’s surface and rushes and cattails pierce the cool air, as a Kingfisher rattles a complaint overhead. The little bright orange lanterns of Jewelweed shine at the edge of the woods. Like I do every year, I gently grasp and squeeze a ripe pod – after all, the plant’s other name is Touch-me-not. The lime green package springs apart in a quick and efficient burst of seed-scattering. This human being smiles.

We are hovering at the edge of fall, each in our own reality, each connected to the other, and to all.




































“The camera is a mirror with a memory, but it cannot think.” – Arnold Newman

…and I might add, it doesn’t feel.




A Lensbaby Composer was used for many of these images, a 60mm macro for the rest,  on an Olympus om d1.



In last week’s post I wrote about the old ship La Merced, now used as an unconventional  breakwater for a shipyard on Fidalgo Island. We went to Fidalgo that day because I read about a fine park with expansive water views and easy trails. It sounded perfect for a day trip. We’d been to Fidalgo and Anacortes before but we hadn’t seen the northwest corner of the island.

To thoroughly explore Puget Sound’s islands you should travel by water, but a lot can be seen by bridge and ferry, too.  The region’s complex geography is a stew of wavy-edged shorelines, steep hills, hundreds of islands, deep basins, mountain watersheds and rich estuaries.  That means there are endless nooks and crannies to explore.  I’ve learned that whether I’m on Whidbey, Vashon, Bainbridge, Camano, Samish, or Fidalgo, each island has a unique atmosphere, and in spite of dozens of trips to different islands in the Sound, I’m barely familiar with them. Every time I browse a book, pour over a map or search online, I find more places to explore.



Washington Park sits on a modest-sized peninsula with tranquil views of the sound and surrounding islands.  A one-way road traces the park’s edge; along the road are pull-outs for picnicking and walking along rocky beaches or through the woods.

The day we went to Fidalgo Island, a misty, intermittent rain kept the views from being picture postcard perfect, but the mist was welcome after two months of dry, sere days. I was in a relaxed, open mood as I traipsed around a rocky beach. Smooth, colorful stones clattered underfoot like weighty marbles. Seaweed, shells and driftwood invited scrutiny.  The last little Gumplant flower glowed yellow among withered brown stems. Song sparrows flitted in and out of the underbrush, gulls cried and cormorants plied the water for fish. Roots and rose hips dangled over the cliffs, weaving delicate patterns on the glacial till. A ferry dissolved into the horizonless gray mist, bound for the San Juan Islands.

I pulled my hood up and tucked my weather-resistant camera under my sweatshirt between shots, taking pictures quickly, then retreating under trees. I was getting wetter by the minute.


















A towering, long-dead Douglas fir perched at the edge of the eroding cliff and leaned precariously over the beach. Across the bay kids scampered on the rocks, oblivious to the rain. My feet were soaked through. It felt good.


We continued along the road at the prescribed 10 mph speed limit, passing campers and people out for a walk. At the last pull-out, an ancient, twisted tree raised one steadfast, leafy branch above a grand view.  Across the pass, thickly forested Burrows Island rose darkly from the cold water.  A whale watching boat skidded back to port.  Did they see the resident pod of Orcas? Probably, but from my vantage point, only boats and gulls broke the water’s calm surface.  To my left, Whidbey Island lurked in the mist, and sixty miles south, Seattle sprawled a cacophony of metal and glass across another patch of land at the the water’s edge.


I noticed a path leading down into a grove of Madrone trees (Arbutus menziesii). The madrone is one of my new favorites since moving west, with its smooth, brilliantly colored, peeling bark and curvy limbs. At my feet, Reindeer moss (really a lichen, Cladina portentosa) formed puffy clouds of the softest pale green, pierced by sharp grasses. I picked my way carefully across the wet earth, drinking in the color.










The rain was picking up so we drove into town to Pelican Bay Books to dry off and warm up with an espresso. The bookstore, with its first-rate selection of new and used books, wood-burning stove, worn leather sofas, custom wood shelving and carefully crafted espresso bar, deserves a post of its own. But take my word for it – if you’re anywhere near Anacortes it’s worth a trip.

