I don’t know what heals us. Maybe it is time, or the woods, or simply the reminder that the world goes on being beautiful whether or not we are ready to look. I only know I walked out of Winona lighter than I walked in.
Finding the perfect time to see the changing leaves of the Adirondack Park requires some finesse. Not every weekend allows for the drive. If the goal is photographing in the High Peaks area, located on the opposite side of the park from where I live, that is best accomplished over two days. The sun brings out the best of the autumn colors, so questionable fall weather also cuts down the number of ideal weekend opportunities. And there is always the point at which the wind and rain manage to strip the trees of their color, leaving us with something between brown and black, the opposite of what I came to photograph. But getting outside the house and inside the Adirondack Park is an excellent experience no matter the season. Roads of dirt or hard-packed snow make the experience even more compelling.
This past weekend was a shorter trip. The Stillwater-Big Moose Road offered dirt for the Subaru, foliage for the handheld and drone cameras, and water for some reflections and added scenery. The water in the Stillwater Reservoir was quite low, which made for some interesting photographs and hiking in places that normally would only be accessible by boat. It wasn’t the High Peaks weekend I had been waiting for, but a dirt road, a half-empty reservoir, and a few hours of sun gave me more than enough.
All of these photographs were captured with the drone, a DJI Mini 5 Pro. The launch point was 43.85943° N, 75.00660° W.
My Dad’s favorite season was Fall. He always saw the good in things, so I’d be reluctant to argue with his choice. On this particular morning, Fall was going out of its way to be good and beautiful, and snapping photographs along the way was a delightful disruption of the daily commute. Even a line of transmission towers had turned to gold in the first light. He would have seen the good in that, too.
Predating both Canada and the United States, the Indigenous-derived name of Lake Ontario has been recorded by Europeans beginning in the 1630s–1640s. “Ontario” comes from an Iroquoian language, but its precise source and translation remain debated. It is commonly connected either to Wendat OntarĂ:io—interpreted as “great lake” or “beautiful lake”—or to Mohawk kanyatarĂ:yo, meaning approximately “beautiful” or “handsome lake.” “Sparkling water” is another familiar translation, although it may derive from a related form rather than from OntarĂ:io itself.
Whatever its precise origin, the name reflects the awe the lake inspired in those who first walked its shores—an emotion that still lives in all of us fortunate enough to call this place home.
I spent another week on a walkabout, traveling through New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Delaware, Virginia, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania. As always, photography was an important part of the experience. This time, however, the way I approached it was different.
Normally, I travel with several cameras and two or three times as many lenses. For this trip, everything fit into one small backpack: a Panasonic Lumix S9 with an 18–40mm lens and the L10 with its built-in 24–75mm lens. Truth be told, the S9 came out of the bag on only one of the first few days. After that, the L10 handled nearly everything.
Traveling with an ever-smaller collection of gear has long been one of my goals—especially when a walkabout happens on a motorcycle. Space is limited, every extra item adds weight, and complicated choices can get in the way of simply paying attention.
This trip showed me that the L10 could handle just about anything my admittedly suspect photography skills asked of it. It was equally at home recording the sweep of a landscape and revealing the tiny details hiding beside the road: sunlight caught in the delicate fibers of a thistle, or the intricate markings of a wasp balanced on a cluster of flowers.
Those small scenes were easy to overlook amid seven states and so many miles. Having a capable camera close at hand made it just as easy to stop and look again.
I returned home with more than 1,500 photographs—not that quantity means much by itself. What mattered was that the cameras handled everything I pointed them at. More importantly, I never once wished I had brought another camera body or lens along for the ride.
Perhaps that is the real advantage of traveling light. With less equipment to think about, there is more room to notice what is right in front of you.
There’s a particular kind of pride that comes from loving a place other people have never heard of. Oswego is, in its own way, a postcard town—its shoreline on Lake Ontario offers views worth stopping for, all along the city’s edge. It’s also a college town with the same everyday mix of shops, diners, schools, and neighborhoods you’d find in any small city. Ask anyone who grew up here, and you’ll hear the same thing: there’s something about this town.
I took this photograph from the old railroad bridge, now just a footpath, that spans the Oswego River—a structure that once carried freight and now carries walkers, joggers, and people like me chasing light. From up there, you can see why Oswego is here at all, laid out at once: some buildings that have watched the river for generations, the water moving steadily toward the lake, and at the very end of the frame, small but unmistakable, the lighthouse standing watch over the harbor.
The Iroquois called this spot osh-we-geh—”pouring-out place”—and for good reason: whoever controlled this river mouth controlled the route between the lake and everything inland. Just east of the harbor sits Fort Ontario (hidden from view in this photograph by progress), rebuilt again and again since 1727 because the ground mattered enough to keep fighting over. Centuries later, in 1944, that same fort became the only place in America to shelter refugees fleeing the Holocaust—people finding safe harbor at the very spot where the river empties into the lake.
People are fond of their hometowns in a way that’s hard to fully explain to someone who didn’t grow up there. It’s not that Oswego is the biggest or the most photographed place on earth—it’s that it’s mine. This is the Oz I know: postcard-pretty in places, quietly historic in others, and, from the right vantage point on the right evening, absolutely magic.
The panniers are not yet packed. Which bike to ride—Gold Wing or Spyder—continues to be a furious debate in my brain. Special bike-love routes have been plotted and some routes between those routes are being considered. Rain gear is ready. Global positioning technology is in place. And always on my mind is that low twinge of knowing the road is full of people who are busy scrutinizing their phones, who think a turn signal is optional and a motorcycle is invisible.
But the bike experience is special. We have a different way of examining the world through which we travel that ensures we adjust, accommodate, scan, plan, and navigate. We avoid things with four or more wheels and we seek the mesmerizing and restorative experience of riding a motorcycle.
Our flow is like the way water doesn’t argue with the rock. It doesn’t plan a route around it — it finds the give, the gap, the way through, and it never stops moving while it does it. That’s the whole trick, maybe. Not fearlessness. Just refusal to stay stuck at the same spot in the river.
So the bike will be whichever one is sitting in the driveway when I stop overthinking it. The drivers will do what they do, and I’ll ride a path that keeps them distant because that’s just sensible, not fear. And somewhere past the next county line there’s a view I haven’t seen yet, waiting on the other side of a curve I haven’t ridden yet, ready for me to arrive with my camera.
I’ll just go with the flow. The river’s been doing it longer than I have.
