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).

Vermont Snow

In my wisdom, I left my gloves in my apartment back in Manhattan. The biting cold assaulted my hands as I walked down the gravel road tenderly clutching my camera. Ten minutes earlier, the sun's light had cut through large windows on the converted barn and awoken me, cocooned on the couch. Afraid of disturbing the other sleeping twenty-somethings and excited to explore my foreign surroundings, I dressed quickly and headed to the door.

Sleeping by the door, the family Golden Retriever jumped to his feet and eagerly shook his tail. Without hesitation, I held the door open and followed his bounds out into the early Vermont morning.

The night before, I had packed my things into a rented Penske truck and left my beloved coastal Maine, heading south on 95 towards the rolling hills and farmland of Vermont. Arriving late under the cover of darkness, the bright stars of the moonless light illuminated the silhouettes of barns and the impenetrable darkness of the Vermont woods. When I took a wrong turn on the three-mile dirt road leading to the Durkin farm, a friendly Vermonter, and proud owner of the Dodge Power Wagon pictured in this post, gave me directions better than any iPhone and sent me on my way.

Following the syrup lines, I walked down the road towards a large field, once used by local dairy farmers. In the distance, wisps of smokes emerged from the stone chimney of a 200 year old farm house, signaling the start of the day.

The sun broke the levee of darkness, casting its first shadows of the short November day. Enjoying the early light, I wondered for another twenty minutes before heading back to warm my hands and toes by the fire.

As I arrived back at the farm, the first snowflakes of the day's flurries rode the light winds.

Ian and Barkley standing guard.

Woof.

Posted.

Heating with wood.

Skis of yesterday.

Snow fell for the rest of the day, gaining from distant flurries to a relative whiteout. Periodic, under-prepared adventures in the snow made stretching out next to the fire on a couch that much more enjoyable. Delayed by the weather, I stayed around for an extra day. Do you blame me?

Here are some more links,
Vermont (Picasa),
Foster (by Ian Durkin).