Enamored by Washington Park’s beauty and the old ship in Anacortes, we decided to return as soon as we could. Three days later we were back on Fidalgo island exploring another beautiful park (and returning to the bookstore!). More about that in another post.








































The weather finally broke the other day in Western Washington, bringing cool, overcast skies and a smattering of rain. With Harvey and Irma in the news it may be hard to grasp the fact that there’s a serious drought on the West coast. Even worse, with human “help” the dry conditions spawned a tough wildfire season, bringing destruction and death and a haze of sickening smoke and ash. A wet forecast is sweet relief these days and didn’t deter us from heading north to Fidalgo Island on Saturday. Our plan was to explore a small peninsula overlooking the San Juan Islands.

We’re less familiar with this part of the state and we are ever curious, so we kept sharp eyes out for anything unusual as we drove across the island. On the way to the park I glimpsed something beyond unusual. Only briefly visible from the road, the strange sight appeared, then quickly disappeared. I flashed on some elaborate Hollywood film set. Did I really see a huge dark hulk of a wooden ship, with a cargo that appeared to be a forest, looming out of the mist?

Yes, it was an old wooden ship topped with a forest, growing like big hair gone completely wild.


We continued on to Washington Park, agreeing to check out the strange apparition later – I was pretty sure it wasn’t going anywhere. The sky was spitting a thin drizzle when we traced our route back, and I was soaked after our wander in the park, but the rain felt like renewal after two months of dry heat. Past the ferries to Canada and the San Juan islands we went, searching for a way to get closer to the mysterious specter.

We found it – a narrow, gravel road leading down a hill to a shipyard. We thought we might be booted out at any time, but I couldn’t resist the prospect of getting closer to the mystery ship. With growing excitement, we parked next to a couple of junked trucks and jumped out. A narrow, overgrown isthmus led straight to the ship, looming silently overhead.

By that time we had figured out that this wasn’t a shipwreck, but instead, it was a rather unorthodox breakwater for the shipyard and marina.


La Merced looks old because it is – it was built one hundred years ago in California. A four-masted schooner with auxiliary power, it sailed up, down and across the Pacific delivering case oil for Standard Oil and other companies. Four years into service the ship was rammed by another boat while at anchor near Alcatraz. After repairs the ship sailed the Pacific for a few more years, before it became a floating fish cannery working the salmon catch in Alaska. (The link is to an old photo showing La Merced’s four masts behind some cannery buildings).

Meanwhile, an enterprising man from Croatia named Anton Lovric was working as a boat repairman in Anacortes, Washington, 1,572 nautical miles away. Tony Lovric had a colorful life. Born in 1924, he was captured by the Germans during WWII and survived 14 months of hard labor at Dachau. After he was released he studied naval architecture and worked in a Croatian shipyard, leaving for Italy in 1958 becuase he feared reprisal for his outspoken political views. From Italy he emigrated to the US, eventually arriving in Anacortes, a small northwest port town where he had friends. The place suited him. He married, had five children, and with hard work and resourcefulness he turned a former seafood processing business into Lovric’s Sea-Craft, a ship repair yard and marina.


Repurposing was second nature to Tony Lovric. In 1966 he bought the 232-foot ship La Merced, to use as a breakwater for his marina. Stripped of its masts, engines, bowsprit and other accouterments, the old ship was brought to Anacortes to begin another chapter in its long life. Set in place, filled with sand and surrounded with rocks, it remains there today. La Merced has now spent half its life out of the water. Resting on the island’s edge, she’s like a great beached whale, her skin rough with peeling paint instead of barnacles, her rusted hawse holes keeping watch over the shipyard.


I doubt this old pulley was used for the breakwater project but who knows what it lifted into place over the years?  Lovric’s shipyard is still in the family. About ninety percent of their work is done on working boats, not pleasure craft. I like that. On that Saturday afternoon, we saw the bottom of a barge being steam cleaned. There are two rather handsome old wooden buildings for storage and machining, and in the marina you can see boats of every size and shape, with at least one that appears to be a residence.


A tangle of rope, an old winch engine, trucks in various states of disrepair, wild blackberries running through it all…a ladder, a toilet bowl, a volleyball net, a metal wall with a dark opening leading into the overgrown hillside…odd “stuff” is everywhere. Think of all the things you could do with that stuff! Not to mention the history that might be pried out of this site.


