Along Sourdough Trail

I have now a three-year history with Sourdough Trail. I know it far better than the back of my hand, which I couldn’t begin to describe with its veins, scars, spots, etc. Not that I’ve made any attempt to learn the place by heart. In my wanderings, I’ve simply come to know quite a few of the trees and other things. I’m content to let the serendipity of experience and the filter of the unconscious determine what I can remember.

I made a photograph earlier this week of a scene I usually notice as I walk past. I first saw to photograph it half a year into the project, when I was taken by a last pair of leaves hanging there, arrested in their fall by a twig that carried them well into winter.

Two months later I found myself captivated by some squiggling branches against dark, majestic trunks, but I didn’t realize until later that this was the same spot, and my enduring pair had finally been blown from their perch.

Below is a different pair I first saw one late fall, their smooth bark and muscular attitude standing in strong contrast to the surrounding wrack. Afterwards, I lost track of where they were and didn’t manage to find them for a long time. Even now I sometimes miss them if I forget to watch closely at the right point. Despite their appeal, I continued to pass them by photographically, until a day or two ago.

As you can see, they are doing quite well, and will likely be photo fodder for years to come.

These and other repeat subjects might serve as touchstones in assessing changes in both the place and my photography. One of my goals for this coming year is to consider that evolution.

In considering this project—circularly defined as whatever this blog is about—I’ve sometimes thought that what might be nice to create, and probably more useful to more people, would be a documentary record of what this place is like now, to serve as a reference in future. So it’s a bit of a shock to realize how boring, even depressing, that idea is to me. Am I that narcissistic and anti-social?

True, the reaction (my own and others’) to simple images like the saplings in the previous post suggests that an “objective,” affectless image is almost impossible to make. One might posit that maximum sharpness throughout makes for the most “accurate” image, but it’s clear that it gives rise to an inevitable emotional response that may not at all represent what a person (in particular, the photographer) experiences in the actual setting. I’m not so pedantic as to argue that the idea of documentation is therefore fatally flawed. Indeed, I’m quite certain that a competent photographer could produce a set of photographs that would be far more useful to the historical record than mine will be.

Except maybe that’s not quite right, or at least not the full story. After all, history is not merely about the changing configuration of physical objects. At bottom, I think we’re mainly interested in history because of what we learn about other people and their behavior in situations that resemble ones we have been or might be in. What I’m interested in now is my own thoughts and impressions as I engage with this micro-landscape. I’m interested in the process of developing a sense of place. How better to begin such a study than with myself? In fifty years, will it be more important to know what trees were where, or what it was like to someone hooked on this spot?

I’m comfortable calling this project a personal documentary, understanding the subject to be as much the person as the place, and especially the relationship between the two. The “my place” in the blog’s tagline is not about legal ownership. It’s about the experience of place that enfolds each individual like a self-woven cocoon. That analogy may not work for everyone, but I sometimes feel wrapped in a magical cloak when I’m walking along Sourdough Trail.