A Letter From Lynne

As most of you know.  I am undertaking a three month journey across the US and back photographing our amazing country for good and for worse.  I will be sending updates on a daily basis to my assistant, Tania, who will create a newsletter of my photographs and comments on a periodic basis.  Although I am posting blogs myself when I have internet service, there are many interesting things that happen along the way that you might be interested in that aren't necessarily high art, including tips of where to go, where not to go (after tonight), and other anecdotal, behind the scenes images and thoughts that will give you a better idea of what it is really like for  woman to go across the country alone...  Driving across West Texas and into New Mexico made me realize that it isn't necessarily the safest thing for a single female to do alone. Just one of the stories you can read in the newsletter.

I started the drive from Sarasota to the Panhandle, which was pretty tame.  Saw the largest beef jerky stand in Otter Creek ever and I thought that was news.  The water was dark and filled with algae in Wakulla Springs and I had a hot night in Davis Bayou, Mississippi.  Things only got hotter.  Houston was almost 100 degrees and it is just as humid.  Didn't even consider going out into nature, and frankly, that is what is going to happen to a lot of nature lovers if global warming keeps escalating the way it is.  Spent the day in an air conditioned museum and didn't even mind how overly cold they kept the museum.  The next morning, I got up before the sun so I could run without melting.  Left early, so the sun wouldn't kill me in the car.  Unfortunately, I hit a huge Texas pothole and blew out my tire.  Turns out four people before me and two after me suffered the same unfortunate experience and I was out of there by 11:00 am.  Who knows how many more people lost their tires that day.  From there, I went to Austin, where it hit 102 degrees. Turns out there is a big difference between 99 degrees and 102.  Each additional degree is exponentially brutal.  People who think a degree or two of climate change is small peanuts are out of their minds.  I ran in Austin too, although a little later since my friend had to drop her son at school first.  Thank God we were done by 9:00.  Went to the botanical gardens later that afternoon and I made the mistake of taking a macro photograph of a cactus in the sun.  After five minutes of taking multiple exposures to stitch, I was covered in sweat and about to faint.  The lady in the gift shop said no one goes out in September.

Driving on to New Mexico through West Texas, I was lucky enough to hit one of those famous Texas cool waves of 95 degrees.  When my hostess in Austin told me a heat wave was 95 degrees, I thought she was kidding.  Now I know she wasn't lying.  Don't know if I could have gotten out of the car one more time if I hadn't hit that cool wave.  Went to Hamilton Pool and happily took photos of the pathetically small waterfall (which I assumed was a large as I had seen it in photographs) from the middle of the pond with fish biting me, because thank goodness I was wet.  Almost stepped on a snake that looked an awfully lot like a water moccasin.  Pretty sure it was–we have those in Florida too.  Luckily, I saw it in time...  It was going for the only wet cool spot, just like me.  I figured it needed it more than I did, so I gave the snake the right of way.  Then I decided to visit LBJ's childhood home and realized his ancestors had it pretty darn tough.  Talk about unforgiving land...   Next, I walked around Enchanted Rock for a bit but decided I would hike to the summit on my way back through Texas in November, as I was done with melting and figured heat stroke was a strong possibility.  It was 2:00 by then and I figured I better get serious about the drive to Carlsbad. In west Texas, I passed through Harper.  There was a sign by the side of the road just past the church that exhorted everyone to "Pray for Rain."   No wonder.  When I passed by the Perdenales River just outside the town, there wasn't a drop of water in it.  Luckily, I had filled up my tank with gas in Fredericksburg, because there was no more gas until Fort Stockton and I was about on empty when I got there.  If I thought the drive from Fredericksburg to Fort Stockton was desolate and strange, it was on the drive from Fort Stockton to Carlsbad that I really wondered about my sanity driving alone across the country.  Fortunately, I was still listening to William Heat Moon and he was stranded in a snowstorm driving up to the Bristlecone pines.  Things could be worse.  Maybe.

I arrived at my hotel in Carlsbad to find multiple police cars casing the joint.  Not surprisingly,that made me a little apprehensive right.  Drove around the block after I checked in and saw the police officers interrogating a bunch of people down an alley right by the hotel.  After I took the first load of my stuff up to the room (decided I better get everything), I saw someone had propped the door open with a trash can.  Phoned the front desk and they called the police back.  Once I got back into my room, I decided skipping dinner was the safest course of action.

