Shiro - A lot like hard work

One morning after working the graveyard shift, I was sitting with Susan and we were discussing whether or not to be dog "foster parents". It seemed like an ideal situation because of its "temporary" nature and we'd be saving a dog's life. We came across "Sheba" (now Shiro) and as I looked at her, she looked like one of the best friends I had ever had, whose name actually WAS Sheba. Because she had a very large and muscular body, her feet looked tiny by comparison. I said, "Look at her tiny feet!". Susan glanced and commented, "Uh huh....very tiny, Katie."

We were screened heavily by the rescue group trying to save her life. This involved numerous emails, phone calls, and ultimately a home visit. All of this screening resulted in us traveling by car and ferry to go and pick her up in Port Townsend at the shelter holding her on the peninsula. 

When we arrived at the shelter in Port Townsend, which was sort of in the middle of nowhere, we parked outside and went in to meet her. They were expecting us and we stood at the counter while they went to retrieve her. The shelter volunteer brought her out and we were both struck by her "smile" when she saw us. She came out and we went outside to go for a walk in order to meet her and get to know a little bit about what she is like. As soon as we got outside, the first thing she did was stand on her hind legs and hug Susan. She wasn't quite eye to eye with Susan, but it was pretty close. We were both struck by how large and powerful she was, but also by how gentle she was with all of those things considered. We both took turns with the leash and quickly realized how strong she truly is. While being screened by the rescue group, I was cautioned repeatedly about her strength and size and how she could only be with someone patient, very sure-footed, and compassionate. These are all generally things that would describe us both, so it didn't seem too worrisome. 

Shiro was wearing this regular dog collar, which didn't seem remotely sufficient for a dog like her. Susan commented right away that she didn't trust the collar. I said something to one of the guys at the shelter and he tightened her collar, said he knew her, and felt it would be okay for now. 

We took the leash, walked out the door of the shelter and headed for the car. While being very friendly, Shiro had just been through a lot and as we approached the car, she got extremely spooky. I had the leash and she quickly whipped her head, yanked out of the leash/collar combo and bolted into the woods towards a busy road. With a hand full of empty leash and a spooky dog racing towards the sound of big trucks, I turned to Susan and yelled, "Go inside and tell them she is loose!" I headed into the trees after her and yelled at her to come back. Shiro stopped momentarily, turned to face me, and then took off again towards the road. I grabbed the first large stick I saw, shouted at her, and then threw it. Shiro turned and with lightning speed, she grabbed that stick and continued onward. My heart sank. The dog I had come to save was about to be hit by a big truck and get killed. At the time I was unaware that some woman in the shelter had told Susan there was a "fence" and not to worry. The so-called "fence" consisted of two wires, very far apart and Shiro launched through them like they weren't even there. I didn't chase her, but instead tried to follow and engage her. I managed to get between her and that busy road with the large trucks and one of the shelter volunteers got a slip lead on her ensuring that she wouldn't be crushed by one of those huge trucks. Not exactly an auspicious beginning.

While I was gone on graveyard shift that first week, Susan and Shiro formed a strong bond. Shiro was very much taken by her. Just after that, Susan had to leave in order to go lead a tour in Japan. In the few years preceding this, my mom had been very sick with cancer and it was a long and terrible ride. She suffered greatly and went through more than I could ever endure. 

My mom was undergoing targeted radiation on her only remaining lung, which the cancer had metastasized to, right after I got Shiro. Shiro didn't understand the complications of human life, but I didn't entirely understand all of the complications she had been through either. Mom was entertained by my new challenge and frequently quizzed me about Shiro's antics. 

I had been under a lot of stress and got Whooping Cough just after getting Shiro. This is not the illness you want to have while trying to walk a powerful Akita twice a day. Especially one that has had no training, doesn't understand, and hadn't spent time on a leash before. It was very difficult. I was trying to essentially walk a wild animal in a very urban area while completely stressed out and quite ill. It was far from ideal to put it mildly.

Not even two weeks after getting Shiro, I came home from work one morning -- very tired, not feeling well, and I still had to walk her. My phone rang and it was my mom. My mom and I were like best friends, really. We spoke in some form or fashion nearly every day. It may have been text, email, or voice, but the lines of communication were always there. I could tell by the tone of her voice that something was very wrong. My mom said, "Something is wrong with my brain." She had a brain tumor removed several months before that and she wondered out loud about whether there could be some kind of scar tissue or something causing her problems. Since mom had just undergone a full body MRI, this seemed extremely unlikely to me. As a former EMT, I sat down and quizzed her about her symptoms. My heart sank and I said, "It sounds like it is very possible you have a brain bleed and going to the ER is the smartest thing you could possibly do." My dad was out at the pharmacy picking up steroids for her and they had already scheduled an MRI for Monday morning. 

Even with all that was happening to her and everything she had been through, I could hear the smile in my mom's voice when she asked me, "How is Shiro? Have you made any progress? Is it still like having a big wolf in your living room??" I told her, "We have made some progress, but she is a lot like hard work and we have MILES to go." Mom laughed and said, "Well, I think she is good for you. I can't wait to hear how it turns out..."

Not long after I hung up, my dad returned to their home and my mom collapsed in their kitchen. Dad caught her, got her to the dining room and lowered her into a chair while summoning a neighbor who was a nurse as they waited for an ambulance. It was February in Virginia and the weather was awful. This was all going on without my knowledge in that moment. I felt it, but I wasn't fully aware. Later that day I spoke with my aunt and she informed me that they had to come and get my mom in a helicopter and that things looked very bad. She was not really expected to survive the night. I felt helpless, knew this had probably been coming for a long time, but still had this Akita I had to walk and care for and I still had to go to work. My heart was broken. 

I contacted Susan in Japan and told her what had happened. I was sitting there, waiting to hear the bad news when Shiro came to sit by my side while looking at me with her beautiful chocolate eyes. I turned to her with big tears streaming down my cheeks and said, "I know you can't understand. I just need you to try because this is a fucking nightmare, okay?" Shiro looked at me and put her paw on my leg. I covered her paw with my hand and we just looked at one another for a few moments. 

The following two weeks were extremely difficult. Mom was in a coma, we didn't know exactly what her brain function was, but she would never be the same. Even if she survived in that moment, the cancer was just there waiting to go ahead and finish her off. There were no good choices or outcomes available. 

