Adventure Photographer Eric R. Schickler
Let's Take It Outside!
All photos and artwork included in this Web site are copyright-protected and the exclusive property of Eric Schickler Adventure Photographer. No downloading, use, reproduction, manipulation, sale and/or distribution permitted without express written consent.
© Eric Schickler Adventure Photographer
Seasons on Earth.
Seasons of our lives.
We can have all four seasons in one day.
We can get stuck in one season for too long.
We can move through some seasons too quickly.
We are sometimes ready for the next season, sometimes not.
Sometimes we don’t prepare for the coming season.
Everyone has their favorite season or seasons; but sometimes those favorites change over time.
I have learned as I grow older and more experienced that I like all the seasons equally. It wasn’t always that way. I see how they are all valiant and important. None better that the rest.
Each season has gradual changes as it fades to the next.
And yet there are bursts of dramatic change:
A snowstorm in September. A 60-degree sunny day in February. A hailstorm in June.
Each season offers us variations in experience, lifestyle, activities.
The differences among the seasons keep us fresh, versatile, adaptable, on our toes.
We often try to maximize the unique attributes of each season as it nears its end:
We sadden when we see those long, warm summer days fade into autumn.
The glorious colors of autumn, and its cool days, just don’t seem to last long enough.
Dropping leaves and dying vegetation signal the landscape is getting ready to rest.
And the harshness of winter is hard to handle at first.
It’s hard to say goodbye to winter ski season, as ski slopes turn to mush. Mud season blues. The big melt-off.
We often treasure those temperate, blossom-filled days of spring, apprehensive of excessive summer heat.
We are lucky to have four seasons here where we live.
We are lucky to have seasons in our lives.
We are lucky to have each other through all seasons of the year, over many years.
Lives have seasons, emotions have seasons, bodies have seasons.
Those who love each other, those who love us, teach about getting through seasons successfully. But oftentimes, we are forced to learn through our own private experiences how best to enjoy each season, how to survive the harsh elements of each season, and how to best transition from one to the next. And how to juxtapose the seasons to each other to see how each is important, despite their differences.
Autumn of 2009 was a difficult and tumultuous season of change. The vegetation died more quickly. The leaves did too. And they made different sounds as they hit the ground. The nights were colder than usual, and were colder sooner in the season.
Now the snow is here. The earth frozen. A “cooling off” period of sorts. A time of rest and reflection. A time for muted peace under the snowy quilted blanket.
The rest period begins.
Spring will be here soon, though — full of new blossoms, sprung from those stable roots. The roots that have endured many seasons, many living challenges, learning new ways for better growth as years go by.
Think of how “seasonings” shape the flavor of foods. We, as well, are flavored by and shaped by the seasons.
December 2009
In October 2007, Ana and I stopped our mail and newspaper delivery for a few weeks so we could take oh-so-many flights to hang out with African elephants and other assorted animals, many of which can substantially injure, kill and/or eat you. (I made a note to NOT forget the long-range zoom lenses.) After all these years of secret skepticism that such animals really do run wild on that big continent called Africa, we finally grabbed our chance to see for ourselves. We were ready to take a journey, or in African lingo — SAFARI !
While the first six days were scheduled with International Zoo & Aquarium Association Conference sessions for Ana, for me they were scheduled with monkey business. I’ve always wanted to say that and really mean it. I went along to shoot photos. Photography is my business. And I shot photos of monkeys. I mixed monkeys with business. So there you have it.
Our journey took us to the Kwalata Game Reserve (http://www.kwalata.co.za/ ) in South Africa for Ana’s conference, then on to two different Botswana destinations for the vacation portion of our trip. First stop was the very northern tip of Chobe National Park and, get this name — Pom-Pom Camp (http://www.pompomcamp.com/) in the Okavango River Delta (http://www.okavango-delta.net/).
