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.

I lost myself for two hours yesterday, though I knew where I was at all times. In fact, it would be difficult to actually lose one’s way along Sourdough Trail. Within the area I frequent, which extends a little beyond the section known as Gardner Park, there’s only one side trail to speak of (deer trails abound, however, and are especially handy when the main path is under water). I was surprised at just how small my patch appears in a satellite view:

Since you can’t see the trails or even the stream from above, I’ve added a simplified map that shows my project area in gray. Finally, as graphical pièce de résistance, the same Gallatin County mapping service allows one to display the various legal and administrative features not necessarily visible on the ground. I’m beginning to wonder why I don’t feel claustrophobic out there! But the fact of the matter is that, thanks to the water provided by the creek, the vegetation is dense enough that one is seldom aware of anything outside the woods. For better or worse, my attention is almost entirely directed inward.