I spoke to my dad each day and he updated me on where things stood. He always put me on speakerphone so my mom could hear my voice. One day when he put me on speakerphone, I started telling mom about a funny memory we shared. She reached up and grabbed the phone from his hand. He told me to keep talking to her while he tried to get a doctor to come. It didn't seem reflexive, it seemed very deliberate. She grabbed the phone and held it to her ear. As I looked over at Shiro, I was trying to figure out who the hell could deal with this dog so that I could go and hold my mom's hand. 

I had volunteered at a wildlife center which had a companion animal shelter as well. It was actually Susan who asked me if I might ask a friend, Ken, if he had any suggestions. It was an urgent thing and the clock was ticking. I am lucky that Ken actually came and dealt with Shiro himself when I flew back east. I never worried and was able to focus entirely on the situation in front of me, which was not a pretty one. I never doubted that he could handle her and that she would still be here when I got back. If I had hired a professional "dog walker", I would have worried the whole time and it certainly would have been even more stressful. I will never forget that and I'll always be thankful for it. 

I managed to fly back east, get to my mom's side, and hold her hand while she still knew I was there. A lot of people don't get that chance. She started to decline rapidly the following day and ultimately died in the end. I'll never forget her doctor taking me into the hallway and saying, "I am sure she was waiting for you. I see this all the time. You tell her anything you need to and help her to let go, okay?" I did just that and she heard every word I said. It wasn't a light conversation, if you want to call it that. I talked, she listened.  It wasn't the mother-daughter dialogue I had known throughout my life. It was the best we could do in that moment. 

The day my mom died, I still had to walk Shiro, still had to go to work, and the world kept right on spinning. I felt a bit like I could actually feel it spinning. You know damn well you are working in the wrong place when no one can cover for you the day your mom dies. That is just life. After work, which I got through, but certainly not in my most detail oriented form, I went home and was physically and emotionally exhausted. I don't know how long it had been since I slept, but it had been a very long time. I made sure I took Shiro for her walk and she didn't pull on her harness and looked over her shoulder at me intermittently in order to make eye contact. It was like she was checking on me. I was thankful that she cut me slack that day and didn't make life any harder than it already was. 

When I got back to my place, I fell into a deep sleep after fielding many of those emotional condolence phone calls that occur with these sorts of life events. I felt something against my back at one point and woke up briefly. Somehow, Shiro had gotten her giant body and her "tiny feet" into the bed with me and was spooning me. She had her body tightly pressed against mine. She knows she is not allowed into the bed, but obviously felt compelled to comfort me in the only way she knew how in that moment. I held her paw and cried into my pillow. She seemed to understand, even if it isn't entirely true. 

People ask me where I find the patience to deal with all of Shiro's antics. That is where I find the patience.  I find it because she may be a huge pain in the ass, but she is also very smart and loyal. If I ever had any doubts about her, which I really don't, she laid those to rest last week. Some guy tried to break in my back door and she immediately placed herself between us and was happy to do so. When the cop got here, she made sure she checked him out first, too. He raised his hands like a gun was being pointed at him. She knows the difference between friend and foe. It isn't taught. She has amazing senses and I see them regularly. I have heard many Akita owners talk about their undying loyalty, which is what they are known for. I believe dogs in general tend to be loyal. I can report that she is the only dog I have ever had that can tell if she needs to be concerned about someone in a matter of seconds and handles it. She is a good friend to have at my side. She is still a lot like hard work, but we continue to make progress. I am and will be patient with her because she has been with me as well. I guess we saved each other, really. 

Shiro and I watching the world.

This was the last time I got to hold mom's hand.

Shiro waiting for me to do something interesting.

Wildlife Photography - A Little Too Wild

Go ahead and do it, I'm waiting with my finger on the shutter release...

As a wildlife photographer, I have been spoiled as a result of having lived in the Pacific Northwest for over a decade now. I haven't been taking photographs that entire time, I've only been photographing wildlife for a few years, but I've been living in Seattle the entire time I've been photographing wildlife. I grew up on the East Coast and I spent a lot of time in the woods as a child-as did most of my friends. You get used to the nuisances you face on a regular basis-poison ivy, mosquitoes, snakes, chiggers-you name it. Avoiding these things becomes second nature to you, until you've been away for many years and it's no longer automatic.

My parents live in Deltaville, Virginia, not far from the Chesapeake Bay. Their home is situated in the woods near a river and it's teeming with wildlife. The end of June, I flew from Seattle to Virginia because my mom's cancer, which had been in remission for over a year, returned with a vengeance. The cancer had metastasized to her left lung and the tumor was entwined with her pulmonary artery-a very dangerous situation. Unfortunately, because of the tumor's size and location, the only viable option was for surgeons to remove her entire left lung. She was scheduled to have a pneumonectomy, which was the only real hope of saving her life. It's a complex surgery that carries a lot of risks and my family and I were all very concerned.

It had been very hot and humid during my visit and there hadn't been much leisure time due to circumstances and the oppressive heat and humidity-something else I am no longer used to now that I have been living in Seattle for so long. On July 5th, my parents had gone to do some shopping and I hadn't really been out into the woods with my camera since my arrival, so I thought I could use the distraction. Because it was so hot, I thought I would just take a quick walk through the woods, where it was shady, and see if I could get some photographs of a pair of Cardinals I had seen. Because of the heat, I knew I wouldn't stay out long and left with just my camera and my cell phone. I did leave a note on the kitchen counter explaining that I was out in the woods in case my parents returned and wondered where I was.

I didn't see any other people as I headed towards the nature trail not far from my parent's house and the birds were mostly quiet because it was early afternoon. I knew I wasn't going to see much wildlife at that time of day, but I thought a short walk through the woods might distract me from everything that was weighing on my mind. I couldn't have been more right about that. By the time I headed into the woods on the trail, I was covered in sweat and felt like I was in an oven.

I had already decided that it was too hot and that I was going to cut my walk short when I saw a pair of Cardinals sitting quietly together in a tree about thirty feet away. I had been walking very quietly in hopes of not spooking any wildlife that I might be lucky enough to encounter and the birds didn't seem overly concerned with my presence. I turned to face the birds while looking through my camera's viewfinder and zoomed in tightly. I exhaled and steadied myself in hopes of getting a nice sharp shot of the Cardinals. I widened my stance slightly and was getting ready to take the shot when - WHAM - I felt a strange and sudden pain in my right foot and nearly dropped my camera. I got control of the camera and looked down to see what had happened. I didn't know if I had stepped on a branch that had snapped back and hit me or what.