My visions of practicing cheerleaders in leopard-skin outfits ended quicker than a French work week when two
big, sweaty, middle-aged, very-dark-skinned men took our bags off the plane and grunted, “Welcome to Pom-Pom Camp. We’re your staff.”
All three locations offered great (and different) wildlife experiences. Game hikes, drives and/or boat rides twice daily. Ate more kinds of wild game than a Survivor contestant. Our wise guy game-drive guide had a standard answer for the daily question, “What does that animal taste like?”
“Tastes like chicken,” he’d quip, with a wide grin.
Nothing like shooting photos of wart hogs at 3 p.m. and then seeing wart hog in the buffet line at 8 p.m. Same thing for kudu and ostrich. At least the coffee was predictable.
Fortunately, we returned to Denver safely, nearly three weeks later. Did NOT get injured, killed, and/or eaten. Not even by mosquitoes. I think we saw maybe two or three on the entire trip. (So glad we spent all that money on Malaria medications.)
Our personal safety was one thing….but the most important thing was the safe return of our camera equipment, memory cards and photos–all 1,300 of them. While we’re glad to have all the visual souvenirs, I was awestruck by the unforgettable sounds of Africa. Next trip, we’re planning to take an audio recorder to capture all that chatter from insects, frogs, birds, hippos, wildebeests, elephants, zebras and monkeys.
Not to mention the sounds of the African people, their funny stories, their singing and their joyous laughter.
We were very fortunate to travel with two friends and zoo industry colleagues, both of whom are experienced international wildlife travelers and experts in the zoo business. They were very helpful in guiding us through our first African trip.
If you’re intrigued about Africa, schedule a trip there…….before you’re too old to outrun an elephant, or leopard, or lion.
Or the little furry, cute, easily-provoked, aggressive, pervasive Vervet monkeys…..like the ones that chased four should-know-better adults back up a river dock. I tried to imagine the scenario if one of those rascals got a hold of my bare ankles.
Africa is everything they say it is, and more.
Certainly a photographer’s paradise.
And most certainly a fine place to partake in monkey business.
Foremost and most obvious–the physical inconvenience.
Then, the emotional trauma.
Then, the psychological stuff, which was maybe the worst part.
It’s not often anymore that I make a really BIG mistake.
This was a really BIG mistake.
An accident, you might say.
I fell off a ladder.
Pow! A quick impact, and a quick understanding that I had screwed up.
A major lapse in gravitational adherence to balance.
A new physical condition that was so suddenly immediate, obvious, and powerfully irreversible.
And aren’t most accidents like that?
The quick-impact-thing means you don’t have time to ponder any options.
No rationalizations. No analysis. No escape.
Welcome to your brand-new, unrehearsed, harsh, direct, real-time reality.
Now go directly to Plan B. The plan you hadn’t any reason to formulate just moments earlier.
I fell off a ladder. I broke my heel, and a computer.
Which I happened to be holding when I slipped, off the ladder.
Eight megabytes and a dusty keyboard.
A miserable, worthless 286-piece-of-junk computer.
Not worth the trouble of even going into the garage to store it…anywhere.
Let alone hoisting it up to a loft. What was I thinking?
It would have been so wise to have just paid a young kid to haul it to a trash can for me.
I somehow conjured up the most powerful humor of my life while on the examining table at the Evergreen Medical Clinic. The nurses marveled at my frivolous disposition.
“How can he revel in jest when his heel is smashed to bits?”
Maybe I just thought I was funny, as I sat there with a foot on fire and really, really out of whack. Or maybe I was in shock.
It became my utmost priority, and personal goal, to get the darn thing back into order, back in alignment, back to normal. Soon. I was out of sorts.
Surgery awaits me in ten days. It can’t get here soon enough. Titanium, please!
April 1995
Union Station: the Alpha and The Omega
After a harrowing slide down the mountain in my trusted Mazda MX-6, I lugged my ski gear across the frozen parking lot, slipping on the fresh snow. (Better to slip on my feet, I thought, than off a mountain road in my car).
