I like to
pretend a lot. I like to pretend that I can draw, that I’m tougher than I
actually am, or that I can turn a head every now and then. But there’s only one
thing I actually pride myself in, or put any large amount of faith into, and
that’s my photography. Anything else, and I’m in a weak place. I mourn my
failed talent if another bests my stories- boys are unpredictable, and, quite
frankly, most often overconfident and much too cocky. And when the going gets
tough, I usually sit down and cry before snapping my big-girl suspenders back
on and getting back to my feet. But if one were to insult, ignore, or frown at
my photos, I’d work harder and faster until they were better. Praise goodness
for that, because that came in extremely handy this summer.
This July,
my parents sent me to Colombia Gorge Photography camp, to be instructed, critiqued,
inspected, and worked over by professionals. Surrounded by twenty other mostly
wide eyed photo geeks, we were introduced to Chuck Feil and Craig Hanson. Papa
Chuck and Handsome Craig. Craig, initially, was the relatable one. Bald and immensely
talented, he took our presence as an excuse to exercise his superior
map-reading skills. Beaming and toting Canons on every appendage, he led us on
a supposedly three mile hike through the Colombia Gorge on our first day. Three
miles turned into six, and a lightweight telephoto lens on my neck turned to concrete.
From that alone, I learned quite a few things. I discovered what a rattlesnake sounds like,
and how to get the hell away. I learned not to trust a beaming landscape
photographer to use his map, though his hikers may be dehydrated and
complaining- so long as the scenery is gorgeous. I was also cultured in more
fine, subtle aspects- like that even billionaire Russian twelve year olds can out
walk a horde of American teenagers. Or, even that sunscreen on a bald head
creates a strikingly dynamic photo. Such things one learns in the wilds, and
just on our first day!
Suffice to
say, the lessons went on. Handsome Craig was a good teacher, companion, and
photographer, despite his misuse of misconceptions of Nikons. He’d been proven
worthy among us Children of the Lens. And so, when our time came, we were a bit
forlorn to be passed into the capable hands of Papa Chuck- but not for long.
Papa Chuck had much to teach us. He
was considerably gruffer around the edges, and I was very nearly instantly
glued to his side. Riding shotgun with him alone was an educating experience.
The man had stories Indiana Jones could barely have dreamed of- and better yet,
every single one of them was true. He had the credentials to prove it. Dubbed “Papa
Chuck” by us kids due to his “Wolfman Jack” reminiscent radio voice, he told me
stories for hours on long drives about everything in the world, and everything in-between.
From
Craig we all might have learned how to survive in a freelancers’ world. But
Chuck taught me how to survive in the real world. The one which lived in the
darker corners, grew from poverty, and bloomed where in pockets of the world,
nature still triumphed.
I can’t say
I learned everything I need to know from them. I still have a long way to go,
indeed. But I can’t say I wasn’t improved at least infinitesimally from the experience.
Between the two instructors, it felt like I was ready to tackle the world. In
fact, in ways, it felt like I already had. I’d hopped boxcars, drunk with the Masai,
tackled the Asian lands, and touched the surface of a thousand adventures and
memories. In particular, one experience stands
out in my mind even now. Craig, back in his early musician days, had earned a
scholarship to a particular musical college in Germany. Without knowing a word
of German himself, he popped up at the said college, and eventually graduated.
When plagued with incredulous questions on my part, he finally turned to me and
shrugged, replying with a “music crossed all language borders.” For Handsome
Craig, music was his refuge. Sure, photography was his career, his hobby- but
music was his passion. To this day, he still plays world-class piano in
Corvallis’ music halls.
There’s a
lesson to be learned from that, and I know it’s not about music. Thankfully, I have
a lot of time left to ponder it. Well, to ponder it, and improve it. And maybe,
just maybe, someday I can toss that same bait to a kid and move on with a
smile, confident in my own abilities and in their future ones.