I looked down and saw blood pouring from the outside of my right foot. The initial pain felt somewhat like a bad electrical shock, but the sharp pain didn't subside. I couldn't figure out what I could have done that could have caused this type of injury. I was on flat and stable ground with no obvious obstacles. There were dead branches and leaf litter all over the sandy trail, but nothing outwardly dangerous or menacing. I turned to try to walk back towards my parent's house and when I put weight on my right foot, there was an enormous shooting pain that caused me to pull my foot back up off the ground reflexively. So, there I stood in the middle of the woods in over 100 degree heat with what felt like a rather serious injury. I shook my head in disbelief and tried to see the outside of my right foot to see if something was puncturing me. I didn't see anything obvious, but there was a lot of blood, so I couldn't see exactly what the wound looked like. I sat down on the trail pulling my right foot in and holding it to the side to try to see what I had done to it. This wasn't very helpful and I didn't have anything with me to clean the blood away to give me a better look. There were homes not too far from where I was and good friends of my parents lived in them. I shouted to see if anyone could hear me and got no response. Everyone had their windows and doors closed with their air conditioners running because of the heat. Awesome.

There was actually a chair sitting at the edge of the trail I was on about 20 feet away and I mostly hopped my way over to it and sat down. I had sweat pouring off of me, blood pouring out of me, and I felt woozy. I had never been so happy to sit in a plastic chair. I found out a few days later that my father is actually the one who had put that chair there because he liked to sit and read and watch the birds. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket thinking I'd call my dad in case they had returned home to see if he could come help me. I looked at the display screen and saw a message that you don't want to see when you are in trouble and need help - "Searching For Signal" There was what looked like a little rotating satellite dish on the screen and I saw that I had no signal whatsoever. I just shook my head as I contemplated my predicament and was somewhat astounded by how badly things were going. I held my cell ph0ne up in the air as if I could magically link in to some stray scrap of signal so that I could call for help. Nope. Nothing. I laughed at how shitty it was for this to be happening at this particular moment and I said "can you hear me NOW?" like that guy from the Verizon commercials. This wasn't a Verizon phone, it was a Sprint phone, but it seemed appropriate anyway. Great.

The situation wasn't improving and I knew I had to get back to my parent's house. I got up and began limping my way in that direction. I grabbed on to trees and would go a few feet at a time and then stop and rest. The pain in my foot was spreading up my leg and I wondered if I had somehow damaged a nerve or what. A walk that normally would have taken a few minutes ended up taking about a half hour. I finally reached my parent's house and headed for the front door. When I opened the door, I must have looked pretty bad because my mom's eyes got really wide as she sat forward on the edge of the couch and said "what happened?" I felt the cool air conditioning and was so relieved to be back inside. I limped over to the couch and put my bloody camera on the side table as I collapsed on the couch. "I don't know - something stung me or stabbed me - I'm not sure." My mom looked at my bloody foot and said "You don't bleed like that from a sting." I just sat there cooling off for a minute and then I got up and limped over to the kitchen to get a paper towel to wipe my foot off.

I had been wearing a pair of flip flop-like sandals that I wear when I'm on my parent's boat because it makes no difference if they get wet and you can just hose them off if you get them dirty. They are cool and relatively indestructible, which was why I had worn them to begin with. I was walking on relatively flat and sandy soil, so it had made sense for a walk that was only going to last a short period of time. I slipped my right foot out and the whole thing was full of blood. I got the paper towel wet and started cleaning the blood off of my foot. Once I got it clean enough, there were two very distinct puncture marks staring back at me. My jaw fell open and my mom said, "could you have been bitten by a snake?!" Oh shit. SNAKES! We don't have any venomous snakes in Seattle and in the midst of the worry about my mom's cancer and other things, that had completely fallen off of my radar screen.

As an EMT, I scrutinized the puncture marks and drifted firmly into denial. No way. I would have seen the snake, right? There was no snake. Was there? I stared at the puncture marks and noticed the bruising setting in around one of them. Whatever had punctured me had clearly punctured a vein, which is why it had bled so much initially. Nice shot. I noted the discoloration and the time on the clock and knew to watch for spreading. It was the Monday after the 4th of July and the local doctor's office was closed. There is no hospital in close proximity to my parent's home-it's a very rural area-beautiful but isolated. I contemplated my options. Okay, it couldn't have been a rattlesnake in that area and I would have been paralyzed by that time if it had been. If it were a snakebite, it had to be a Southern Copperhead. Not ideal, but not the end of the world either. It wasn't likely to kill me. I took some benedryl and thought about it. My dad came in the front door and made his way to where I was in the kitchen and looked at my foot. "I think you got bitten by a snake, kid." I once again declared why this seemed so far fetched to me since I had never seen the snake.

I weighed various scenarios in my head. I knew if I went to the hospital that I was going to be kept overnight at the very least. That was just about at the very bottom of the list of things that I deemed acceptable. The bruising didn't seem to be spreading very rapidly and I started to wonder if I had received what is referred to as a "dry bite". About 25% of the time, Copperheads don't inject venom when they bite a person. That would work nicely with my denial. We decided to watch it and to go to the hospital if it began to spread or if I started having other problems. Aside from how painful it was, it didn't seem like the end of the world. There is a nurse that lives beside my parents and a medical helicopter pilot lives next door. Somehow it didn't feel overly dangerous to ride it out for a bit. We looked at it every 10-15 minutes for many hours and came to the conclusion that it wasn't going to kill me.

