Eli Reichman

switch me!

2009-03-12T06:50:00.001-06:00

Eli's blog has officially moved;

www.eliphoto.wordpress.com

run SAM, run

2009-01-15T07:02:00.001-06:00

It's been great watching Sam mature into a fine young runner over the past year... looking forward to the spring 09 track season.

rSr

2009-01-15T07:00:00.001-06:00

Cross Country Fun

2009-01-06T20:54:00.008-06:00

Since Sam began running cross country last year,

I've been shooting the senior runners farewell portraits.

This years group of seniors gave

tremendous effort every week of the season.

Their dedication to the sport and their team was inspiring.

Here are a few of my favorites from this years class.

How did this happen?

2008-12-20T22:19:00.007-06:00

Seems like just yesterday...

Remembrance

2008-12-18T09:03:00.011-06:00

1/8/27 - 5/18/08

The drive from Austin to Kansas City leaves the mind

enough time for wandering. As I passed through the

Arbuckle mountains of Oklahoma, my thoughts drifted far

back to my childhood, as I attempted to recall the memories

of a time which still remains most unfamiliar to me.

Charlotte graduated from Westport High School at age 16 and

the University of Michigan at 20. Julian, a dashing young

World War II aviator, wooed her in a whirlwind and rather

cinematic style romance. They married in 1947.

But coming of age during a time when women were still

expected to remain home raising the children, proved the

most implausible box for Charlotte to fit in.

My mom was bestowed with the gift of intellect and starlet beauty,

yet her life was to be ill-fated by a constant stream of emotional

and mental instability.

For better or worse, we are all but a sum of the parts of which we

hail from. It's how we use the jigsaw puzzle we're dealt that most

assuredly defines our lives.

When I was a child, we planted a gathering of daffodils around our

young birch tree. As winter's snow fell, I would wait with quiet

anticipation of what the coming spring would bring.

Inevitably, the months marched forward pulling the sun northward

to work its magic. In time, my youthful anxiousness was aptly

rewarded with a splendid sight of tiny buds struggling to reach out

and breathe in the sky.

Finally, a yellow cloak emerged from its winter hibernation, overtaking

the grassy slope beneath my bedroom window, awakening my

small world with beauty and hope.

As I now recall the distant past, I sense a reassuring voice

echoing in my thoughts...

Man's imagination, his vision in dreams,

I believe,

are like quiet flowers growing strong in the spring.

Though death laid quiet a soul, it did not bury the memory.

Magic ~ part III

2008-12-01T22:08:00.004-06:00

A few more from the magical iPhone..

2008-12-01T22:03:00.003-06:00

iPhone part II

2008-07-03T20:59:00.002-06:00

A few more pics from the magical iPhone.

2008-07-03T20:25:00.003-06:00

We are everywhere.. all the time.

2008-06-08T14:34:00.009-06:00

The business of staying in business has changed dramatically in the 20+ years I've been freelancing. I first began using cell phones when they resembled grotesque body parts emerging from ones head. Those early generation cell phones were huge and reception? You were best advised not to move out of a 3 foot radius for fear of dropping a call. I've grudgingly acknowledged that a cell phone is not just part of doing business, but instant and continuous access to e-mail has become a necessity as well.

Admittedly, the newest technology is rather stunning. Though it's transforming our lives in ways I'm not sure we can fully comprehend. The loss of privacy and the occasional tasteless public behavior are just a couple of the obvious downsides we've all been subjected to. But, again - the technology - wow!

I recently upgraded to a new phone capable of shooting some nice photographs. Here are a few images I shot with my magic camera phone during some free time while recently working on location in San Diego. And yes, I now have e-mail, text and a sleek phone all wrapped up in one cool little bundle... the iPhone, what else is there?

2008-06-08T11:57:00.013-06:00

Road trip

2008-04-23T09:05:00.005-06:00

A few sights and sounds, courtesy of Theda, during recent travels through eastern New Mexico and west Texas...

2008-04-23T09:02:00.001-06:00

SOL

2008-01-22T21:30:00.001-06:00

Every summer our family vacation consisted of packing a vast array of fishing tackle into our white Chevy Impala trimmed out in red leather seats, but no AC, and heading north 671 miles to Leech Lake, Minnesota. Our annual trip promised my sisters and I that our Dad would enjoy a few fun-filled days with all of us. A time when he’d leave the business concerns behind, relaxing with the family. It was the highlight of my summer... better than playing baseball, eating fresh watermelon, hanging out at the pool - better than staying up late or sleeping in ‘til noon. To this day the sights, smells and sounds of Leech Lake remain fresh in my mind. My sister Deb and I swore we’d buy our beloved Merit Lodge when we grew up... she’d run the lodge and I’d become the best guide on the lake.

Well, time has a way of changing our goals. I still love Minnesota and Leech Lake will always be special in my heart, but there’s so much to explore. Today, I find the road calling me out to different places and new experiences. My 15 year old son, Sam, is an aspiring freestyle kayaker, so, what better way to see part of the country than tour a few western states where whitewater flows.

So it was that our 2007 Summer of Love tour was born. Our ultimate destination would be the Oregon coast; how we navigated our path would become quite the journey.

SOL Colorado

2008-01-22T21:29:00.000-06:00

ON OUR WAY

We left Kansas City early morning July 25th, heading to Monument, Colorado, where we’d hang out for a family day, a little altitude adjustment and a couple of quick haircuts from my niece, Colleen. From there, we quickly moved onto Salida where the Arkansas River runs directly through town and play boating is abundant... Sam, with boat on shoulder was in the river within an hour of our arrival. I shuddered as I watched him attempting loop after loop, touching the water as if I needed to confirm what I already knew... yeah, it was real cold! Salida has become a second home of sorts for us. We’re there several times each winter, hitting the slopes at Monarch. Then back each summer, me for mountain biking and for Sam to follow his super wild kayaking dream. We’re fortunate to have found this amazing town, with such good people. It is great fun.

Since our arrival coincided with the summer monsoon season we took up temporary residence with our friends, the Donavan’s. As always, the family to hang with and quite tough to leave behind. But with just three short weeks to accomplish our goal and beat it back to KC for the start of school, the clock was ticking. We left Salida after a few days, but not before hitting our annual Monarch Crest ride and Sam, under the careful tutelage of Read McCulloch, paddled his first class IV run, The Numbers. Though he did do most of rapid Number Four upside down. And he thought that was fun!