We wondered about the lumber used to build La Merced. Maybe loggers felled the timbers back in the early 1900’s in the mountains east of Fidalgo Island, mountains visible from the shipyard on a clear day. The logs could have been shipped to California (as many were) and milled into the long boards needed for the ship. The boards would have been nailed into place, caulked, pitched, painted, and finally, La Merced would float. She would sail the Pacific, awash in the waters of Australia, Hawaii, maybe Polynesia, Alaska…and finally she would come to rest on Fidalgo Island, where her hull full of sand would support the tiny plants that sprouted from seeds blown in or dropped by birds…plants that slowly would become a small forest, which in turn must support more life than I can imagine.

This post isn’t about a well-loved site like Mount Rainier and the photos may leave something to be desired, given the rain that day.  But what a sight that massive, century-old ship is! Where once four tall masts held sails that caught distant ocean winds, now trees sway in channel breezes. As the wood slowly rots it helps to keep a local business afloat. Those timbers support an ecosystem that’s part of the local flora and fauna, and this living breakwater can now catch the eyes and imagination of any curious passer by, on land or on water, sparking delight. *



Some of these photos are homages of sorts, to blogging friends whose work I admire.  Al at burnt embers often works in film, inspring me to try film effects or film colors (the marina shot and the aqua-shuttered building photo). Linda at Romancing Reality takes masterful photos of dumpster surfaces and she inspired the rusty, scratched metal surface photo.  Louis, who is accomplished at graphic work and often shoots in maritime locations, inspired the rope photo.  Adrian nudges me to make an occasional darker image (like the ladder) and experiment with film effects.  Otto, whose Instagrams also push me to experiment with effects, probably inspired the silhouetted, smudgy pulley photo. Many others I haven’t named this time (Lisa, “Chill” Adrian, Alan, Hedy, Denise, Ken, Jane, Gunta, Uli, Joshi, Pierre, 125tel, Patti, Dina, etc!) are pushing boundaries and perfecting their visions, inspiring me to do the same. And Linda at The Task at Hand, a far better storyteller than I am, inspires me to try weaving a written tale through my photographs, at least once in a while.

The Close Inspection

I used to have a job in surveillance. It wasn’t anything sinister – it involved inspecting state-funded programs for adults who have brain injuries and need help to live independently.  Wading through records, interviewing participants, observing facilities and talking with administrators, I would carefully ferret out the details. I looked for inadequate provision of services, but also for exemplary work on behalf of people who couldn’t advocate well for themselves. I surveyed, I cited, I educated, always paying close attention to the details.

Well before that, I lived in a zen monastery. Close attention to detail was valued there, too. Whether meditating, washing dishes or selling the cakes that supported our community, we made an effort to attend to and act in our environment with clear, detailed attention.  At the same, time we recognized vast spaciousness in the interstices. When we were at our best, feeling that spaciousness helped us challenge habitual boundaries, a process that opened our minds and freed our actions. And back we went to attend to the details, where spaciousness and open possibility find expression in matter.

Going back further, as a child I spent a lot of time carefully inspecting my surroundings, slowly falling in love with the world as it is. I’m lucky to have had a childhood free enough from want and strife that I could spend endless hours observing my environment.  I believe there is value in paying close attention to your surroundings, value in developing a sense of where you are grounded on the earth, and value in acting on that knowledge in a positive way. The actions we take vary according to our predilections, abilities and background, but each of us can benefit others in more ways than we imagine, especially when we get out of our own way. Even with photography, we can be of benefit to others.

Here are 20 photographs. They began taking shape on recent forays. On better days I make quick adjustments to that little black box in my hands and aim the lens with an open mind and attention to detail. The images are refined back at home with more close observation, and hopefully, with some measure of freedom from habitual ways of thinking. Then they may go out into the world, and perhaps one or two, or the sum of all will lighten the load for someone, or inspire them.









































The photos were taken in and around Seattle with an Olympus OM D1. A few were made with an older model Samsung smartphone. All were processed using Lightroom, some also using Silver Efex Pro or Color Efex Pro.