Click any image for a full-screen view…
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.
Contributor:
The time spent getting to work can be its own daily gift.
Contributor:
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.
Contributor:
Contributor:
After 200+ miles on the Gold Wing yesterday, I was ready to trade speed for something slower and more deliberate. That meant riding the Can-Am Spyder F3 with the Panasonic Lumix S9 readily available from the storage area above the handlebars. I was now ready to pull over quickly, make rapid U-turns, and navigate dirt roads without hesitation. All images are straight out of the camera without edits.
Since this interesting place was still catching some low-angle morning sunlight, I maneuvered the Spyder along the dirt car path that passed through the cemetery.
I don’t know exactly what this spot is called or what purpose it actually serves. But along route 104 as you approach the Happy Valley Wildlife Management Area, this quick pullover always provides something different as it goes from lake to swamp to field across the course of the Summer.
There are plenty of roads to travel within this area, but many are a bit too rough for the Spyder. I stayed only long enough to enjoy one of the main roads while also ensuring that I didn’t bleed out from all of the mosquitoes.
Contributor:
Southbound in a car and wondering why.
With an infinite number of destinations and pathways before us, I often wonder why so much of this feels so familiar. The drivers in the cars passing by—and those being passed—wear the same look of routine and recognition. There we all are, moving quickly from one familiar place to another, following well-worn routes toward known destinations. But where is the adventure in that?
I’m so grateful to have been blessed with a curious spirit, a seemingly endless tolerance of being in motion, and a modest distain of routines.
Contributor:
In motion from here to there.
Contributor:
Contributor:
Contributor:
I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me.—Ralph Ellison
Contributor:
Share your email address with us to be notified of site updates.
We completely respect your privacy. Never will your email address be used for any purpose other than to notify you of updates to this site.
abandoned adirondack mountains adirondack park adirondacks adk ak alaska altmar ny animals antiques art automobile automobiles beach black and white boats bridge building buildings cars classic chrome clouds cruise dirt road fall family farm fence fields flowers fog friends fujifilm glass grass green hdr ice iPhone jpg lake lake ontario leaves lights mazda mexico ny motorcycle mountains museum new york nikon ny nys olympus onondaga county oswego oswego county oswego county ny oswego ny panorama park pennsylvania people plants rain reflection reflections restaurant river roads rocks sand seasonal signs sky snow sony rx100M6 sooc state park steel steven j tryon stream sun sunlight sunset syracuse syracuse ny travel trees vehicles walkabout walkabout chronicles water waterfalls waves weeds windows winter x100f x100v