SOL Colorado 1

2008-01-22T21:25:00.001-06:00

SOL Colorado 2

2008-01-22T21:05:00.000-06:00

SOL Colorado 3

2008-01-22T21:03:00.000-06:00

SOL Wyoming

2008-01-22T17:36:00.000-06:00

A LITTLE DISHEARTENING

Our next destination was Green River, Wyoming. The drive northwest yielded an amazing array of mountain vistas throughout Colorado, eventually melding into the endless plains of southern Wyoming. We arrived around 4pm, and immediately set out to scout the river. It was, at best, a disappointment. Our trip took place late in the whitewater season, so the river was down. We camped at Tex’s RV park - it was late and we weren’t picky. Sam paddled the following day for a couple of hours... I figured even four time world champ Eric Jackson couldn’t do too much at those water levels. We could make Salt Lake by mid-afternoon if we hustled; it wasn’t a hard sell. Boat and gear were quickly loaded and off we went.

SOL Wyoming 1

2008-01-22T17:32:00.001-06:00

SOL Utah

2008-01-22T17:29:00.000-06:00

HALLOWED GROUND?

We arrived in Salt Lake City, but without any idea where to stay. I took a quick look at the map, taking note of Antelope Island on the Great Salt Lake. It sure looked big enough to house at least a campsite or two. We headed that direction. Much to our delight camping was allowed. Posthaste, the tent was pitched and we headed back to town in hopes of locating the next aquatic adventure spot.

When you embark on a trip like this, it’s not much good if the driver doesn’t know too much about paddling (except how to load and unload the gear). Maps, books and the internet are wonderful resources, but over time, it’s become quite apparent that knowing the right people in all the right places is of much greater benefit. After a lengthy search we found the kayaking play park; trouble was, there wasn’t any water. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but it was barely enough to wade across and that was problematic. We needed dinner and time to reassess the situation.

There are staples in anyone’s diet, and for us, Mexican fits the bill. After a short tour we happened upon an excellent little venue... not much English was spoken, which tipped the scale in its favor. An hour and a beer later, we left. Our bellies greatly satisfied and filled with hope that tomorrow would yield a fine paddling opportunity somewhere in the greater Salt Lake region.

Rain pelted the tent throughout the night, making sleep a most unnatural occurrence. Daybreak at long last arrived, and even though a night’s rest was unduly deprived, I was happy to leave our makeshift home. Making our way towards the familiar sounds of mountain streams seeking to escape their natural boundaries seemed somewhat more settling to the soul.

As luck would have it, we drove directly pass an outdoors store with kayaks lined up out front! How’d I miss that one last night? I turned in, hoping to hear a few good suggestions. The staff was friendly and somewhat knowledgeable, but the spring melt run-off was long gone, so opportunities were not abundant. We were sent back up the canyon some 30 miles to locate a small riffle on the Weber River. The river flow was higher and faster then in Wyoming, but still not what either of us were used to seeing in Colorado.

Every time I watch Sam climb into his boat I send out a little positive juju. A prayer, if you will, for his safe and happy return to the shoreline. Many paddlers will tell you they know of someone who’s died pursuing this rather amazing athletic endeavor. I fully understand the inherent risks at hand. For some reason, today I had an unpleasant feeling in my gut... perhaps my old runner’s intuition was making an uncalled for appearance. I called out, “Be safe, have fun.” Sam waved to me, tested the water, made a cold face, and was off to tackle his newest piece of paddling paradise. After his routine warm up and roll session, he raced into the wave, side surfing until being mercilessly flushed downstream. Undeterred, he attacked the spot again and again, with the repeated result of flush and roll. This wasn’t a good hole and instantaneously it chose to prevail... Sam caught an edge and was thrown underneath the turbulent waves once again. He emerged a little later than usual, this time shaking his head. I watched and waited - he pointed to his helmet, but I didn’t understand the problem. As he paddled towards me, I finally saw from some thirty feet away, a bump the size of a small tomato had quickly formed on his forehead. Today’s foray with the water came to an abrupt end as we headed off to find an ice machine, discussing whether a hospital visit was necessary. Despite the rather ugly lump, which carried the patented trademark of a typical bar room brawl, the ice pack and tylenol regimen paid a quick dividend of relief and we opted for the road. I kept the ever vigilant eye on Sam’s nasty run-in with the unseen rocks of Weber River.

SOL Utah 1

2008-01-22T17:25:00.001-06:00

SOL Idaho

2008-01-22T16:59:00.000-06:00

THE PROMISE LAND

The uncharted land of Idaho beckoned us and we were able to make Boise by mid-evening. Given our late arrival, we opted for a little hotel R+R. A nice meal, hot showers, beds, freshly laundered clothes, combined with some mindless TV, were all welcomed relief from our road travels. I chose not to wake Sam as I headed downstairs for my morning java - he’d been a trooper thus far... a little extra rest seemed like a wise investment.

By midmorning I’d repacked the car and we were ready to resume our travels. Before leaving, I decided a new, snug-fitting helmet was a better option than allowing Sam’s head to once again become a fragile battering ram. As we attempted to locate the local whitewater shop, I nearly pissed my pants as Sam shrieked, “Did you see that?” “What?” I asked somewhat incredulously. He was laughing uncontrollably, “The condom shop.” Okay, this I had to see.

We made the necessary turns and low and behold, situated on Main Street in Boise, Idaho - The Ozone, Boise’s only condom shop. I stopped and went inside, seeking permission to shoot a picture. There, I was greeted with the most diverse selection of condoms I’ve ever seen. Pictures weren’t a problem - turned out this was a common request. They sent me packing with some free bumper stickers, but no gratis protection was offered upon my exit.

I spent a few minutes photographing Sam, adorned in a little kayaking gear in front of the unique street side sign... fun stuff. Before exiting town we found a choice new helmet and I felt relieved knowing the boys head would be better protected from any future river calamities.

The route on ID-55 from Boise to Riggins, Idaho was stunning. It would be easy to live in this country. We headed to Riggins to experience the magic of the Salmon River and upon our arrival it was rather obvious that even a whitewater neophyte could grasp the vast potential this area offers. It was late afternoon as we meandered up the one lane road. Watching the light dance around the rock walls was mesmerizing, inundating the senses into a virtual dream state. We’ve been directed to a patch of private ground where the land owner allows travelers to camp free of charge on the rivers edge. It seems this is how it should be when you visit a place as beautiful as the Salmon. We happened upon a great find, a mere 100 yards downstream from the famed Cats Paw rapid and set our tent a stones throw away from the water.