Ordinarily, if a snake bite is going to be really bad, that will become evident in the hours that follow the bite. In my case, it developed more slowly, but continued to get steadily worse. The bruising spread over my foot and the pain got so bad that I couldn't stand it anymore. My dad called his doctor's office the next day , which was about 10 minutes away and they were able to fit me in. They ran several blood tests due to the hemotoxic nature of the Copperhead's venom and I was put on antibiotics and pain medication. Copperheads are pit vipers and their venom causes clotting problems in bite victims. I was told that I was not to take Aspirin, Advil, or any NSAIDs for the time being and my prothrombin time was at an acceptable level at that time. They felt that I could monitor myself for compartment syndrome since I am an EMT and told me to go to the ER if it got worse. They made some phone calls and discussed my situation with other medical professionals and agreed that antivenin probably wouldn't be that useful for me.**

In the days that followed, I was sick and miserable. I was nauseated frequently and vomited more times than I care to remember. My foot remained extremely painful and I got around on crutches most of the time. When we took my mom to the hospital for her surgery to check in, one of the nurses thought I was a patient and chastised me when she saw me drinking at the water fountain in the hallway. She barked at me, "HEY! You can't have anything to drink!!" and I turned to see her staring at me. "I can't?....wait, I'm not a patient, I'm here with my mom." I saw her looking at my wrists for those hospital bracelets. "Well, you sure LOOK like a patient!" We both laughed and I mentioned that I felt like a patient, but I wasn't one. Hanging out in the ICU all week wasn't a bad place for me with all things considered.

My mom's surgery was a success and she is living her life with one lung at this point and still fighting her cancer. She has completed four rounds of intense chemotherapy and has two more to go. It feels like it has been a long and treacherous six months. That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? My family should be pretty damned strong by now. In case you've ever wondered where the "9lives" part of "9livesimages" came from, it's a joke. I've had a few mishaps along my journey in life and friends of mine joke that I have 9 lives. Now you know.

Overall, it took a couple of months for my foot to be well enough for me to be out walking around with my camera again. There is some lingering nerve damage and pain in the knee and hip of that leg off and on. In the end, I am reminded that if I am out with my camera in the woods in a region with venomous snakes, I need to be wearing boots. The boots I had with me had canvas in the area of the bite, so they may or may not have protected me. It may have helped. I'm thankful that I live somewhere without venomous snakes. It's a luxury that I hadn't contemplated during the thousands of hours that I have spent photographing wildlife. I don't blame the snake for what happened to me. It was just a freak accident. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I had no idea that the snake was there. If I had known, I likely would have avoided the bite completely. I try not to disturb the wildlife that I photograph and have respect for all species and that includes venomous snakes. I don't condone killing venomous snakes and believe that they play a very important role in the ecosystem. I think that for the time being, I'd prefer to see them on the Discovery Channel and not in person. I nearly fell into Lake Washington late in September when a Garter Snake zipped past my foot. It was an automatic reflex and I had to laugh after it happened. I guess I'm still a little jumpy.

**If you are bitten by a venomous snake, go to the emergency room. Never put ice on a venomous snake bite-you can cause greater tissue damage and make things worse. Try to remain calm and get medical assistance. In the end, I would have benefited from the CroFab antivenin that is given to snakebite victims. Hindsight is always 20/20, isn't it? Somewhere between 6,000-8,000 people are bitten by venomous snakes in the United States each year and approximately 12 of the bites are fatal. Most fatal bites come from Rattlesnakes, another kind of pit viper. People do occasionally die from Copperhead bites, so don't risk it.

Life Storms

Just about the time it seemed like life was going to become more manageable, a new storm has blown through and tossed me completely off balance. Unlike the weather-related storms that we experience from time to time, life's storms can gather amazing strength right beneath our noses without any warning of the impending catastrophic damage that is about to take place. The undetectability of this phenomenon inspires shock and awe when you experience it firsthand. It isn't the kind of joyous wonder you experience when you see something awe-inspiring out in nature that you've never witnessed before. It's the kind of thing that makes you feel overwhelmed and physically ill without any meaningful ability to change the situation.

One year and nine months ago, my mom was diagnosed with soft tissue sarcoma, which is a rare and often deadly form of cancer that accounts for less than 1% of all new cancer cases in the U.S. each year. Just to make things more interesting, my mom presented with extraskeletal osteosarcoma, which accounts for approximately 1.2% of soft tissue sarcomas. It's kind of like being struck by lightning.

The only solution to my mom's original predicament was radical surgery to remove the aggressive tumor and two of her four quadriceps muscles. Thankfully, my mom had an amazing surgeon who did an amazing job. The tumor was removed and it was determined to have pathologically clean margins. Mom had to retrain her brain to use her remaining quadriceps muscles to do the work of the muscles that had to be removed. There was a lot of physical therapy and serious concentration involved. Mom made amazing progress and was motivated to plow through extensive radiation therapy in order to recover and get back on my parent's sailboat in order to sail off to the healing blue waters of the Bahamas. With an initial prognosis that was less than favorable to say the least, mom figured that she would do her best to do the things she loved and to make the most of life.

Every three months there have been scans to watch closely for signs of a recurrence or metastasis. Each time we sat on pins and needles not knowing what we would hear and hoping for the best. Each time she was scanned and we received good news, my family would heave a sigh of relief and we would grow more hopeful that the next scan would turn out clear as well. This process became slightly less nerve wracking each time, although the tension and anxiety always remained just beneath the surface.

This week after finishing my finals at school, the plan was for me to hop on a jet and arrive on the east coast with hopes of celebrating a break from school work and hopefully a clean cancer scan for my mom. We had intended to hop on my parent's boat for a sailing excursion where we could enjoy ourselves and just relax. That is how the week was planned. That is not how the week has actually gone. My mom's scans took place as usual, but this time the news was ominous, frightening, sickening, and somewhat unbelievable. I was sitting at my computer finishing some requirements for school when I received a message from my mom. It was very short and to the point-the exact message was "Bad news. Lung tumors. Will see surgeon."

I sat there stunned while I was staring at the message on my computer screen in complete disbelief. I felt as if someone had actually reached into my chest and was squeezing my heart tightly in their fist. My eyes welled with heavy tears and I felt like all of the air had been sucked out of the room. I felt completely blindsided in spite of the fact that I knew that this could happen at any time. Knowing that something can happen and actually having it happen are two entirely different things. Mom had rapidly been approaching a time when the odds of this happening would have dropped in half. It was so close, we could all taste it. Now there is just the bitter sting of bad news and difficult choices that remain.

We began discussing what options were available and potential outcomes. It's a horrible discussion with no easy answers and seemingly no good choices. It's difficult to describe to someone that has never experienced it before. It's as if you are watching helplessly as your loved one is being pulled out in a riptide and you can't get close enough for them to grab your hand. It doesn't matter how strong of a swimmer you are or how much stamina you can muster-all you can do is watch as they are pulled away.