On the positive side, I have finally come up with a name for my car: "True Blue!"  The car got me safely across West Texas and that was a great thing, since it would not have been a good idea to break down with no one around, even though I traveled with lots of supplies.  I believe women are much safer when they are traveling with men in remote locations.  Definitely keeping my eyes and ears open...Always appreciate survival tips!

Enter your email address in the form below to sign up for the newsletter

On Fire

   

 Barrel Cactus on Fire ©Lynne Buchanan

On my way across country, I spent a few days in Texas.  First I visited my son and his girlfriend in Houston, where it was so hot and humid that we couldn't spend any time outside except for going from one place to the next.  The closest we came to experiencing nature was the air-conditioned Natural History Museum, which was quite enjoyable although I always prefer to be in contact with the real thing.  On my way out of town, I hit a terrible pothole that blew out my front tire.  Apparently, the same thing had happened to four other people before me and two after me that morning.  The preceding day, numerous people hit this spot in the road and the gas station attendant told me one lady had blown out two of her tires.  I can't help but think that climate change will make potholes worse, since there will be more intense expansions and contractions of the earth.   This is ominous since the City isn't doing anything now, when so many people are being affected each day.  AAA's front page article this month was on potholes in Houston.  Apparently I can try and sue the city, but I would only consider doing this if it would motivate politicians and local government officials to acknowledge climate change is real.

After Houston, I went to Austin.  It was hotter there than anywhere I have been on the drip so far, reaching over 100 degrees both days.  When I took the macro of the barrel cactus above, I was in the sun for five minutes and ended up drenched with sweat.  The lady in the gift shop, where I bought a cooling towel on my way out, told me no one goes outside this time of year.  The Colorado River is central to the lives of people in Austin and I know why.  With heat levels so high, the river is a great place to cool off.  My hosts took me running around Lady Bird Lake (the dammed portion of the river in the morning) because it is more pleasant to run there, and I saw lots of people playing in the water or just chilling in Barton Springs.  The paddle borders, kayakers, and swans came out to appreciate the skyline in the late afternoon.  Seems like being near water or getting wet is the only thing that makes it tolerable to go outside in Austin in August and September...

 

Chillin in Barton Springs ©Lynne Buchanan

Boats on Barton ©Lynne Buchanan

Contemplating the Austin Skyline ©Lynne Buchanan        

For summer day trips from Austin, people often drive to Hamilton Pool about forty-five minutes away.  The story of this natural area was not so rosy due to the prolonged drought.  The rock formation around the pool was beautiful, but all the pictures I have seen of this area showed a large waterfall.  The morning I was there, it was just a small trickle.  Though the pool was shallow, thankfully it was still open.  I gladly waded in to the middle to make some photographs.  I missed the effect of water pouring down, since only a few drops spilled over the edge ever few seconds.   The rock itself was more visible and this made for an interesting photograph, though I would gladly have given up my view for more water.  Heading west, the story got bleaker and bleaker.  Outside a church in Harper, the sign read “Pray for Rain.”  When I crossed the Pedernales River on the road a short while later, I could see why.  There wasn’t a drop of water anywhere.  Luckily that day we were experiencing the 95 degree cool wave my Austin hostess had been hoping for, so I didn't melt.

Hamilton Pool ©Lynne Buchanan

When temperatures climb over 95 degrees, this experience taught me that ever degree counts.  The hotter it got, the more water I had to drink and the more I wanted to get wet, either jumping in pools or rivers or wrapping myself with the cooling towel.  Climate change is serious.   Sometimes people don’t think a degree or two of temperature change is very much and that it won't be a problem, or that it is a concern way off in the future. They should spend August and September in Texas…  Funny thing is some people do and they still don't acknowledge climate change.  Will it take giant holes in the roads all over the country or resigning oneself to never going out in real nature for multiple months a year?  What scares me is that people will be even less likely to protect the environment if they never go outside because the world is on fire...

Pray for Rain ©Lynne Buchanan

Pedernales All Dried up...

