The Hiking and Shooting Ratio

May 9

May storm, early night, Trans-Mountain Road, El Paso

Monsoon season appeared to have arrived early in the Borderland. A vicious storm system that had moved through the greener side of Texas was moving in the wrong direction, west, toward the desert and against the Gulf Stream. The previous evening, darkness came early when black clouds huddled over the sky, jamming as they reached the Franklin Mountains.

Storm clouds moving over Anthony’s Nose

As only nighttime rainfall can ensure, I awoke feeling like I had slept better than ever, and I started my hike with the giddy relief and anticipation that follows a break in the drought. Rain was so rare in the desert that it supported my belief of greater things, and it disguised the desert into a new, but recognizable, place. The heavy rain had made tiny flash flooding along the trails, and the tan dirt of the desert ground had taken on brown, red and chocolaty colors with the same crunchy, wet texture of a beach.

It was my first hike alone with my new camera. I had no pit crew for assistance, except for Emma, and I didn’t expect the young dog to be much help. Could I hike and photograph (and walk a dog)? I guessed I’d find out.

Cardinal

Red movement caught my eye, a little bird that looked something like the cardinals I knew from back east. It was celebrating the moisture, challenging me to focus on it as it jumped between creosote limbs. My finishing product was that nothing was in focus, but the cardinal’s mischievous look was not lost.

Hawk

Another bird soared above me, this time a hawk. I was thrilled to be hiking after the storm, but the delight of these animals was even more warranted. They adapted ways of finding water in the desert while I could turn on a faucet to fill my hydration pouch. The rain was pleasant to me, but gave them survival.

When I neared Cardiac Hill, several soaptree yuccas bloomed proudly along the trail. Last summer, they had been so hard to find, and this year they were popping up across the Borderland. I anticipated the rain to only help their growth. I reached up to a full plant and picked one of its flowers. With rainwater accumulated in the dips of the peddles, it was a delicious, sweet breakfast.

North Franklin Mountain and blooming soaptree yucca

I hiked with no plan in direction except see the Franklin Mountains through new lens. I traveled along the main trail in the northeast portion of the mountains, the Old Tin Mines Road.  At each trail intersection, Lazy Cow, The Maze, Blue Moon, I kept hiking higher, eventually reaching the mines perched above Scenic Trail.

Old Tin Mines

Feeling exploratory, I turned south on Scenic Trail toward North Franklin Mountain. I had been this direction only twice when I’d hiked the mountain. Today, with the cool air and humidity, I felt good enough to climb Frankie. Looking toward the sky, I thought better of it. The weather was perfect for me and Emma, but the clouds threatened rain on my camera.

Should we hike North Franklin?

On the opposite side of the trail, there stood a single ponderosa pine tree. Seeing the tree has dumbfounded me each time. The Franklins were dryer than their neighbors, the Organ and Guadalupe Mountains, both of which could support such trees. The only substantial trees here were Cottonwoods, which grew around springs. What was this tree doing on here? Had it been planted during the time of the tin mine? Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought the tree to be noteworthy—a single Christmas ornament hung from one of its branches about six feet off the ground. The tree was one of a kind and festive!

Lone ponderosa pine decorated for Christmas

During the times I’d hiked the Scenic Trail south, I’d noticed trails on either side, but with having a big hiking day already by climbing North Franklin, I hadn’t expended the energy to explore the trails. I decided to see them today. Four miles would be a quicker run home in the rain than seven!

One trail toward the mountains was only noticeable by the orange rock where the trail had been cut into the hillside. It had not been maintained, and a little ways in I was curling around sotol and rock every step, careful not to take a stumble while I was carrying the Holy Grail (the camera, that is).

Secret canyon

The scenery was stunning—when I looked up from my foot placements. It headed into a little canyon northeast of Mundy’s Gap. I had no idea was inside the canyon’s depth, but before reaching it, the trail would reach a grassy slope. Against the mountains were outcrops of rock similar to Cardiac Hill. I wondered where the road ultimately ended up—were there more mines? Was there a hidden spring? High on the mountainside, I saw a shadow in the rock that looked like a cave. Was it home to something?

Mountainside cave

I wanted to keep hiking, but I considered the distance between me and the maintained trail. At that point, I was only a half-mile in. If rain came…yes, I would bust my face and the camera trying to rush out. On a dry day (and when I knew what I was doing with my camera), I’d explore the trail further.