It's as if we have been yanked back to square one and the opponent has grown more vicious than ever. Currently, the only hope is to remove the entire left lung surgically and hope beyond all hope that it doesn't spread to the right lung. It's difficult to fight an opponent when you don't know the rules or the rules change constantly. You can't anticipate with something so unpredictable and aggressive. Hopefully there will be surgery in the next couple of weeks and it will offer a shred of hope.

Right now, I feel completely hollow and there's nothing that I can do to change any of this. It's somewhat overwhelming to be yanked back into this situation again with no end in sight. At least when a hurricane is coming, you can see it and have some warning so that you can try to get out of its way. This kind of storm offers no such luxury. It's more like a tsunami that comes roaring ashore unexpectedly leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.

If you aren't familiar with how this all began, you can read about it HERE

The Rut

I've been in a rut. Have you ever been in a rut? I'll admit that a rut doesn't seem like a good place to be while you're in it. I've come to appreciate the parabola of creativity and know better than to try to force something that isn't there. It just doesn't work that way. The frustrating part about the rut is that you never know how long it's going to last. While it's sometimes difficult to remember exactly when the rut began, there's never any difficulty remembering where it ended. Sometimes a rut is artificially extended due to weather, life's obligations, or generally unfavorable circumstances.

After being in the depths of the rut for some time now, I'm starting to see the subtle clues that I tend to notice when I am going to emerge. Something unexpectedly fabulous or amazing is lurking. I never know when or where I'll encounter it and it does absolutely no good to look for it. It's one of those things that you have to wait for. I know by now that it's worth the wait, so I've developed a patience for it. I used to have the most frustrating experiences while I was in a rut. It wouldn't matter where I went with my camera-something would go wrong or nothing would happen at all. The big nothing. As you know, there's never really nothing happening anywhere. This is when I go out with my camera looking for something in particular, don't find it, and come home claiming that I have a memory card full of art. When I can't see what I'm looking for and nothing seems to be happening, I start to look at things with a different eye. I begin to see something where there had been nothing moments before. This usually begins when I start to pick up subtleties about light or angles in ordinary objects. Sometimes I see ordinary things in an extraordinary way when this happens. At any rate, it's a gift. It's like the world forces me to slow down and really absorb what is going on around me.

Even when I am not taking photographs, and that has been most of the time lately, I've come to notice that I see things differently than most people. I'm not necessarily looking at things differently, I just process them differently. It's something that I notice all the time. I see little flashes of details that most people don't seem to notice. I stopped asking people if they saw it a long time ago. Occasionally I am with another photographer and we both see it at the same time. It makes no difference if either of us were shooting at that moment, there is an unspoken communication that's registered. We both saw it. It's gone in the blink of an eye, which is why I describe it as a flash.

Tonight for the first time in quite some time, I don't have to do anything. There are certainly things that I could be doing and a few that perhaps I should be doing, but I needed to pause instead. So I carved out a couple of hours and accomplished next to nothing and it felt good. Again-sometimes nothing is something.

So, I'm eagerly anticipating my emergence from the rut and I'm waiting for something fabulous to happen. I feel like I've been waiting patiently - come and get me.

Defying Gravity

Some of my earliest memories take place in various kinds of aircraft. Because I was so young when some of those memories were formed, the memories themselves are mostly imagery without any commentary. They are just the voiceless visuals that I absorbed along with the emotions that were evoked by what I was seeing as well as the early impressions I formed surrounding them. Little snippets of the interiors of aircraft mixed with visions of blue skies and puffy white cumulus clouds as far as the eye could see.

The memories become more vivid and detailed by the time I was in elementary school. The commentary is intact and the sensory details are vivid. My dad is a pilot, so it was a common occurrence to be around aircraft and aircraft hangers as well as other pilots.

Most of my friend’s dads weren’t pilots, so the things they did with their fathers were different. Not better or worse, just different. While I was growing up, my dad was out traversing the globe and coming back with stories that filled us with wonder. Frequently when my dad was returning from some faraway place, he would buzz the house on his way to the airport. We would hear the dull roar of the engines growing louder and we would stop whatever we were doing along with our friends and all of our eyes would turn to the sky, scanning in every direction until we spotted him. The roar of the engines would grow louder and the aircraft would get bigger and bigger until he made his low pass over the house. He’d bank the aircraft as he passed over and we’d all wave. Generally speaking, we knew he’d be home within an hour or so and that he would probably have something unique that represented a culture far away.

On the weekends when my dad was home, he’d sometimes take my brother and I flying along with a friend or two in tow. Generally, there was no destination in mind; we were just going up for the thrill of it. There was this two seat aircraft, a Citabria (that’s airbatic spelled backwards), that we always looked forward to riding in. The Citabria had a single engine with one seat in front of the other and it was built for aerobatics. That’s my kind of airplane.

My brother and I would help to push the large heavy doors of the hangar open revealing the Citabria waiting inside for its weekend workout. Dad would push the plane out of the hangar onto the tarmac where it would be cleaned up and given a pre-flight before the festivities could begin. The excitement and anticipation would build throughout the process and we’d have to come to an agreement about who got to go first. We would methodically go through the pre-flight with my dad and he would explain each step and why it was important and he’d have us participate from beginning to end. To this day, if I step into a hangar or I’m at an airport and I smell that combination of wax and aircraft fuel, my thoughts immediately drift to the Citabria. My pulse increases and I get goose bumps when the memory is evoked.

It wasn’t that important whether I got to go first or not, if you actually believe that’s possible. There were a couple of ways of looking at it. If you got to go first, your gratification came quickly. If you went last, you got to ride home still on the high that you had from your recent adventure. What was of real importance is what happened once you were inside the Citabria.

I’d climb into my seat, put the headset on and plug it in so that I could hear dad talking to me as well as what he said over the radio. He would open the window and shout in a clear voice, “CLEAR PROP!” and then he would fire up the engine. The prop would send a warm wind through the aircraft and through my hair causing my eyes to narrow with excitement. Soon afterwards we’d taxi across the tarmac onto the taxiway and my smile could no longer be contained. We would taxi to a designated spot, turn the nose into the wind for the run-up and go through the motions. Dad would increase the throttle, in turn increasing the RPM’s, and check the magnetos. Switch to left magneto, watch for the drop in RPM’s and then switch back to both, repeating the procedure on the other side. I would see and feel the controls moving as he rolled the stick from side to side and depressed the rudders on either side to make sure the flight controls were free and correct. A quick call over the radio and we would be moving once again.