The fallen snow had created a scenic white cityscape, unusual in Denver even in the middle of winter, and made Union Station look more prominent and historic than ever, its monstrous white-stoned bulk lurking in the foggy haze. Its juxtaposition in a relatively open area of Lower Downtown allows it to be seen like a statue in the center of a courtyard, from a greater distance and more perspectives than is usually afforded in tight city street grids. Its classic 1914 architecture makes it stand out in a downtown district that sees a new building pop up almost monthly.
The large lighted red letters that crown the building boldly announce where you are, and in a circus-attraction manner, promote a specific mode of transportation as if it were the latest fad worthy of curious exploration — “UNION STATION — TRAVEL by TRAIN.” It reminded me of the entrance to Disneyland or the inviting allure of the lettering over an amusement park. It was definitely a throwback to the past. But that was part of the charm.
The station is indeed a testament to Denver’s colorful, historic past, when train travel was the fastest and most comfortable way to get around. And as we are learning, the station will again become a bustling transportation hub and social center for Denver. Will it become the giant it once was, or become even more magnificent, as its history and crucial location are blended with new commercial and residential development, travel technology and a myriad of visitors from even more distant lands? The dark quiet morning gave way to the glow of warm lights and activity in and around the terminal. The massive arched windows above the entrance beckoned me inside, as did the warmth of its cavernous hollow. I slipped into its massive hull, inhaled, swallowed up — like a wandering fish by a giant whale.
My lonely drive from the foothills into the deserted city streets gave way to an instant feeling of connection as I let the doors close behind me. Connection to the city, connection to people wide awake at 6:30 a.m., to the rail tracks that ran along the rear of the building, and to faraway destinations at the other end of the tracks. I was thankful for the activity and my senses were awakened. A wave of warm air met my frozen forehead, condensation formed on my eyeglasses, then my friends approached with a hot cup of coffee and warm greetings. Conversations quickly shifted to the nature of the approaching voyage we would make together.
Footstep echoes flittered across the grand atrium, mingling with muted, yet excited voices. Bundled-up children sat restlessly in the long wooden pews, as if they were about to witness a church service. But the facial expressions were not those you’d see as old Father Murphy marched past them to the alter. They were more like those you’d see on Christmas morning. The eager hum among the children grew with each passing minute. Even grown adults exuded child-like anticipation and excitement.
Everyone readied themselves and their baggage for boarding the quarter-mile-long train for the 7 a.m. departure for the mountains. Most city rail stations would see a 7 a.m. train screech to a halt, fill up quickly, depart, only to be followed within minutes by the same ritual, another train. With short visits from only two Amtrack trains per day, however, the activity around Denver’s Union Station today is like the flickering flame on the wick of a near-empty oil lamp. It’s akin to life in a western ghost town, where a smattering of weekend tourists provide enough commerce for seclusion-hungry locals to cling to a bare-bones existence.
The stark, expansive room seemed haunted with its early 1900’s decor and rich ambient history. In the few minutes I had before boarding, I imagined what it was like to be a child lost in the middle of a bustling throng of Depression-era travelers, filing in and out if the station during its heydays when nearly 80 trains a day pulled in and out. What a contrast to life at Union Station at the very end of the 20th century. Union Station stood as a static relic, an anomaly in Denver’s revitalized and vibrant Lower Downtown district. An unprecedented surge in LoDo’s economic activity was ignited by the 1995 opening of Coors Field. It was followed by widespread residential and commercial development, new businesses, sports, entertainment and cultural attractions, restaurants, galleries and shops. But the decline in rail travel and train commerce had relegated Union Station to a shadow of the activity center it once was.
On this day, as the snow continued to fall, Union Station was as busy as it ever gets. It was a weekend in the winter, so the two daily Amtrack trains would be complemented by the Rio Grande Ski Train, which carries passengers to Winter Park Resort for a day of downhill fun or sightseeing, as it has for 60 years. People rave about the Ski Train. It’s a must for every Coloradan.