Back on Scenic Trail, I was able to pick my pace back up as I continued south. This was my best chance to get to know hiking with the camera, and I was feeling comfortable with it (watch-my-step-hiking would come). In Lincoln National Forest, it had been all shooting with little hiking, an unproductive ratio. I had been discouraged that I couldn’t walk my dogs at the same time, and that my camera had no protection other than a lens cap when I wasn’t using it—after all, my middle name sure as heck isn’t Grace! But so far, things seemed to be going well, and I felt optimistic, not discouraged.

Looking down (north) on Scenic Trail

An accessory for my big camera seemed to be just what I needed for the trail, a soft nylon cover that clipped to my neck strap and Velcroed over the camera when it wasn’t in use. It wouldn’t be a perfect fix in the event I fell off the mountain, but it protected the camera (with my smaller lens) in general. Even hiking there uphill at a brisk pace, it was comfortable.

My favorite photograph of the day, Apache plume

There were two other trails that went to the left, down the mountains. One trail, I missed entirely until I was far above it. The trailhead to it remained a mystery to me. The second was on the corner when the trail entered a tight canyon. From Scenic Trail, my new trail looked like it would be a lengthy developed route. I headed up eager to see what was over the crest. I hoped it would connect to the Blue Moon Road Trail, giving me a hiking loop.

Dead-end at a beautiful view

Well, “nowhere” wasn’t a correct way to describe where this trail quickly ended. Rather than a trail, it led up to what appeared to be a campsite with a long-ago used fireplace, and the view was spectacular. I climbed to higher ground to a rock escarpment where a tiny cactus made its throne.

From my highpoint, I looked to see if there were any trails that might lead me forward. One spur, I realized was two, and two became four, so there was no formal route to the Blue Moon, and off-roading wouldn’t have been any more practical here as on the trail near the Christmas Tree. Another day, I decided.

Although I couldn’t find a new route, this was something that I appreciated about the Franklin Mountains. I grew up hiking trails in Maine where views were limited by trees. Here I could see my trails ahead. From the top of North Franklin, seeing the North Hills trail system above had been like looking at map.

The hike down Scenic Trail to Old Tin Mine Road was brisk and easy. Already summer temperatures had made it to El Paso, and the sudden cool, humid day made me feel light, like I could walk forever.

Turn left

A turnoff I had passed many times caught my eye. I knew where the trail ended up, on the Trench Town Road Trail, which I had hiked before in its eastern portions, but I had never traveled there. Today I was exploring, and I turned left toward the hill.

Just fifty yards down, evidence of heavy traffic across the trail caught my eye. I looked right and did a double take. A cave was in the mountainside, and I had almost passed it!

I held Emma back uncertain as to what might be inside. A bush blocked the cave proving some security for the entrance. Nearing it, I could see the angular cut outs on the rock. This had been part of the tin mine, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the home of something. I unclipped Emma in the event that she’d need to escape, and I approached the cave entrance.

“Hello?”

Nothing answered, and I rolled my eyes. What would a mountain lion reply? “Yo, Lady! Happy trails!”?

I grabbed a pebble from the wall and threw it over the bush into the cave. It hit the ground gently, creating a puff of dust right beside a sneaker print. Probably there wouldn’t be a mountain lion. Content that I had exercised appropriate caution, I pushed through the brush (appreciative for the cool day that encouraged me to wear long sleeves and pants) and headed inside.

Emma bravely enters the cave

And that was it. I guessed too much caution was better than no caution! The cave was the size of the box stall my horse Kody had, and at its deepest point, I could stand up straight. In a survival situation, this would be a cool place to shelter a storm. To the best I figured, this cave was drilled when tin was being mined in the mountains a century before. More than likely, when they were unable to find the mineral here, they stopped drilling.

After checking out the cave, I continued down Trench Town Road which turned into Polecat Alley Trail. Along the way, came across a large piece of concrete. I guessed it was a vertical mine, now covered, or a well. An inch of water collected on top, Emma discovered. This was one of the few times in the Franklin Mountains I saw her drink without coming from a water source we carried.

I was enjoying exploring the Franklin Mountains. In all these hikes, these discoveries were right here just off the trails that were my usual stomping grounds. Hiking curiously, and even through the lens of my new camera, I was getting to know the mountains even better.