There would be no further delay unless another aircraft was ahead of us or one was on final approach. We would roll out onto the runway, turning so that the Citabria’s nose was on the centerline and go full throttle. Our speed would pick up as we dashed down the runway, the engine would roar, and the wind would continue to blow through the inside of the aircraft. People that don’t like to fly haven’t had this type of experience where you feel like you are so much a part of the aircraft. All of your senses are involved by the time you lift off and go airborne. The sound of the engine, the sensation of the wind, the feel of the speed and the momentary hiccup in gravity when you lift off and then lower the nose of the aircraft to the ideal climbing attitude. I’d glance down as we gained altitude and watched the cars and buildings grow smaller and smaller. I’d scan the gauges wondering how long it would be until we would be at the appropriate altitude to unleash the Citabria’s aerobatic capabilities. The time would pass quickly and throughout the climb my dad would point out things of note on the ground. “See your school down there? Better to be up here, eh?” and we’d laugh.

Once we had enough altitude between the ground and us, the real fun would begin. Dad would do a couple of clearing turns, looking for traffic on all sides as well as above and below us to make sure there were no other aircraft in the area. The next thing I knew, the nose would drop and we would be diving towards the ground at a high rate of speed. The engine would roar and suddenly dad would raise the nose of the aircraft and we would be climbing straight up like a couple of astronauts. The G forces would push me back against my seat and I felt like I weighed a ton. Sometimes I would try to pull my head forward and laugh when I could barely move. Just then, when I couldn’t feel any heavier, we’d hit the peak of our loop and for a few moments, we would be weightless as we went inverted before diving back towards the ground. I would float upwards out of the seat and if I hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, I’d be floating in mid air. Sometimes dad would mix it up and as we came out of a loop, he’d roll the aircraft to the right or the left and we’d go wing over wing in a barrel roll. It was total sensory overload and I loved every minute. In my field of vision I would see the horizon rolling in front of us - ground, sky, ground, sky and sometimes we’d pause only seeing ground or sky briefly. I don’t think it mattered how many loops or rolls we completed, I was always ready for more.

Eventually we would make our way back to the airport, surrendering to gravity and rejoin the earthlings we had left behind. I never wanted to come back down, but we always did - until the next time. After we’d touch down, we’d taxi back over to the tarmac and either we would go through the shutdown procedures or I would climb out and the next lucky passenger would climb in. None of us had exactly the same ride because we all liked different things. I was in it for the aerobatics, pure and simple. I could care less about sightseeing. It was all about the thrill of flight and feeling like I was a part of the aircraft for a little while.

When I would go to school on Monday, we’d all be exchanging stories about what we did over the weekend and since no one really understood what I had been doing, I would just say, “I went flying with my dad” and leave it at that. It’s not like anyone would have believed me if I had said that I had experienced more G forces than they could imagine and that moments later I had been weightless like an astronaut doing barrel rolls through the sky. So, I’d say I had gone flying and they would ask me if I liked it to which I’d reply, “yeah, it’s pretty cool”. In my mind there would be a series of images and feelings associated with those images and I’d inevitably smile. My friends would smile back not really knowing or understanding the depth of my happiness. It was like there was this whole other world out there and not many people knew about it. I couldn’t be there all the time, or even for a very long time when I was there, but I always wanted to go back.

Frozen In Time

I pulled into the parking spot, putting it into park and glanced around noticing that there were no other vehicles parked in the visitor lot that afternoon. The reason was clear; anyone with any sense was inside on this cold winter afternoon in Seattle enjoying the warmth. Not me, no, I felt compelled to go and visit the Trumpeter Swans that were visiting Union Bay on Lake Washington to attempt to get some good photos of them before they departed the area. It’s not common for Trumpeter Swans to spend their winters in Seattle, so I felt pressed for time, knowing that they could take flight at any moment and leave. It was already after two o’clock and the sun was dropping towards the horizon like a rock as it does in the winter in Seattle.

The ground was hard and crunchy beneath my feet as I walked along the trail that would lead me to the lake’s edge. I had on several layers of clothing, but I still felt cold and the chill of the wind was stinging my face and eyes. I had second thoughts several times as I made my way along the trail. I was definitely conflicted. My body longed to be inside where it was warm, but my mind wanted to see the swans and photograph them at close range, somehow capturing them in a photograph that would portray their elegance and grace. As I reached the part of the trail that took me close to the lake, a cold wind came across the water, stinging my face and making my eyes glaze over. Geez, this doesn’t feel very good! I glanced out across the water and caught sight of the twelve Trumpeter Swans that had been visiting for a few weeks. When I looked at them, somehow it didn’t seem quite so cold anymore. I figured I’d pick a spot to hide and wait for awhile in hopes that they might come close to shore so that I would be presented with a photo opportunity.

The dead grass crunched beneath my boots and the metal of my camera lens was cold in my hands as I worked my way into the spot I would remain for an untold length of time. Situations like this one are physically challenging for a photographer in the middle of winter. It’s cold, which is uncomfortable in and of itself, but remaining relatively motionless for long periods of time in these conditions while exposed to the wind places you at a very real risk for hypothermia. Eh, I’ll take my chances.

I hadn’t seen another human since before I had left my car in the parking lot. The only signs of life were the birds that were flitting about foraging and filling up before the sun went down. Well, that’s not entirely true, I could see cars driving over the 520 bridge that crosses Lake Washington in the distance. I imagined being in the car with the heater on high and not having the cold stinging sensation in my cheeks from the wind. It was a nice thought at that moment. I stayed put, raising my eye to the viewfinder on my camera and glassed over the swans out on the lake. They were going to have to be much closer to make this worthwhile.

As I watched and waited, hoping that the swans would venture into the cove as the light continued to drain from the sky, a shiver began to rattle me from deep within. Oh great, shivering is highly compatible with photography as you might imagine. Sharp, crisply focused images were what I came here for, not blurred images of distant white lumps on water that I would have to convince people were Trumpeter Swans. I glanced down making sure that the image stabilization on the lens was switched on and figured I’d hope for the best.

The swans were busy foraging and preening with no concern for my situation. The minutes ticked by and it was now after 3:30 and what was left of the sun wasn’t going to be offering stellar photos. A couple of times I shifted as if to get up and leave and then I’d remain on the cold, hard, ground waiting and watching. That minor rattle that had welled up deep within me in the form of a shiver was gaining some momentum and could no longer be completely ignored. It wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t take photos, but it was only going to get worse the longer I remained there.