This place felt like heaven. At the very least, it became my dream of what heaven should be. The night sky greeted us with stars slowly emerging to illuminate the darkness - creating a magnificent canvas to lay back and marvel at. Sam gazed upward, then turning to me, softly said, “Thank you for this.” I am touched by the poignancy of these simple words. I paused, soaking in the fullness of the moment and finally replied, “I’m happy you like it.” We drifted off to sleep.

Morning made its presence known without an alarm clock or car horns, a welcomed respite from the regular routine of city life. The Salmon’s temperature was perfect for an impromptu bath before driving into Riggins for breakfast and a little caffeine pick-me-up. Prior to this trip, Sam’s kayaking experience had been limited to river running and whitewater parks, the latter of which are somewhat designed to funnel boaters directly into the playholes. Learning how to surf a larger rapid like Cats Paw would demand a new and self-taught strategy... a little extra paddling patience would work wonders. We holed up at our spot on the Salmon for three days, and with every session Sam’s paddling of the rapid grew stronger and more proficient, until, ultimately, he had full command of the wave. But, the calendar was gaining on us and the Pacific coast awaited our arrival. We bid a sad farewell to our cozy stream side nirvana and a couple of pesky little rattlesnakes before setting out for the super cool community of Bend, Oregon.

SOL Idaho 1

2008-01-22T16:58:00.001-06:00

SOL Idaho 2

2008-01-22T16:56:00.001-06:00

SOL Idaho 3

2008-01-22T16:34:00.001-06:00

SOL Oregon

2008-01-22T16:30:00.000-06:00

A FAR PIECE

Oregon was perhaps the most majestic state we crossed during our travels. Upon venturing into another new area, Sam grew quite fond of saying “Man, it just smells so damn good and it’s just so damn ... pretty, dammit!”

The area surrounding Bend presents a unique visual challenge. You drive somewhat submerged within the landscape as the mountains seemingly loom within an arm’s grasp, but in reality sit a good distance away from the city. It presents a disorienting, yet calming affect upon the mind, easily disarming the traveler. Arriving late, we opted for another hotel clean up, real beds and caught up on a few e-mail’s.

Our plan the following day was to meet up with transplanted Coloradan, Brad Goettemoeller. I headed out at first light to pick up my coffee cup from the car. It was a beautiful sunny morning, the scent of pine filling the air. As I reached to grab the mug, Sam’s paddle clipped me in the side of the head. It was out of place, but I didn’t give it much thought. Then I noticed the rear window was down and I thought, oh man, how’d I space that one out... I must’ve been really tired last night. I hopped in - turned the key to roll up the window, but nothing happened. I pressed the button again, hearing a clicking sound. That’s weird . . . I thought as I stepped out to see what was wrong with the blasted window. That’s when I saw the shattered glass all over the ground. Okay, so at times, I’m a little slow on the uptake, but NOW I’ve finally realized what had happened. Darn it, I was really liking Bend! “Oh well, it’s just stuff.” I said to myself... they must have needed it more than me. I headed upstairs to let Sam know what had transpired, called the police department and contacted my insurance agent. We ended up meeting Brad later that afternoon. He generously offered to drive to the evening’s river destination, which, having been sworn to secrecy, I’m not at liberty to divulge to the general public... suffice to say, it’s a pretty sweet play spot.

It never ceases to amaze me at the generosity I’ve witnessed within the paddling community. I’ve watched as these athletes are constantly attempting to one-up their friends with bigger tricks than have previously been seen. But almost without exception they’ll turn to mentor each other while each one patiently waits their turn to throw down another acrobatic move. New, inexperienced paddlers are carefully watched over like the babes they are, by the more seasoned veterans. Perhaps it is the rhythm of the water which bonds these disparate souls together. I like it that Sam has found a home amongst this group of nomads.

That evening several boaters were taking turns at surfing and looping the wave. They seem surprised to hear we’ve traveled from Kansas, but upon learning the details of the entire trip, they nodded their heads in appreciation of the travels. I came away thinking that most of them have pursued a similar path at least once in their lives. We stayed until the sun has left this side of the world and evenings air began to work a quick chill on us. We enjoyed our brief time with Brad, he was a most gracious and informative host... another river brother bond was made. Tomorrow morning, a new car window would be in place, we’d spend an hour or so shopping for our newly needed threads and then it was off to the pacific coast of southwestern Oregon. We departed Bend by late morning, arriving at the ocean just before the sun sunk over the horizon. Perfect. Heading south on highway 101, we pulled into the secluded seaside hamlet of Charleston. While making our way towards the water we spotted, Capt. John’s Motel (Yarrrrr!) and couldn’t resist the temptation. We pulled in for a night’s rest.

We’ve begun the final week of our trip and the one remaining item on our agenda is a little paddling for Sam with Jessie Stone’s group of teenagers from the Harlem Boys and Girls club Upward Bound program. I first learned about Jessie through one of Sam’s kayaking magazines. This remarkable woman is a world class playboater and adventure paddler, who also happens to be a physician running a nonprofit organization in Uganda. Her group, SoftPower Health, is helping people thrive in one of the worlds tougher regions. A month before our trip began, I spent a few days with Jessie, her longtime Oregonian friends, Margie and Hayden Glatte, and the kayaking phenom, Emily Jackson, documenting these dynamic teachers as they introduced the kids to kayaking. Now, barely a month later, the entire group, along with their diligent chaperones, Rosanna and Anthony, a.k.a.: Mr. Means, have jetted across the country where they’ll spend the next 5 days paddling through a remote section of Oregon’s pristine Rogue River wilderness. Tonight we’d camp next to the Rogue, just upstream from where we’d meet up with the entourage. We were greeted with yet another celestial delight, but unfortunately this was a public campground and it was filled with the typical grouping of weekend party animals, a stark contrast to the sublime solitude and beauty we’d experienced back in Idaho. Thankfully, we were afforded the luxury of building a roaring fire with which to pass the evening. We turned in early, hoping the evenings crescendo would soon fade away.

The morning sun greeted us with the sights and sounds of our fellow campers still safely tucked away within the confines of their campsites. We made a quick escape, tossing our sleeping bags and tent into the car and left the campground largely unnoticed... NICE!

Our NYC connection was running a bit late, due to a delayed evening flight. Sam found a small rapid worthy of an attempt, but there wasn’t much to it and soon he returned to shore. Soon enough the group arrived. The kids, hampered by jet lag, were lethargic, but seemingly in good spirits. Rosanna and Anthony were as feisty as ever. It was good to see everyone.