But I didn’t see the rain coming. A drop on my nose brought me out of my “la-la” and told me to check out the sky. (If a raindrop tells you that, it’s never good.) Time to get hiking! The storm clouds moving into the North Hills above the Castner Range of Fort Bliss looked like they meant business!

I put my cover over my camera, opened my backpack, flapped out my rain jacket, wrapped my camera in it, hoped real hard, and headed off at my best hiking speed. As I passed the intersection to Lazy Cow, my big walk wasn’t fast enough. Drops again fell, but this time as a steady sprinkle…and then a drizzle.

For the first time, I trail ran. Yes, last summer I slowed down and enjoyed monsoon season, but my camera might melt, and I had to get out of there. Reaching the levee, I must have looked pretty wacky running with high top boots and a backpack that jostled my contents loudly at each step. I’d always wanted to try trail running, but I pictured something prettier.

I made it back to my vehicle mostly dry, and my camera was great. Being a photographing hiker seemed to be a success so long as my next investment was a rain cover for my pack! Minutes after arriving home, the sky opened and a heavy, rejuvenating downpour fell on the Borderland.

A Super Moon

May 6

As the moon graced our sky, I felt like I could reach out and snatch it down from its perch beside my neighbor’s tall palm trees. Well, my arms were too short, but luckily I had a different plan to capture it—photograph it manually.

The moon was a little greater than ordinary, which rendered the name “super.” According to NASA, it was in its perigee orbit. On this side of its oval-shaped orbit, it was 50,000 kilometers closer to the earth than on its further apogee side. During the full moon, it became a supermoon, an annual occurrence, and this Supermoon had been fourteen percent bigger and thirty percent brighter than at any other moon in 2012.

Tonight was an excellent night for photographers to capture the moon. The moon hadn’t changed its size, but it was closer to the Earth than at any other point during the year—except for last night. Yup, I thought I was photographing the Supermoon of 2012. It was a super moon, but not the Supermoon.

As I prepared to photograph from my backyard, I had no idea that I was only seeing the second biggest, brightest moon of the year, that I’d already seen the Supermoon the night before from the same location over a glass of wine with Dad and Paul. For Dad’s visit, we had “unplugged” to make the most of our visit. It wouldn’t be until I found that NASA link that I would realize my mistake. (Sometimes I say I need to get my face away from the camera lens and see through my own eyes. Well, last night I had.)

I went about shooting with the determination that it was the 2012 Supermoon and Neil Armstrong was up there walking around throwing moon balls. I set up my tripod on the patio, used my manual settings to the best of my ability, and took shot after shot—but most of them didn’t turn out. The moon looked like a bright, shaky blob on my review screen. Dad and I hovered around the camera, but Digital SLRs were a bit different than the SLRs we’d been used to using. As it lost its proximity to the horizon, the greatness of its appeared size was lost, too, in my crappy photos.

I wasn’t deterred. There would be next year. If I didn’t get a great Supermoon photograph (haha, I wouldn’t!), I would get a decent shot of the moon that night.

Finally, I adjusted my shutter speed just right, and I successfully photographed the moon, my first manual shot in a dozen years.

The Trials of a New Photographer

May 6

Wild Irises, also known as Blue Flags (my favorite photograh today)

This was my first outing with my new camera—and to say I was excited (and bewildered) was putting it mildly. Thankfully, my Dad was there to help me because I felt like it had been since my high school photo excursions with him that I felt comfortable handling such a camera. Today would get me closer to feeling that comfort again.

Abby and her father, Lincoln National Forest, New Mexico

On the ride across the desert from El Paso to the Lincoln National Forest, I kept my nose in the manual to learn everything I could about my new equipment before using it in the field. As a new Digital SLR owner, the Nikon D3200 was user friendly, but I had a ways to go before graduating from bafflement.

Nowadays, I had the luxury and advantage of reviewing my photographs electronically on the camera or on my laptop instead of waiting until I developed the film, and I could take thousands of photos, not just one dozen, to ensure the perfect shot. And if that wasn’t luxury enough, the auto setting was a good cheat while I became comfortable holding the camera.

Wildflower eyes

I was the last out of the vehicle when we arrived at Bluff Springs Recreation Area (typical of the entire day). Paul and my father patiently stood outside while I carefully—annoyingly, painfully, carefully—readied my camera for our hike. Having a telephoto lens was new to me, and I was anxious to use it today. I hopped out of the vehicle and felt weighed down. The camera with the telephoto lens seemed to be as heavy as my backpack. Holding it by the lens in my hand, too, would be the way to go. Now I was ready!

