The Eastern Columbia Gorge.

Windmills, Maryhill Loop Road

I’ve been falling in love with the eastern Columbia Gorge for about a decade, so one would think that the falling would be done by now.  I grew up in the deciduous forests of central Pennsylvania, where summers were lush, and the thunderstorms rolled in at the end of the hottest days, and the grass there stayed green until the cold of December made the landscape white.  The great, arid expanses of the American west, specifically Oregon for me, are like an alien planet.  I’m fascinated by the undulating hills, devoid of trees, and teeming with grasses that turn golden in mid June.  There’s a stark beauty that dryness creates.  It’s alien to me because I’m an an east coast boy, but it’s familiar and evocative as a “Roadrunner and Coyote” cartoon (yes, it’s in my blood because of Looney Toons).  The old west beckons from the 19th century in the American Psyche via western movies, but the windmills are ushering in the 21st century.  I’ll take both centuries.  I’ll take the landscape.  I’ll take the dry grasses and White Oak trees.  Throw in Google, wind power, and a camera from 1946, and I’m in heaven.   

Moving to the Columbia Gorge.

The house is sold.  Part of the selling process was the Dismantling of the Darkroom.  It was a very sad day.  I tore apart the 7′ sink that I built, tore down the shelves, painted the walls white, and installed a carpet.  Another part of the selling was packing up the computer and scanner.  I have no way of producing work for display on the Internet for the next few months.  

  The Columbia Gorge offers not only a wealth of photographic opportunities, but also a chance for my wife to heal.  

This picture was taken near Goldendale, Washington, on a dusty back road to nowhere in particular.  We were driving out of Goldendale, when, from out of the dog-eared western songbook, this barn and wheel presented itself to us on a bone dry August afternoon, and we stopped to take a few pictures with infrared film.