Sam’s welcomed by his newly acquainted peers with smiles and a few questions about his paddling ability. After a short orientation speech concerning various personal responsibilities and dangers of the wilderness area - the rafts, duckies and kayaks were launched. At long last the group began its quest of the Rogue.

I drove the river road, stopping for the occasional picture. A steady stream of laughter echoed throughout the gorge. It was a warm, sun drenched day, reenergizing the spirit. Much too soon, the flotilla of boats reached its designated lunch rendezvous spot. We exchanged goodbye’s, packed Sam’s gear, and began our mad dash East for the first day of high school. Over the next few hours, Sam occasionally lamented his wish to have continued along downstream with his new friends on yet another unique river adventure. His face was full of smiles.

The remainder of the day was spent traversing northeastern Oregon as we headed towards Montana via Spokane, Washington. With the exception of a brief visit to Crater Lake, it is a forgettable route. I think about the lavish views that have spoiled us. Truly, we’ve been lucky. We drove well into early morning, making good time into southwestern Washington, finally stopping for a few hours of rest before resuming our sprint eastward. It was 9am as I turned north on I-82, a long haul to Bozeman laid ahead. For the first time since leaving Kansas, the thermometer drew our attention. Still, we resisted the temptation of switching on the AC, opting for a dose of dry western air whipping through the car... it seemed comfortable enough.

SOL Oregon 1

2008-01-22T16:28:00.001-06:00

SOL Oregon 2

2008-01-22T16:15:00.000-06:00

SOL Oregon 3

2008-01-22T15:29:00.001-06:00

SOL Montana

2008-01-22T14:54:00.000-06:00

TRANSITIONS

Nearing the Montana border, the sky became noticeably darker. Major fires had been raging throughout the West all summer and though the closest active flames were well over 50 miles away, their smoke had begun blocking out the sun. With no reason to stop, we pressed on, arriving in Bozeman around 8pm. Brother-in-law Tom had dinner waiting, fresh linens on the beds and a cold beer in hand.
It was a treat to end another long day with a good visit.

Our trip was nearing completion, but I decided to drag the boy on one last little excursion. Some 60 miles south of Bozeman sits Yellowstone National Park. It is, unquestionably, a national gem.

In 1976, I spent the summer working as a dishwasher at Yellowstone Lake. I turned 19 that June, made friends from across the U.S., and spent all my free time fly fishing and backpacking throughout the park. It was, unquestionably, the most memorable summer of my life. We stopped to marvel at a few of the numerous hot springs, geysers and waterfalls before finally arriving at Hamilton’s Lake Store Number Four. The mobile home I shared with five coworkers remained positioned in the same spot. A wood shed roof had been added to its facade. Inside, I met a young Japanese woman busily surfing the web on the company computer (and we didn’t even have a telephone in the main house!) The kitchen where I made my first loaf of bread appeared untouched by time.

Thirty one years have passed since I worked here. As I looked towards the distant shoreline, it dawned on me that Sam is just four years younger now than I was the first time I cast my eyes upon this blissful sight. My mind shifted from present to past, attempting to comprehend the gulf of time simultaneously separating and connecting us. I wondered where Sam’s path will take him in four short years...

SOL Montana 1

2008-01-22T14:50:00.000-06:00

This set of images - circa summer 1976, The first Reichman SOL

SOL Final leg

2008-01-22T14:45:00.002-06:00

Homeward Bound

The Tetons were a relatively short haul south of us. The lake continued to make her presence known with the intermittent roadside view, finally giving way to a screen of pavement and trees in the rear view mirror. Our version of the Swiss Alps, is what I think every time I see the Tetons. Their jagged peaks etched into the horizon were breathtaking. The setting sun peeked in and out the clouds. It was brilliant. We stopped, shot the obligatory pictures, enjoyed a lovely dinner in Jackson Hole and proceeded across southern Wyoming. It was a welcomed relief to traverse I-80 under the cover of darkness, we arrived in Rawlins at 3am.

August 14th, we slept in. School would begin in just two days. Our amazing little adventure concluded in much the same manner it began, passing by countless fields of nondescript midwestern farmland. Crossing into Nebraska, an unwavering blast of heat and humidity greeted us. With no relief in sight, car windows were dutifully rolled up - the air conditioning doing its appointed task, drying off our sweat soaked shirts. We continued East on I-80, turning southeast at Lincoln and finally onto I-29. Having traveled this route countless times over the past twenty years, I switched the car over to auto pilot and in a few short hours we were home.

Our epic wandering complete - I nudged Sam, we trudged into the house and fell into our beds. My mind slipped off to thoughts of Idaho.

SOL Final Leg 1

2008-01-22T14:41:00.001-06:00

daniel

2008-01-18T12:35:00.000-06:00

As a kid, our family pet was Annie the cat, but secretly I pined away for a dog.

It was the fall of 1981 when I returned to KU from yet another newspaper internship and I was determined to find a good “working dog.” After conducting a massive in-depth study I concluded that everyone had a labrador... after all it was the only dog I kept seeing on campus. Golden retrievers, known for their style, great nose and even temperament, seemed to be the next logical choice, plus I surmised a golden puppy might aid in my search to find a good woman, too. I mean, how can a gal turn down a fluffy teddy bear? Turns out there was some merit in that thought...

So, like any good investigative journalist, I began pouring through the local newspaper classifieds- I believe the internet was only a dream in Al Gore’s state of mind at the time. I found a litter in Baldwin City, KS. The breeder was an avid upland hunter, a minister in the community, and he owned both the sire and the dam. How could I go wrong? The only problem was the pup who showed the most interest in retrieving, and the only one who kept coming to me - had this white patch on his chest. I’d read this wasn’t a desirable trait, but the little guy just wouldn’t leave me alone. After a lengthy deliberation, I took him home.

I named him Daniel and he was my constant companion going everywhere with me, except class, which I rarely attended anyway, so it worked out just fine. Together we traveled across much of the country... the classic boy and his dog story seeking out new adventures, always returning home with a handful of fanciful tales.

Daniel was, I can safely say- much smarter than me. We shared some spectacular hunting experiences. One day, while pheasant hunting in McPherson, KS., a group of hunters asked if I’d block for them as they made a push through a shelter belt. Before I knew it, birds of every imaginable type were hightailing it past me. Suddenly, I could hear the zing of bb’s whizzing past my head. I quickly dropped two roosters and looked for Daniel to retrieve them, but he was nowhere to be found. After scanning the horizon, I finally caught sight of him peering around the back end of my truck, parked some 100 yards away - as if to say, “is it safe to come out yet?” I joined him in short order.