George wonders, “What’s the hold up?”

And then I was stumped. How would I walk a dog with my hands full? Tumbling would the worst thing I could do that day, and George and Emma wouldn’t help me stay upright. It had been a few days since they’d had exercise, and both were raring to go “for a pull,” as my father said. Slowing down while I photographed anything and everything was not on their agenda. Thankfully, Dad and Paul came to my rescue each walking a dog on our hike.

Butterfly

The telephoto lens was worth its weight in gold because anything out of reach became reachable. I couldn’t wait for an opportunity to photograph wildlife from a distance and be able to enjoy the encounter without disturbing the animal. Bluff Springs was crowded with hikers and picnickers that day, and our encounters were limited to insects, many of which I wouldn’t notice until later at home when I’d review my photographs on my laptop.

Dandelions at seed (see the insect on the left flower)

First we climbed to the top of the waterfall, hiking along the spring to its source on the steep mountainside.

Spring source

I considered filtering some spring water, a delicious treat on trail. Then I realized the complication of putting my camera away…. Hiking just became a whole lot more complicated. I felt a little frustrated, wondering if hiking and shooting would ever comfortably coincide.

The moisture along the stream was refreshing and smelled delicious. Much more rain had fallen this year compared to last, however, early summer was the driest time in the southwest. According to the dandelions and other wildflowers, there wasn’t a drought, though. They flowered all along the spring and over the meadows.

Flowered meadow

After exploring the spring, we hiked the Willie White Trail Spur, a trail that made a loop back to the dirt road.

Willie White Trail Spur

I was slow going, and George and Emma gave me plenty of dirty looks in efforts to encourage me to keep up. Even Paul and Dad were constantly looking behind to see where I was. Yes, they were right. I was taking forever. Hiking might become less cardiovascular exercise at my rate…but I couldn’t just walk by that wildflower!

In the distance, I heard A.T.V. engines on the road. I looked across a meadow just in time to see one pass. A major cloud of dust made its wake. My father saw it, too, giving me a nervous look. Dust wasn’t good for a camera. This would be my last shot.

Finding beauty in weeds

Putting the camera away held us up for several minutes. I couldn’t find a place clean enough to put the camera while I changed out lens. I loved the telephoto lens, but it was too darn big. It didn’t fit in my pack while it was on my camera. And where was the white dot to line up the cap? Emma wined, frustrated about the hold up.

Dad saw my frustration and offered to be my pit crew. I gave him the lens, but this would be our last hike together. I wouldn’t have him there to be my pit crew next time. I shook my head. “Why is this so difficult?” I asked him.

“Be patient, don’t rush,” he told me firmly.

There was some beauty to a point and shoot camera. Finally I was able to get everything put away, but not before I felt disappointed in the extra effort of having a camera like this on trail. I needed a good tool, but I needed to hike, too.

As we continued the hike, Dad told me, “It’s going to take a while before you understand the camera and feel comfortable handling it and changing the lens and using all the other accessories. Don’t be discouraged. It’ll take practice.”

He was right, but I wasn’t patient. I wanted to be a photographer right that second.

Dad chuckled. “Remember how long you took to learn to drive a standard?”

I remembered one photo excursion that we’d taken, which had also been an early lesson in driving a manual transmission. I’d sat at intersection for hours it seemed stalling out over and over before with a line of cars behind me honking their horns. I’d finally driven away in a frazzled, successful moment. I’d appreciated the complexity of Dad’s Pentax SLR camera when we had reached our destination—that complexity I’d been able to handle!

“And now driving a stick is second nature,” I replied.

Mountain Top Mercantile & Grocery, Cloudcroft, New Mexico

It wasn’t until we stopped in Cloudcroft to eat lunch at Mountain Top Mercantile & Grocery and tour the shops that my discouragement with my camera veered. A tiny whimper came from the rafters above my head, and I looked up to see a sparrow chick sitting in its nest looking at me. Dad was right; eventually using the camera would become second nature just like driving a stick. No matter if the camera was bulky or confusing, I had photography in my heart and blood, and, somehow, someday, I’d become comfortable because for the best shot, it would all be worth it.