As I was about to throw in the towel and concede defeat, I noticed that the swans had made a deliberate change in direction and were now heading directly towards the cove. There were nine adults and three immature drifting across the water. The adults were the picture of elegance with their stark white plumage and their long elegant necks. My eyes kept drifting to the three immature swans and their smoky gray coloring. They were all beautiful in their own way. By this time, the swans were about seventy-five yards away from me and still closing the distance that remained between us. I focused my lens on the closest swan to see what sort of image quality I was going to be faced with. There was still enough light for me to have a relatively high shutter speed at this point, but some high clouds had moved in and everything had this sort of flat, gray look. If you looked out across the water at the swans in that light, it looked cold. Perfect. It isn’t often that you get a sense of the temperature from an image, but it somehow conveyed today. That or I was so cold by then that I was convinced that it would convey in the photos.

The three immature swans had split from the nine adults and were swimming in my direction. These swans had proven to be somewhat shy on the few occasions I had seen them before, so I didn’t want to draw attention to myself with movement and the clicking sound of the shutter on my camera. I waited to see what they were going to do before I did anything. They swam over and stopped about fifteen yards in front of me and began preening. The location that they had decided on was somewhat shaded, which was going to degrade the image quality, but this was the closest I had ever been to a Trumpeter Swan, so I didn’t really care at that point. I took a test shot to see how things were going to look. While these were not the ideal conditions that I had longed for, I wasn’t going to complain and figured this might be as good as it was going to get.

I pulled my left leg towards me, slightly elevating it and placed my lens on top of my knee for stability as I squinted through the viewfinder. The shivering was definitely going to be a factor, but there was nothing to be done about that at this point. I placed my finger on the shutter release depressing it halfway bringing the swans into sharp focus and waited. I had my focus on the center swan when movement of the swan on the far right caught my eye. I changed my focus just in time as the swan turned away from me, snapping its wings open in a dramatic gesture. Click. Gotcha. I quickly looked at my LCD to see if I had captured the moment, and there it was, frozen in time. I smiled and got that warm feeling that you get as a photographer when you capture what you had intended in any given moment. The swan snapped its wings open and closed a few times to realign its feathers or just to stretch, I wasn’t sure which. I liked the sound of it as much as the image.

The two swans on the left were completely focused on preening and were oblivious to all else. I watched them stretch and contort into various positions, at times looking like mirror images of one another, and captured the various poses with my camera. They would pull their enormous feet completely out of the water, holding them back as if to stretch their legs. They didn’t care how funny they looked while they were doing these things, but I was certainly entertained by it.

One of the adults had broken with its group and was making its way over to the spot where the immature swans were preening in front of me as if to check on them. This was the closest I had been to an adult Trumpeter Swan, and even though the light had mostly drained from the sky by then, I took a few shots anyway knowing that even if no one else appreciated the shots, I would.

After about a half an hour of watching and photographing the swans, I could no longer ignore how cold I had become. I had been in the same spot for a couple of hours and had moved very little. The heat had been slowly draining from my body that entire time. The wind was blowing off of the water cooling me and the cold hard ground had been leeching the heat out of me as well. My camera felt like a chunk of ice in my hands at that point. It was time to throw in the towel. I wanted to retreat without spooking the swans because I wanted to photograph them again if a better opportunity presented itself. I didn’t want them to have a memory of me being the scary lady that makes sudden movements at the water’s edge. I straightened my legs for a moment and lowered my camera allowing their attention to be drawn to me. Once I had their attention, I looked away from them as if I was completely uninterested in what they were doing and began to push myself back up into a standing position. My knees complained loudly along with the rest of me now that I was finally animated once again and no longer a frozen fixture of the landscape like the rocks beside me. I watched the swans in my peripheral vision as I slowly retreated from my position. They were watching me with curiosity, but I didn’t detect fear, and that was just how I wanted to leave it.

I made my way back to the gravel trail that leads to the parking lot and wished I could simply beam myself to the shelter of my vehicle. I was completely frozen, or so it seemed anyway. By the time I was halfway to my car, I was shivering violently and it occurred to me that I was in the early stages of hypothermia. I had been using all of my mental concentration to control that shivering as I was photographing the swans, but I had less and less control of it towards the end. Now that I was no longer trying to control it, it was definitely out of control. My hands were cold and hard to move and I tried to warm them as I closed the last hundred yards or so between myself and the car.

I was hoping that I had captured something to remember the swans by, because otherwise, it was feeling less and less like it had been worth it. I reached for my keys and depressed the button to unlock my door as my hands shook. I got inside the car and it felt so good to have the wind off of my body. I closed my eyes and exhaled now that one of the uncomfortable elements that had been making me miserable had been removed. I placed the keys in the ignition and started the car to let it warm up. I longed to turn the heat to the high setting and thaw out. Pretty quickly I found out that this was not going to be an entirely pleasant experience. As my hands began to warm up, an intense pain settled in, making me unable to concentrate on anything else. I clenched my teeth and made sure that I didn’t touch anything because that only intensified the pain. Oh man, it was bad! I kept telling myself it would pass soon as I looked down at my hands and saw them turning red. In that moment, it was good that it was cold and that my windows were up, because as the pain intensified, so did my reaction and no one needed to hear the series of words that I was stringing together in that moment. I was still shivering, but even the cool air that the car was producing as it warmed up felt warm to me. After several minutes, I was able to drive out of the parking lot and head for home. My teeth were chattering as I approached a stoplight and the ridiculousness of it cracked me up. I had been so mentally focused on what I was doing that I hadn’t realized just how cold I had really gotten. This was not my brightest moment. It took me awhile to warm up even after I had gotten home. I didn’t even bother to look at the photos until later because I had made myself so physically miserable. Somehow, I doubted if it had been worth it and told myself that I’d pay closer attention in the future so that I didn’t find myself in the same situation again.

To this day, when I look at those images, it makes me feel cold. I can honestly say that I am glad that I had the experience though. In that moment by the lake, I had the swans all to myself and I was able to sit and watch their natural behavior. Most of the times I had encountered them, there were a number of people around and oftentimes one or more of those people would be doing something that the swans were concerned about. When I was alone with them, they were completely relaxed and being their true selves, which is what I had wanted to capture and remember.