I had driven from Evergreen to Denver before dawn, and would go back up the hill later that evening. Was all that effort worth a train ride? I was joining a group of friends for the excursion, my first ever on the Ski Train. I was just as excited as any of the children making their first trip. And I was just going for the ride — I had a broken heel at the time and could not ski. That made no difference. The best parts of the day are the train rides.
On the train, I delighted in the fact that I and 749 others were sitting back enjoying the passing countryside, instead of clinging white-knuckled to my steering wheel as I maneuvered snow-packed I-70, U.S. 40 and Berthoud Pass. For two hours, we rode 56 comfortable miles, climbing 4,000 feet in elevation, passing through 28 tunnels. Then we approached the final mountain underpass, the 6.2-mile-long Moffat Tunnel, the highest railroad tunnel in the U.S.
But for some reason, the visit to historic Union Station was the most memorable part of my day. That building was the first and last impression of my trip, and it dawned on me that it’s the place where you say goodbye and hello, where you cry, smile and hug loved ones. Union Station is like the old worn leather cover of a great novel. The start and the finish, with so many memories in between. And you always end up sharing it with someone you love.
The last time I traveled any great distance by train was 1987 in New York State. After visiting Union Station and taking that ride on the Ski Train, I now think differently. I’ll look for an excuse to ride the train, and take my friends. Recent security concerns in airline travel have forced people to think again about rail travel. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I first walked into Union Station on that wintry morning.
Oh, getting back to my question…. Was it worth all that effort just to ride a train? Oh yes. To ride a train and visit Union Station. When it comes to trains, the journey is the reason you ride, but I just love going through that station.
* All photos in this article (except sunrise image) courtesy of Denver’s Union Station and The Ski Train.
______________________________________
© Eric Schickler Photography, Communication & Design
Sasha’s gone now. Unfortunately gone before anyone ever figured out why she had such a high oral regard for rocks.
This fixation rarely escaped any observer’s attention. “Did you know your dog is eating a rock? Look at what your dog is doing to that rock!”
She came to rely on her rock slobbering habit as a means of personal preoccupation at any social gathering, much like humans do with an alcoholic drink, cigar or cigarette. Or like what some people do with a pen or pencil at a business meeting.
At any outdoor event (usually a campsite, bonfire, or picnic) there would be the usual introductory greeting of guests, social licking, tail wagging and running about.
But after about two minutes of that, the search engines would activate, resulting in a very short, ceremonial scan of the landscape, a quick selection of the targeted granite, a few foreplay pawstrokes, and final stabilization maneuvers.
With the rock now firmly secured between both paws, she’d slowly lower her back side down and, in the sphinx position, commence to slobbering.
In a matter of minutes, the rock, both front paws, the dog’s entire lower jaw area and the ground beneath was covered with a foamy salivatious slobber. And Sasha was in her most preferred state of happiness.
“Have your cold beer, have your cigars and cigarettes. Engage in your petty human conversation, I’ve got my rock, and I’ve got it where I want it! Nothing can distract me from my sweet companion, except a piece of chicken maybe, or an invitation to go for a hike (and even then, you can bet this baby’s coming with me!”)
That leads to another strange behavior: Oral Rock Transport.
There were many occasions when she’d somehow get a rock twice the size of her head into her jaws, in order to carry it along on the start or continuation of a hike. Or sometimes it was just part of a show around the campfire. This act was particularly disgusting because of the drool that would sneak out of her jaws, cascade off the rock and dribble to the ground.
“Just in case none of you noticed, I’ve got the world’s best rock here and I’m certainly enjoying every bit of it. It’s mine, of course, but I’d like you to notice very plainly the great command I currently have over it. So I’m gonna get this big sucker in my mouth and just kind of walk back and forth in front of you in no discernible direction, just to get some attention and perhaps a comment of astonishment from someone who hasn’t seen this before. After all, for those of you who didn’t know, and any of you who may have unfortunately forgotten, I am the Rock Meister!”