Eventually Daniel willingly gave up the number one place in my life for a more desirable bed mate and my two young children, whom he would dote on and faithfully watch over. Every fall, after the first frost would arrive, he would wait patiently for our annual pilgrimage to central Kansas, for surely that was meant to be our time together.

Daniel was all that one could hope for in a companion - stylish, playful, loyal, loving and always carried himself as if he descended directly from nobility. I was blessed to have him in my life for 14 1/2 years. In May 1996, Daniel, Sam, and I drove out to McPherson, and together the three of us began to walk the fields... soon Daniel turned to me; in him I saw an appreciation of this moment and place. It was then when I understood he was at peace. Eight days later, I returned with Daniel and buried him in my hunting jacket near the shelter belt where he had so aptly proved his wisdom many years before.

I think of Daniel often and the manner in which he guided me through life that portion of my life. I know there’ll never be another spirit like him.

And all is well...

To Barack or Not

2008-01-17T15:13:00.002-06:00

A few days ago I received a forwarded e-mail from an acquaintance that I know through our shared love of labrador retrievers. The subject line was, “Who is Barack Obama?” My buddy, who’ll remain nameless, is a salt of the earth guy. He’s worked hard his entire life, raised a family and is the quintessential “give you the shirt off his back,” person we all respect. As you’ve surely surmised, the information contained in this e-mail didn’t paint a very flattering portrait of Mr. Obama. Fair enough, Obama’s a big boy. He knew exactly what he was exposing himself and his family to when he chose to run for President.

Today, we are all media savvy enough to recognize that character assassination and misinformation, are routinely used in political campaigns. But this e-mail went too far, simultaneously punching both the race and religious hot buttons. To cap it off, once I followed the web link that was provided to prove the “TRUTH” about Obama, I discovered the information actually disproved all of the bigoted accusations asserted in the original e-mail. My guess is that most people won’t bother checking the link out to see just what was the real story is.

For the record, I’m not on the Obama bandwagon. Until he dropped out, I favored Democrat Bill Richardson’s energy ideas and international diplomacy background. For the Republican’s, McCain seems the most sensible candidate. As a registered Independent, I’m one of those voters that both candidates and pollsters dread. The message, not the party, is what matters. Perhaps it is this constituency who will determine our next President. One can dream.

I’m not quite sure why Obama scares people. I find his dialog a welcomed change to the political landscape. He actually talks about hope. Wow, what a novel concept.

Back to the e-mail. A few highlights: •Obama was sworn into office using the Quran, not the bible - FALSE. •Obama is a radical Muslim - FALSE, in fact he attends the Trinity United Church of Christ. •Obama’s church has a”non-negotiable commitment to Africa,” that is covertly Muslim and excludes non-blacks, FALSE. I could go on in detail, but suffice to say, the e-mail rhetoric was very inflammatory. You get the picture.

Perhaps experiencing prejudice firsthand makes one more sensitive to these issues. Growing up, I was routinely heckled and attacked by a fellow classmate, simply because of my religion. My parents told me to “turn the other cheek,” and “just walk away.” Then one day I’d had enough. I was walking to school, relentlessly being taunted and pelted with a few well-placed rocks. One too many, “Hitler didn’t get the job done,” remarks were uttered, and so, I crossed the street and proceeded to beat my classmate pretty badly. I’ve always felt a tinge of remorse about my actions that day, because I knew he was physically, a weak and fearful person. But, at some point we must all be held accountable for the words we speak.

You know that all dogs are color blind. There must be at least one good reason for that. Oftentimes, I’ve thought a good dog is much better company kept, than some people I’ve met along the way. Think about it. All a dog truly desires, is a good belly rub, a place to sleep, food, and water. In return, they protect your home and give you their undivided attention. They never lie to you. Okay, the smart ones will try. Honestly, they just can’t help themselves, they’re just like teenagers testing limits. If you fight with them, instead of storming out of the house or locking themselves in a room, they sit there with those sad eyes until you reassure them everything's all right. How lucky we are to have domesticated these wild animals into such faithful companions. Perhaps, we should all try to emulate their behavior more often.

It never seems to fail, that fear remains the quickest method for tearing down a political figure. I find it shameful; that an intelligent, articulate and charismatic figure like Obama is attacked simply because of his skin color and a “Middle Eastern” sounding name. Prove to me, that’s not what’s going on here. As I wrote my dog friend, there’s no place for this type of racial bigotry and hatred in America today.

We are still the land of opportunity, aren’t we? I hope, for my children’s sake, the answer to that question is an unqualified, yes.

NYC Happy Snaps

2008-01-11T07:04:00.000-06:00

Wow, this was a whirlwind 4 day trip if ever there was one.

Katz's deli, Empire State Building, Times Square, Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Guggenheim Museum, Sammy's steak house, Grand Central terminal, Rockefeller Center, Metropolitan Museum, a stroll through Central Park, SoHo, Little Italy, Chinatown, Joe's Shanghai, B+H Photo, Lower East Side, Tribeca - oh, and we did a little shopping too- are you tired yet, cause I sure am!!

I don't remember the last time I saw so much of NYC in such a short time. This was Rachel's first trip to NYC... her eye's were wide open most of the weekend. It was great fun to share this with my little girl, who much to my dismay, is all grown up now.

Here's a few quick pics from our trip... shot with Rachel's happy snap camera. This marks my first trip ever to NYC that I haven't taken 'my gear' - it was kinda fun to play tourist... though I will admit to suffering a little bit of 'withdrawal' symptoms when I wanted to shoot a real picture.

Cheers, Eli

KC Ice

2007-12-29T20:59:00.001-06:00

A small remnant of winter's latest blast.

Evening On The Prairie

2007-12-09T23:46:00.000-06:00

I can't think of a better way to spend a wintery Sunday afternoon than with old friends.

My old college roommate Mike, his lovely bride Sara and their three very cool kids- invited me out to the "Ponderosa," for the annual family Christmas tree hunt, threw in a tasty dinner and a lovely evening fireside chat to boot. There's nothing like the good company of great friends to usher in another wonderful holiday season.

A New Look

2007-11-15T06:36:00.000-06:00

I've discovered I'm a terrible client.
My good friend and designer, Mike Fairchild of dezinathon.com, has waited patiently the past five months for me to supply the finished images so he could wrap up the new look.
As the saying goes - All's well that ends well.
Come on then, take a drive - www.eliphoto.com.

The Legends of Domino Park and a shoot gone awry.

2007-06-30T15:07:00.000-06:00

The story begins simply enough...