Baby sparrow

She Dreams of Photographing

May 5

Strike a pose, little bird

I swear—I only went into the store too look, not buy! After my trip to Carlsbad Caverns with my father the day before, I had dream cameras on my brain. I had a couple models to scout of various brands, but the 24 megapixels of Nikon’s brand new D3200 Digital SLR had me a little hubbadyubbady, especially when another customer photographed a sales associate and asked me, “Do you think he shampooed today?” I didn’t know if he shampooed, but I could have counted exactly how many hairs he had on his head.

My sales associate answered my every question, adding helpful information about money and bundling packages, and I headed off to peruse accessories and make shopping list for when the rest of my horse tack sold. The men in my life were there with me: My husband, who was anxious for me to make an investment, and my father, who would be knowledgeable about the investment. They told me to buy the camera today. Now I felt hubbadyubbady squared.

At home, I pulled out my new camera, the telephoto lens, and all of the accessories and spread them across the kitchen table. Step by step, like I was trying to assemble a fragile doll house, I readied for my first shot.

George

Pets are the best test subjects for trying out new cameras, and George was happy to oblige. I clicked on the review and was impressed. Then I zoomed in to see if he shampooed that day. He didn’t but, hubbadyubbady anyway.

I headed to my backyard next to test the telephoto lens. Twenty yards away, a tiny bird was perched on a tree branch in our back yard. I zoomed all the way on it, and felt like I was seeing the little creature through binoculars.

Zoomed in with the telephoto lens

I downloaded my first few shots to my laptop immediately. Viewing the image of the bird at full size, the body of the bird filled my entire computer screen. I could see that he had shampooed that day. I felt thrilled with my new camera, and I couldn’t wait for my first shooting excursion with it.

Zoomed in and cropped on my laptop

Father Daughter Photo Excursion

May 4

Shooting Dad shooting, Carlsbad Caverns

Before my birth, my father spent countless hours behind the lens of a camera and in darkrooms processing the perfect photograph. His interest was passed along to me as a child as I watched him take care to photograph my brother and me on the edge of our farmhouse porch in New England. Not quite six, I didn’t yet understand shutter speeds and aperture, but I saw his interest looking through his lens.

Finally as a student in junior high, I tried shooting, too, using first an inexpensive point and shoot camera, and I needed Dad’s help to load the film. He drove me to Shop ‘N Save, and I waited several impatient days until my roll of film returned developed. It felt like Christmas when one-hour photo became available at Rite-Aide.

One of my first prints: Leo, Quarter Horse Stallion

Assignment: Motion
Introduction to Photography, 2000

In high school, I started studying photography, learning F-stops and composition, loading my own film, manually shooting with a Pentax K1000, an SLR camera borrowed from class just like Dad’s. One day after school, he took me on a country drive, each of us bringing our cameras, on the first of many photo excursions. I would be thrilled to return to class, sometimes even staying late and working through study halls. In the quiet darkroom I was able to develop my first shots, and as I proudly showed off my photographs, it was my father’s advice as much as my teacher’s that moved me forward.

Leanne
Assignment: Studio photography

Intermediate Photography, 2001

It’s been eleven years since Dad and I went on our last photo excursion. While we regularly sent each other photographs, it’s hardly similar to taking a trip together. Today we had our chance, awaking early to drive to Carlsbad Caverns.

Abby and her father, Steve, about to enter Carlsbad Caverns

Three days before, Dad arrived after a long, cross country drive from Maine. This was his first time visiting Paul and I at one of our duty stations, and the trip was long awaited, much anticipated, and we had a list of things to do. We might not have time for everything, but there was one southwestern place I was anxious to share with him, Carlsbad Caverns National Park.

Carlsbad Caverns

A wind gust in the Guadalupe Mountains pushed our vehicle as I told Dad, “I don’t think I’ll take very many photographs this time.” (Yeah, right.) I’d been to the park three other occasions, each time seeing it from behind a camera. None of the shots I ever produced were that good. The poor lighting wasn’t friendly to cameras that couldn’t shoot manually. I didn’t see the need to take more.

Mile 1,346: Busting out the big tripod!

As I hopped out of the vehicle a half hour later, I saw my tripod sitting in the back. I had brought it the very first time as a suggestion from a friend, but I hadn’t bothered to carry it because my nice camera was suffering the ill-fated lens error, a problem that had been persisting and had climaxed in the parking lot where I was now standing. On my other trips, I’d carried my Gorillapod, but it had been difficult to use for as many shots as I took. “What the heck,” I muttered, packing my big tripod.