We’re talking about Rock Lock-Jaw. Somehow she got the thing in, but sometimes getting the jaws open enough to get it out was another thing altogether. This would result in a very peculiar, confusing and embarrassing situation for Sash. In her instinctive effort to please her master and comply with the command to “Drop The Rock!,” she’d attempt to let it go, but to no avail.
It was wedged in and wedged in tight.
This situation would bring roars of laughter from onlookers, much to Sasha’s frustration, as she’d walk about aimlessly. Sometimes it would be necessary for her to lie back down on the ground and position her head sideways to get it out, or she’d need the help of her master. Once freed, the rock was again fair game, of course, and the slobbering would begin all over.
“Old Flat Teeth” became another of her many nicknames. Years of rock interaction and transport resulted in a dental display that could make any dentist shiver.
Rock interaction was obviously an outdoor past time, made convenient because of the prevalence of rocks in the Rocky Mountains. I honestly believe that Sasha’s heart leaped to a higher height when we move to Colorado. Granite around every corner! And much easier to locate because of the semi-arid landscape.
Occasionally, though, Sasha would attempt to bring a rock indoors. This was obviously a canine mental lapse. She knew fairly well that rocks were outdoor toys. But once in awhile, caught up in the joy of the social moment, she’d follow the fellas into the house, condo or cabin with toy in mouth. A pre-slobbered rock lying on the carpet gets attention really fast.
She put in ten robust years of travel and adventure……
The Bristol Mountains and Finger Lakes of Upstate New York.
Hampton Bays, Long Island.
The Adirondack Mountains in N.Y.
Cape Cod.
New York Harbor.
The Grand Canyon.
The Rocky Mountains.
On the summits of 17 “Fourteeners.”
The deserts of Utah.
On a canoe in the Colorado River.
At private parties and picnics.
On camping trips.
Along the streets of Vail.
On the ski trails of Arapaho Basin.
Even in business offices in several states.
Tail Wagger
With Sasha, it was as often a case of the dog wagging the master, as it was the master wagging the dog. Time for a run! Time for a hike! Time for a road trip! That pooch was a constant motivator. She was in a constant state of readiness. Unconditional readiness. Always ready to GO OUT!
Chasing the squirrels. On the golf course. In the backyard.
Chasing the Gray Jays (Camp Robbers) at the campsite.
The Terrible Twos: Sasha’s “Chewing Stage”
The two most memorable chewing-stage victims:
My dad’s riding lawnmower seat (I’ve never seen Dad so angry; he really took pride in that mower, I guess.)
A very tall and prickly potted cactus. In this case, the pooch’s paws, mouth, face and digestive tract were the victims.
Always a Puppy
Even at ten years of age, this dog was still regarded by strangers as a puppy.
“Nice puppy” or “How old is your puppy?” or “Here, little puppy.”
“This puppy, my friend, is old enough to be your mother!”
She was a follower as is any dog. But also a leader.
A comic, a social butterfly, a daredevil, a hiking machine.
Squirrels beware! — she does the 100 in 9.5 flat and has excellent brakes!
Those Ears! One always flopped over. One always erect. “Chief One-Ear-in-the-Air!” Ears swiveling to follow sounds. “Radar Ears.”
What social gathering was complete without the entertainer?
Always entertaining children.
Full-speed darts into the darkened woods after a thrown rock.
She could marvel and baffle my new acquaintances, and she knew they were watching.
She’d remind my existing friends that she was still hard at work, comfortable in her role.
She had mastered the delicate balance between independence and loyalty, aggressiveness and gentleness, playfulness and serious canine communication when a point had to be made.
“Chief One-Ear-in-the-Air”
“Radar Ear”
“Slumpy”
“Slither”
“Sasha”
“Death-Breath and Tongue” (DB&T)
“The Entertainer”
December 7, 1986 — August 4, 1996
Rock On, Sasha!
Thanks for the Memories.
*****