I flew to Miami recently to produce a few images for an annual report I’m working on. As previously arranged I contacted my subject Tuesday evening to lay out the plans for the following day’s shoot. Something was amiss- her voice was strained, distant - distracted... Of course she remembered me, but she’d ‘forgotten’ about the shoot - she couldn’t meet that night after all. And now a week after volunteering to take time off of work, she’s saying that she didn’t realize the photography would take so much time. Uh Oh! I spend the next fifteen minutes reassuring her that the photography would be a fun and unique experience. She understands and agrees to call me the following morning. I hang up, but an inner voice says- you’re in trouble on this one bubba. I e-mail the client explaining the circumstances and suggest they might want to search for a replacement just in case. Wednesday morning’s appointed time comes and goes without a peep from my phone. I leave four messages throughout the day - she’s bailed. It’s the first time in my 20+ year’s of freelancing this has ever happened, I suppose it was inevitable.

It’s late Wednesday afternoon, the client is working hard to line up another subject. I do some editing on the laptop, while waiting to hear if I stay or go. Silence can be deafening when everything comes to a standstill. I head to the beach for a hard walk in wet sand to work the legs and clear the mind.

Thursday midmorning, faint signs emerge a new subject is on board. By 3pm I have the green light and phone number for contact. I call - thankfully he answers... Victor, a Cuban immigrant in his mid 30’s, his English is just good enough that we can communicate. I think - why didn’t I take more than one year of Spanish? We arrange to meet that evening at a restaurant in the LIttle Havana section of Miami. I arrive 15 minutes early - Victor rushes in 30 minutes late, but at least he’s here - I breathe a sigh of relief. We chat as I pull out the laptop showing samples of pictures I’ve done so far and the layout for the annual report. He understands, but something has come up... do we have to shoot tomorrow, what about Saturday or Sunday? Victor explains that he’s just gotten a last minute moving job and really needs the work. I think maybe the moving scenario will yield some nice images - I close my eyes and envision a few possibilities. Adaptation is the mark of versatility, right? We eat dinner and arrange to meet at 6am Friday morning.

I’m there at a quarter til 6 - the crew rolls in at 6:10. I’m introduced to the two associates, both of whom speak excellent English - this is good. I follow them to the outskirts of Miami. The driver, Juan Carlos doesn’t want me to shoot any identifiable pictures of the truck or him for that matter - no problem, I assure him I’m only there to photograph Victor... still I sense a storm brewing. About five minutes into the shoot - Juan, a.k.a. “the boss man” pulls me aside telling me that I’ll have to stop shooting pictures - “it’s just not very professional for you to be here.” I look at Juan, I look at the truck - I look back at Juan and think to myself - dude, I’m the only professional part of this group! No worries- I’ll back off for awhile. As they finish up I shoot a little more and return to my car, waiting to follow them to Naples for the unload. Victor gets out of the truck and walks in my direction - head down. I know what’s coming. Sure enough, Juan has given him the ultimatum - either I go or he goes. I acquiesce, not wanting Victor to lose the opportunity of making a few extra dollars. He assures me that he’ll be back by 1 or 2 that afternoon and will call right away, so we can shoot later in the afternoon. It’s 4pm and not a word (I’ve already done the beach walk 2x today) - so I call his cell, it goes to voice mail - I leave a polite message. Fifteen minutes pass - he calls. The truck overheated and broke down on the way to Naples... Juan's karma for the day. Victor’s not home and I can’t get a good handle on just where he is. I explain we need to shoot today - he says 9 tonight?.... no, we must start no later than 6pm - he’ll call me back in 5 minutes. I choose not to wait, grab my gear and ask the valet for the car... 30 minutes and still no car. I go ask the valet what’s up... they can’t find the keys. You’re kidding, right? No, they really can’t find my car keys - great. I head to the GM office in the hotel, explain the situation - immediately a locksmith is called and actually shows up fairly promptly. The car finally arrives (it’s now been an hour and no call from Victor) - I jump in and see the original rental key in the ignition and realize the valet had locked the keys in the car - I shake my head and laugh.

I’m on my way to Victor’s apartment in Little Havana, when he calls. He’s home - I ask him to wait and I’ll be there within 20 minutes. When I arrive he’s freshly showered and still willing to shoot. We head off in search of a suitable location - my brain is frazzled... any idea’s I had are gone or simply not doable - I’m grasping at air. We arrive at a nearby park and begin walking, less than a hundred yards away is a group of gang bangers looking for trouble - this is not the situation I was looking for. We continue walking to the other side of the park where a group of kids are in the middle of baseball practice. We settle into the dugout and watch - I shoot a few frames and soon enough Victor begins chatting with one player and his coach - it seems quite natural for all of them. Amazingly- the pictures get better and I know I have a few frames that work well. Still - I’m not satisfied, but we’ve run out of time tonight as Victor needs to pick up a relative at the airport. There’s a chance that we’ll be able to shoot more in the morning if the moving truck isn’t repaired. I ask Victor to call me at any hour and let me know.

Saturday morning 6:30am the phone rings - it’s Victor, but I have a hard time figuring out where he is... he’s definitely not at his house. I finally understand his location, I ask him to wait and I'll come to him... I’ll be there in an hour. I grab all my gear, check out of the hotel, car keys safe n sound in the valet’s hand and head off in search of Victor. Sure enough he’s there waiting for me. He looks tired and a bit drawn, he says he couldn’t sleep last night. We go in search of coffee - both of us need it. A couple of Cuban espresso’s later, all is good. I have an idea, there is a domino park in Little Havana - does Victor play? Yes. Awesome. We head that way. As we near the park, we see men are lined up waiting for the gates to open... it’s 8am. This group of Cuban ex-patriots gather almost every day to play some pretty wicked domino’s. They agree to let Victor sit in for a few games while I shoot pictures... normally no one under the age of 55 is allowed to play! We are honored guests. The pictures of Victor come easily - one can see that he enjoys the camaraderie of his countrymen and he seems to have a flare for the game. I finish up by shooting a few frames of the “legends” of Domino Park... these are great men playing a great game.

Victor and I exchange our goodbye's and I head to the airport. One delayed flight and three airlines later - I am home in bed at midnight.
What a week, eh? It was brilliant.

Kid stuff

2007-04-19T10:26:00.000-06:00

When I began writing this blog I didn’t think that I’d ever talk about my kids, but recent events have caused me to take pause and more fully appreciate the time I’ve been able to share with both of them.