Looking up at the Natural Entrance

Heading down into the Cavern, I felt a little silly using a professional grade tripod with a pocket sized point and shoot camera. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t show my hiney to passers as I set up the camera, and my images wouldn’t show motion blur during those slow shutter speeds.

Bat Cave

Officially underground, Dad and I set up to take our first shots inside Bat Cave. My image played back at me, and it looked clear. It could be a fluke, I warned myself.

Devil’s Spring

Further down the trail at Devil’s Spring my next shots were clearer. “Check it out!” I showed Dad. “Not bad for point and shoot!”

Big Foot?

In front of Big Foot, I caused a traffic jam. My tripod has a wide leg span. I moved to the side and waited for people to pass. I’d passed many photographers in the caves before with rigs like mine. They’d often looked both frustrated at the interruptions and determined that the final product would be worth it. I took their zest. No one said getting a perfect shot would be convenient (for me or other visitors)!

As I moved down the cave, I realized just how clunky my tripod was. I headed on my way after taking a photograph only to stop suddenly when the legs on the tripod caught the metal handrail that lined the paved trail.

Bannnnnngggg.

Remember from my previous experiences hiking down into the cave how essential it was to be quiet? Well, my bang wasn’t quiet. It echoed. I was certain I heard it rumble deep into the caverns. It must have been what the whale’s belly sounded like when Jonah was trapped inside.

Dad was no help. Even in the dark I recognized his shoulders shaking—the laughing fit was about to begin. And that meant I would be laughing, too. Our laughing fits were identical. When we got hysterical, our heads and necks turned red, we cried, and we were mostly silent except for the wheezing. That laugh could be considered “cave laughter,” similar to “cave voices,” but eventually the wheezing led to hyperventilating gasps. Yes, we looked like escapees from the Funny Farm.

During my childhood, Dad went out of his way to make sure my brother and I got to experience all the beautiful wonders of nature in Maine, trips that planted foundation for my love today. My favorite of those childhood trips was visiting Grafton Notch State Park where we had stopped at Screw Auger Falls, and had learned to echo in the walled path between the boulders. “Echo Rock” was the name we dubbed the pathway. My accidental bang was inappropriate, but the guttural echo reminiscent moment to share.

I knocked the railing several more times throughout the hike, however, none ever compared to that first bang. Despite my clumsiness, photographing the caverns was successful. The tripod gave my pocket camera advantage because it held the camera still and I could position it in almost any angle, something the small tripod wouldn’t let me do. I longed for my nicer camera, but this was a good backup.

Seeing the caverns with my father was a neat experience. In the formations, we identified story characters, statues, and other “doesn’t it look like…?” images. It made me think of parts of my childhood that I hadn’t thought of in quite some time. In one of the stalagmites, we saw The Head, a wooden elongated bust of a bearded man that Dad had received as a souvenir from my uncle, who’d visited Jamaica. Few other people would see The Head in the caverns, but many other families had their own recognitions.

The Cave Man Stalagmite

The entrance room to the elevator was bright, and I squinted as I dropped my pack to put my equipment away. I was happy to have brought the tripod and anxious to see how the photos came out. In this batch of photos, I anticipated many to be good quality unlike on my other trips where a few best would be just so-so.

My camera went away in two seconds. The tripod was trickier. As I finally shortened the last leg, a man and his mother came through the door. They were full of smiles probably having had a similar happy experience as I’d had with Dad. I’d later learn in the elevator ride that she was visiting him from Michigan.

They saw me struggling with the tripod as they got in line behind me. The man stood close, his ears barely reaching my shoulders. He gave me a hopelessly happy grin. He looked like Dennis the Menace. “I bet you got some great shots!” he said. He made this judgment having seen only my tripod.

I decided not to burst his bubble and played along as big time photographer. “I think I did,” I answered.

“Has your work appeared in magazines?” asked his mother.

I felt my cheeks redden. A tripod didn’t actually make a photographer, but it was evidence of effort for a good shot. I was just a hobbiest, but I did take my craft seriously. “My writing has,” I replied honestly. “Maybe someday my photography will, too.”

Dennis was still looking up at me with the hopelessly happy grin. Dad winked at me.

My father and I returned to the vehicle feeling awe inspired, giggly and reminiscent. I’d been looking forward to making the trip to the caverns with Dad, and the trip was everything I’d envisioned. The hike today was just one of several photo excursions we’d take during his visit, memories shot that I will cherish.

Dad admiring Carlsbad Caverns