Lynne Buchanan Fine Art Photography Newsletter

Lynnebuchanan.com is launching its first newsletter! By signing up to receive the newsletter you'll be able to keep up with Lynne as she continues on her three month cross country trip. You'll also be able to get a "behind the scenes" look into her process and her thoughts. Not to mention, signing up for her newsletter will give you periodic access to free desktop wallpapers and other bonuses. 

The Many in the One and the One in the Many

Abundance in Lake Martin ©Lynne Buchanan  

Lake Martin Lily ©Lynne Buchanan

My friend Sally took me to Lake Martin, a beautiful lake in Louisiana.  Lotus flowers have always spoken to me, and when I saw them situated in this gorgeous lake with their big leaves, the cypress trees, and on this spectacular day, so many wonderful clouds, it was like life had exploded into brilliance all around me.  It was almost too much to take it all in.  The blossom was stunning and I was captivated by how the soft petals blew around in the breeze and the different relations it created with the clouds and trees.  I was in love with this flower and all of life in that moment.  I kept photographing it from many angles, like I was photographing an ideal model or a loved one whose face I never wanted to forget.  I lost all sense of where I was.  I was not an out of town visitor to the lake–I was fully immersed in this natural setting, inextricably bound to the flower and all that surrounded it. 

When I got home and looked at the images on my computer, it was very interesting.  In the more intimate photograph of the lily blossom against the trees with minimal sky, the colors were lovely and I was able to appreciate all the diversity.  On the other hand, in the photograph of the lily looking out towards the open lake with vast expanses of sky and clouds in the composition, the explosion of life was almost too much.  I decided to convert this image to black and white, to prevent sensory overload and hone in on the incredible bond of immersion I had experienced.  It seemed to work better for me.  Then I started to think about what this experience could teach me.  I am nearing the end of my first week of an incredible journey across the country.  There is so much I want to take in and experience, learn from and express.  If I approach the journey too rigidly and try to capture it all, it will overwhelm me and I might miss the true lesson, which is all about simplification and getting down to the essence of life.  Heraclitus was right–we can find the many within the one–our journeys and the myriad of unique locations we visit–and the one within the many–fully immersing ourselves in the moment and experiencing unified being in any location.

My Friend Sally’s Greatest Teacher and Why I Believe Nature is Worth Preserving

Endurance ©Lynne Buchanan

View towards Heaven ©Lynne Buchanan

Broken Heart ©Lynne Buchanan

Sally's Tree ©Lynne Buchanan

I recently visited my friend Sally, a wonderful woman whose path I was fortunate enough to cross in Scotland and who invited me to stay with her on my way west.  While I was there, she asked me if I wanted to meet her greatest teacher.  Of course, I said yes.  We went out into the yard and she showed me this unbelievable pear tree.  She calls it Le Pere, the French word for father, because of all the wisdom it has imparted to her.  As we walked around the tree, she showed me where the tree had to be cut back after Andrew, spoke of the damage caused by Katrina, and then mentioned the devastation wrought by Isaac.  Those were just the big ones, she said.  The tree survived several other hurricanes with minimal harm.  Le Pere was one of a pair of pear trees that were on Sally’s property when she bought the house.  A Cajun man told her that both trees would die, because that’s what pear trees do when their caretakers die or move on.  In fact, one of the trees did die soon after, but Le Pere did not give up.  After Isaac, Sally thought that Le Pere was going to go too.  Then she said the tree spoke to her and asked her to clean out the rot filling the cavity that was hollowed out from all the damage.  Sally cleaned and cleaned that cavity, though she had no experience in rehabilitating trees.  The tree slowly began to revive and this year there is a lot of new growth.  Miraculously the tree still bears fruit.

As I spent time with this tree, I was so impressed with its energy and perseverance and willingness to offer its gifts of fruit to the world despite all it has suffered.  The tree was like a metaphor for the earth.  Our planet has been harmed in countless ways.  Do we just ignore what is happening and let it rot more?  Should we let the injuries fester and kill any remaining life?  Or do we step up to the call and begin working to clean out all the gunk, the dirty energy that is wreaking havoc on ecosystems and causing the waters to rise and fires to burn.  Our planet is so miraculous and there is much it can do to heal itself, if we just get out of the way and stop interfering by unnecessarily polluting it with fossil fuels, fertilizers, and other pollutants. 