Rachel’s Art

Like most parents with teenagers I wonder where have all the years gone? Of course, that question is easily answered with one quick look in the mirror. Still, as I see friends and family with young children, I recall the innocence of Rachel and a flood of memories overtake me. Oh, I don’t miss changing diapers or the sleepless nights, but occasionally I yearn for the days when she’d hike herself up on my lap- demanding yet another book be read... or those times she’d open the kitchen drawer - tossing out all the pots and pans, just so she could crawl in and take up residence in that spot.

Reality swiftly reasserts its natural position. In a year from now Rachel will be preparing for high school graduation - the mere thought of a kid in college will readjust one’s life perspective in a heartbeat. Like a heavy morning fog lifting, I see Rachel emerging into her next phase... a young woman with a bright mind, a healthy, spirited soul and blessed with promising artistic talent... I sit back and am amazed at the person she’s becoming.

Sam’s Cause

I want this boys life... Saturday, March 24th - catching sweet backside grabs at Monarch Mountain in 8” fresh + the following Saturday, April 1st throwing his first loop at the OMP kayak clinic on the St. Francis River in southeastern Missouri. This is Sam’s ‘fun’ side... I guess it pays to be his chauffeur.

There is a depth to Sam that craves the balance delivered by participation in sports and time spent outdoors. An intensely driven kid, Sam has been gifted academically. Next year, he’ll enter the Center for International Studies program at SMS High School where he’s chosen to study Arabic two hours a day, five days a week for the next four years... yes, I did say High School. Shish- where did this kid come from? Sam is without question, his own person.

Sam has also been imbued with a unique sense of social justice. Two years ago, he began a petition calling on the United Nations to halt the ongoing genocide in Darfur. After collecting more than 250 signatures Sam’s letter was sent to Kofi Anan’s office with a copy going to President George Bush. Neither the UN or the White House ever responded to the petition. Undaunted, Sam pursued this cause by recruiting a number of classmates at Indian Hills Middle School and together the group began circulating a new Darfur petition that will be sent to the leaders of the U.S. Congress. Thus far their group has collected nearly 1,000 signatures.

Most everyone reading this either has children, nieces or nephews, grandchildren or friends with children. I’d encourage everyone to co-opt the IHMS petition in your area schools and communities - demanding that our legislative leadership apply economic pressure on the Sudanese government to stop this state sponsored genocide. E-mail me (eli@eliphoto.com) and I’ll forward you a pdf copy of the Darfur petition.

Cheers- Eli

Winter Fun

2007-03-08T23:49:00.000-06:00

A few quick pics from last week's efforts at Monarch Mountain...

Since the weather was a bit sketchy last week (it dumped an average of 7-8" fresh every day) I've thrown in a couple of pics done late last year of the Donavan's, a.k.a. "Wild Bill" and his wife, "Lovely Laura" pulling off a couple of 'sweet' moves just for the camera. Check out their blog (www.dangerousdonavan.blogspot.com), these two and their boys, Riley and Shea are GREAT people... I'm fortunate to count them as friends!

This place is one of the best kept ski and snowboard secrets in the U.S.Check it out,
(www.skimonarch.com) Monarch rocks! It is a great place to get away from the crowds, enjoy amazing powder with really good people. Greg Ralph, Eric Ramsey and the entire marketing team at Monarch are top notch.

A special thanks to Chris, Matt and James for hitting that backcountry kicker - you guys were amazing (and crazy!)... more to come of that. So, what the heck is Chris doing "upside down?" No worries- he landed this one CLEAN.

Cheers- Eli

Peru

2007-02-17T10:10:00.000-06:00

For ten days in August 2003 with backpacks, cameras and my eleven year old son in tow I traveled throughout southern Peru.

Beginning in Lima, we first traveled to Cusco “the real Peru”, according to our guide and good friend, Isaias Cardenas. From Cusco, we ventured south through Ollantaytambo, Pisac, Quora, Sicuani and onto the remote highlands village of Phinaya, which at 5000 meters was the highest elevation these Kansas flatlanders had ever ventured.

Returning to Cusco for a “breather”, we set off to Machu Picchu and lastly to Puno and Isla Taquile on Lake Titicaca, the worlds highest navigable lake. After climbing half of the 530 steps from the lake to the village of Taquile, Sam exclaimed, “I’d been happy to go home after Machu Picchu”! At 4,200 meters it was quite the hike up, but our efforts were rewarded by partaking in the islands biggest festival - the pachamama feast day.

We found the Peruvians to be warm and gracious people who opened up their homes and hearts to us.

A Simple Promise

2007-02-15T22:56:00.000-06:00

Lester Yoder is anxious. It’s been more than a week since he spoke to Millie and she told him the best letter ever would soon be coming his way.

Quietly working away, Lester sheepishly glances out his shop window, hoping for a sign from his friend Perry, signaling today’s mail will deliver the long awaited promise. Still far down the lane with the mail in hand, Perry doesn’t reveal a clue as he strides - head down, his expression well covered up by a large black cowboy hat.

I was first introduced to Lester and Perry at JB’s restaurant in Miles City, Montana where I was meeting rancher, Dave Bliss. A Long Island, NY transplant, Dave headed his compass west 40 some years ago with the belief that ranch life was the only life for him. Rounding the bend into his 60’s now, Dave still carries his lanky frame with a purpose - albeit a bit bowed by time, he wears his age well.

As I joined up with this unlikely threesome, I learned I’d be giving Lester and Perry a ride back to their Amish community in nearby Ashland, Montana as I made my way to the Bliss Ranch. And so it was that I first befriended these two amiable young lads and in doing so, was graced with a touch of serendipity during my westward travels.

The Yoder family came to Montana from their Wisconsin home when Lester was just a boy. After 13 years, the family opted to return to the warmth of an Up North winter in lieu of the routine arctic blast commonly experienced in this high plains country. But, the love of horses and the open range would not relinquish their hold on Lester and so he stayed on. As the first Amish custom saddle maker, Lester is carving out a unique niche for himself, crafting beautiful pieces of art that are quietly being collected by cowboys from across the United States.

“It’s the creative part that pushes me. I can sit down, draw patterns and work with the leather for hours,” Lester says while sniping away at the lambs wool backing for a new saddle. He’s focused now, there seems to be an urgency - a rhythm to his work and thoughts of Millie, are for this very moment at least, visibly removed.

Outside, a brisk wind blows, relieving the late fall leaves from a nearby Aspen tree . . . Lester stops and looks as Perry approaches, but says nothing as he opens the door.

Perry Hochstetler is Lester’s roommate and best friend. He’s the joker, always fronting a big smile that matches his face well. He grins at Lester upon entering and begins talking about what the two should do for dinner. Lester will have none of it.