The next day, I went to the drug store and bought a bunch of those little heat packs that you break open and they get warm. I put them in my camera bag so that I’d have them if I needed them. You can put them in your shoes to keep your feet warm, or in your pockets or gloves. Yes, I came to realize that gloves are a good thing. The next time I went out with my camera, I had stopped at a mini mart to get a drink and as I was walking back to the counter, I saw a pair of knit gloves on a rack and the package said “Swans” on it. I grabbed them and bought them for $2.00. I figured it was fate.

Not the best, but the best I could do in that moment in those conditions.

Staying Young

In the town where I grew up, there was a sign with a quote on it at the entrance to the recreation center that stuck in my mind. It read, "You don't stop playing because you grow old, you grow old because you stop playing." I remember wondering if that was true as a young girl in elementary school. It sounded like it might have some truth to it, and I suppose I gave it enough thought to have it stick with me all of these years.

When I think of the games that I played when I was young, there are a few that stand out. There was this game called "kick the can" that we played nearly every night during the Summer. If you've never heard of it, it's very simple. A bucket or can or whatever other object is handy that is suitable for the task is placed in a central location that is known as the base. A couple of people have to stay at the base and count while everyone else runs and hides under the cover of darkness. I suppose you could play this during the day as well, but we never did. Generally speaking, the area that was available for hiding was agreed upon at the start of the game. It might consist of one person's front and back yard or perhaps two yards depending on the size of the property and available hiding spots. One person would usually stick fairly close to the base searching the immediate area for adversaries while the other person would roam far and wide attempting to find signs of life. You might start with a great hiding place, but eventually you would have to leave the safety of that carefully chosen spot in order to make a rush on "the can". People that are discovered during the game have to be "tagged" before they are able to reach the can. If they are tagged, they are a prisoner at base until everyone else is captured or someone on their own team makes a successful rush on the can and kicks it before being tagged. When I think about it all these years later, it still brings a smile to my face. It sounds silly when I describe it now, but you have to have strategy, patience, speed and agility in order to be successful.

My friend Debbie was usually on my team and she almost always got captured in the early stages of the game. Debbie wasn't very fast or agile and apparently she wasn't very good at hiding either. She was fun though and I always went to great lengths to free her. She would try to distract the boys on the other team when she thought I was going to make a break for it. Sometimes this worked and other times it didn't, but it was hilarious to watch it all unfold from wherever I was lurking.

Initially I would try to choose a hiding spot that afforded me a view of both sides of the house so that I could visualize the yard on both sides. I would remain hidden as I watched the seeker like a cat watching a bird. At some point it was inevitable that Debbie would scream and dash towards the front yard and soon after that she would be tagged. Once the seeker had already given chase and was distracted and somewhat winded, I would make my first move. I would quietly move to a closer location and listen intently if I couldn't see the seeker that was after me. I knew that just because I couldn't see them didn't mean that they couldn't see me. There were times when I would suddenly discover that I was in a vulnerable position because I hadn't been aware of the seeker's movement until they were nearly on top of me. I would try to become one with the landscape and sometimes I had to hold my breath so as not to make a sound when someone was making a close pass. In the event that I was discovered, I would make a break for it and attempt to out-maneuver my opponent. One night when I was attempting to out-maneuver my opponent, who also happened to be my older brother, we were racing wildly towards Debbie's front yard and the can when my brother slipped on the grass and went careening across the gravel driveway and into the street. I continued on to the can, kicking it, and when I turned back to celebrate, my brother was rolling around on the pavement screaming that his arm was injured. Like most younger sisters at that age, I told him he was a faker and to suck it up because we were victorious. He protested that he was seriously injured and Debbie and I rolled our eyes. At least that was our position until he got up off of the ground and we saw his arm. His arm was broken and somehow victory didn't seem so sweet anymore. We had to go home and of course my brother had to go to the emergency room. While that is a particular game that stands out in my mind, most of the time no one actually got hurt and we had a great time. The grass would have fresh dew in it and the sounds of crickets and frogs filled the air. It was quite lovely actually and I'm sure I'll always remember those days with a smile.

Obviously I spent a lot of time playing a form of hide and seek while I was growing up.

I didn't play hide and seek or kick the can or any of those other games for many years afterwards. At least not until recently.

What I've come to discover is that I play hide and seek all the time. These days my opponents are wild animals and they are the most worthy opponents I have ever faced. Many of them hold special abilities that I don't have, which makes the game more tricky than ever. Many of them can fly and some of them are masters at remaining unseen. In the latest game, I am both the hider as well as the seeker at the same time. Sometimes I lay hidden for hours just waiting for a particular species to come close enough for me to get a nice photograph. Sometimes I'm successful and more frequently I'm not. The game requires a ton of patience and being a sore loser doesn't really seem like an option. While I frequently lose, I learn something new nearly every time I play. I've learned to read body language in various animals and I've learned to project certain body language depending on what I'm attempting to photograph. In this game that I play, instead of "tagging" my opponent, I depress the shutter button on my camera and attempt to capture that moment in time. Every time that I look at any of my photos, I can clearly remember the pursuit or the circumstances that led to that particular image. I can usually tell you what the temperature was like, what time of day it was, what the air smelled like, and perhaps some feeling associated with the capture. After many of these games, I have aching knees, arms, back, or any other number of misbehaving body parts. Sometimes the price is a sunburn or bug bites. This past Winter, I stayed hidden in a spot at the edge of Lake Washington for several hours in the freezing temperatures waiting for Trumpeter Swans to come close enough for a reasonable shot. I got some pretty good ones and I actually had to leave because I was shivering so violently that I really couldn't focus anymore. When I got into my car and my hands began to warm up, the pain was so intense, I thought I would scream. Thawing out was a painful experience that day. After I had warmed up and I had been at home for awhile, I emailed my friend Kevin and asked him if Trumpeter Swans were worth hypothermia. He cleared it up easily with his response. He said that they were absolutely worth hypothermia because I could warm up and I'd have the shots to enjoy for years to come. When I look at those shots now, I do feel a twinge in my hands, but I love remembering how close the swans came to me that day and how I was the only person around to enjoy them. Other people get to enjoy that moment with me when they view the images. People never know what I was going through at a particular moment that I capture a photograph. The animal and I are the ones that share that moment in time.

I'm still playing, and if that sign was right, it's keeping me young or at least I don't feel like I'm growing old.