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.
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 Ontarí:io—interpreted as “great lake” or “beautiful lake”—or to Mohawk kanyatarí:yo, meaning approximately “beautiful” or “handsome lake.” “Sparkling water” is another familiar translation, although it may derive from a related form rather than from Ontarí: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.
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.
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.
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.
Happy Valley Wildlife Management Area
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.
The Finger Lakes region has a way of hiding its best moments just off the main road—you simply have to be willing to wander a bit to find them.
Autumn was settling in when we visited here in early October of 2022. The trees were beginning their quiet annual negotiation: each leaf slowly sealing itself off at the stem, an invisible abscission layer cutting it free from the branch that fed it all Summer. The result is the show we wait for all year—chlorophyll fading to reveal the golds, ambers, and rust-reds that were hiding underneath all along. It’s less an ending than an unveiling, and it’s reason enough to slow the car down and just look.
I’m always thrilled when a photo I unload from the camera turns out to be far more interesting than I realized when I first composed the shot. This was one of those times.
I’ve got a lawn full of these buggers that grow far faster than the grass they tower over, constantly pushing me to mow the lawn more frequently than I would prefer.
But this one, found while walking through the Saratoga Spa State Park, needed to be photographed and it revealed far more during the development process than when it was being photographed.
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