This moment is about Millie’s letter and it has, at long last arrived.

A soft spoken man with large hands and piercing blue eyes, Lester can barely contain his excitement. His countenance is now duly transformed into that of an 8 year old on Christmas morning. Lester and Millie began dating two years ago while he was visiting his family in Wisconsin. He’s trying to find the right words to describe what makes her so special, but they fall short. Picking up the letter “ooh, that’s heavy,” he smiles. Taking a knife from the work bench, Lester gently slides the blade taking extra care not to tear anything but the seam of the envelope.

Perry, his job now complete, turns himself to the remainder of the mail - while I sit watching Lester, first breathe in each page of Millie’s letter before partaking of her words.

As Lester immersed himself in Millie’s letter, a faint smile came to his face and then he stopped . . . everything. He stopped reading, stopped moving - hell, I swear he almost stopped breathing. And his smile turned into a glow, that grew and warmed the entire room.

Three months have since passed as I sat there watching Lester and I can still feel the fullness of his love for Millie.

A simple promise was delivered that day.

The love of his life awaits him. Come this spring, Lester Yoder will wait no more.

The Gathering

2007-02-13T11:15:00.000-06:00

A soft, but steady snow falls as I sit listening to Lucinda crying about ‘A World Without Tears,’ on the radio. Outside, a stiff north wind keeps the whirling snow from amounting to anything more than a temporary nuisance. Still, I choose to remain in the warmth of the car while I wait to meet Ned Hermanson at the junction on Hay Draw road.

Within a few minutes Ned rolls up - we exchange greetings, load my gear into his horse trailer and I jump in the truck. Today, friends will haul their rigs from all over McKenzie County to help the Crighton ranch bring in this years payday. Hermanson himself has driven some 30 plus miles with horses in tow to help out his old friends. Out west one discovers . . . neighbors are measured in square miles instead of city blocks.

Ned and I chat about the day’s work and in short order we arrive at the Crighton’s corral. Horses are quietly unloaded from trailers already saddled up and I realize these cowboys are all about the work at hand, no wasted time here.

The snow and wind have subsided as we make our way up the draws of the Badlands. Diane, my riding partner laughs as she watches the cattle and cowpokes play out their version of hide and seek in this rugged terrain. With each step the aroma of silver sage fills up the crisp morning air. Off in the distance I hear the yelps of cowboys rounding up the wayward cattle. Soon a long procession of momma cows with calves in tow, begin navigating the steep pitches of the snow crested buttes. It’s a routine so polished I sense that horse and rider could almost complete their mission blindfolded.

In a few hours the first part of the day’s work will be completed, but plenty of it remains as separating and shipping the weanling calves off to market will continue on throughout the day. Like a long lived Broadway play every part is perfectly choreographed through time and repetition of work. Each phase of the day is marked with well timed breaks for home cooked meals, washed down with a beer or two and perhaps a schnapps chaser for good measure.

The efforts of today will make the ultimate mark in the yearly finances of the Crighton ranch. Of equal importance is the underlying sense of community apparent in every facet of the day. There is an unspoken thirst for contact with friends not often seen, that is fittingly fulfilled during the Fall gatherings. And so yet another season of passage is complete for this generation of ranchers, who withstand the solitude of seemingly endless days and unrepentant weather to call this land home.

Crighton Ranch - McKenzie County, North Dakota

Robert Kills Enemy

2007-02-12T10:43:00.000-06:00

Every where I go, my name always comes up . . . where’d you get that name - how many people did you have to kill to get that name .... is that a real Indian name or did you just make it up? Everybody has something to say about it.

My grandfather earned that name in the 1860’s. His family was at their winter camp in Montana, when they were attacked by the U.S. Calvary. He was 12 years old and the only thing he had going for him was a war club and the guts to go out there and use it, I guess. He hit one soldier on the head and while he was trying to get his horse another soldier rode up and stabbed at him with a saber. My grandfather threw his arms up and the saber went completely through his arm getting caught. My grandfather turned upon the soldier and with the saber still lodged in his arm, beat the soldier with his war club until he was gone.

That’s where he earned his named Kills Enemy and after that he was a man . . . you know he earned that right. He was 98 years old when he died in 1953. There’s a lot that goes with my name. I’m proud of it.

Robert Kills Enemy
Oglala Sioux
Nearby Bullhead, SD.

2007-02-11T09:54:00.000-06:00

Flat Rock Ranch

2007-02-11T09:40:00.000-06:00

The drama of this landscape isn't in the obvious, it's in the nuances - the light hits a certain way and it's full of color, teaming with life; the light fades and it's flat, nondiscriminating. This terrain has been shaped over time by the elements . . . it is harsh and subtle, unique.

It takes a different eye to see it, you really have to be paying attention, get quiet. It's a brittle, fragile environment, once it's been altered, the character of place is forever changed.

The Little Missouri National Grasslands are like a young girl that’s too pretty for her own good . . . everybody wants a piece of her.

Oil development is rampant right now - knocking down hillsides, clearing away the prairie and leaving in its place mazes of roads for huge tankers to race across, and equipment that squeals and pounds day in and day out, breaking the clearness of the silence of the open spaces. The oil breaks down not only the character of the landscape, but also the community that for generations has lived within it.

There is tremendous value in living with nature, of being part of the natural cycle of life. It’s a hard life and not necessarily pretty or fun or romantic, but it builds character. The thing I object to is changing the land - the essence of a place. We should have more respect, let it teach us - it has a lot to tell if we care to listen.

I ‘own’ this ranch but that’s just people language on paper . . . you can’t own place. It's my privilege to be here, and it's my job to take care of it as best I can while I'm here.

Deb Stonecipher

Flat Rock Ranch

Halfway between Beach and Watford, North Dakota
as the crow flies . . . sort of.

2007-02-10T11:08:00.000-06:00

Gary Tescher

2007-02-10T11:03:00.000-06:00

“A lot of ranchers would most likely tell you that nothing beats the smell of fresh cut hay and that’s pretty high on my list too.

But, my favorite is the smell of a good horse . . .

That fresh cut hay . . . around here you can only smell that towards the end of June. But, I can smell my horses every day of the year. First thing I do when my horses come up to me is throw my arm around them and smell their neck . . . it’s my way of letting them know I’m their friend.

It’s just one of them small things . . . one of the reasons we do what we do. Small things that don’t mean much to some people - mean more to others.”

Gary Tescher
Squaw Gap, ND