When Sally worked to heal the tree, it was also healing her.  I sensed that from all the healing I received by just being in the presence of this wonderful manifestation of being.  Working with nature brings us all into greater balance.  We find our right relationship with the universe and whatever we give to the earth it gives back to us.  Please join me in honoring Le Pere by finding ways to help clean out the rot in your own backyard and ask nature what you can do to help heal within and without...

Davis Bayou, A Delicate Balance

Dusk at Davis Bayou ©Lynne Buchanan

All rights Reserved All Photos

Davis Bayou Vegetation ©Lynne Buchanan

Ominous View from Gulf Islands National Seashore ©Lynne Buchanan

Three nights ago, I camped at Davis Bayou in the Gulf Islands National Seashore.  Walking along the boardwalk over the bayou was so peaceful as the day came to an end.  The water was still and and the varied subtle colors and textures of the grasses and vegetation were intriguing.  The pace of my existence slowed down and I was content to just take in the sights and smells and be with nature in this little haven away from it all.  As the sun set, it grew darker in the bayou and I made my way to the last light by the coast near the visitor center.  I climbed up onto a picnic table and photographed the view.  Standing on the Gulf Islands National Seashore looking out to one of the stilt town's that has grown up around the oil rigs was a little disturbing.  On the one hand, the twinkling lights proved to be a nice element in the background.  Yet, at the same time, it is the oil industry and dirty energy that is threatening our coastlines through accidental spills and rising waters caused by climate change.  The bayous along the Gulf Coast are such gems and deserve being protected.  I was very grateful to be able to enjoy that evening and hope they are not lost, so that others might be able to enjoy them too and experience the profound peace they bring to one's soul... 

The Beauty and the Heartbreak of Wakulla Springs and Wakulla River

Wakulla Fragonard ©Lynne Buchanan

All Rights Reserved

Wakulla Alligator ©Lynne Buchanan

Source of Wakulla Springs ©Lynne Buchanan

Eelgrass in Dark Water ©Lynne Buchanan

I took the boat trip from the lodge along the Wakulla River the morning after I arrived.  It was beautiful and heartbreaking.  The ranger, who had worked there for eleven years, said in many ways the river looks just liked it did when Columbus came.  Edward Ball, who founded the park, erected a gate to keep recreational boaters and others out of the park.  Though he was taken to court over this, he was so wealthy and had so much political influence that the fence stayed.  There are no trails and the only way to see the section of river right by the lodge is on ranger run boats.  The banks are pristine wilderness with cypress trees, pickerel weed, and other native plants.  There are many birds and alligators and we were able to see nests up close.  Steam was rising off the river and it was very mysterious and transported me to a different time.   When I got a glimpse of the small, wild creek off the Wakulla River in the first photograph, it made me think of a Fragonard painting.

Yet, despite all the beauty we saw, I was also very saddened.  The ranger said they used to run glass bottom boats to the source of the springs every day all day.  He said now the water quality has been so compromised that there are only about two weeks a year that the water is clear enough for them to run boats there and then only a couple of times a day.  When we had completed our return trip along the river, we passed near where the 180+ foot deep spring comes out of the earth.  You used to be able to see way down to the bottom, but now that is impossible since the water is so cloudy.  The ranger said the damage that has been caused to the springs by nitrogen from fertilizers and other pollutants is so severe that he doubts we will ever be able to get the springs back to full health.

I asked the ranger about the dark water and he said it was even darker than usual from all the rain, since it causes the black water of North Florida rivers to leach into the springs. It is not just the dark water that is the problem though, it is all the pollutants that are carried by our rivers that find there way into the springs, even though the immediate area around them has been protected.   In Eelgrass in  Dark Water, you can see the tannins from the rivers as well as algae blooms on the bottom of what was once white sand.  As rainstorms become more intense due to climate change, the damage done to the springs of North Florida will increase.  It was incredible to me that the water could be so affected when these springs are pumping 200 to 300 million gallons of water a day.  The springs and rivers of Florida are in critical condition and we are in danger of losing these valuable natural resources if we don't take action.