Back when I was learning to work in the dark room, we were encouraged to study Ansel Adams. I pondered some photos and I read some of his words about technique. I was particularly impressed with his equipment and darkroom setup— or lack thereof. I understood the importance of his work from a historical and from a conservation standpoint, but I had trouble “reading” landscapes in black & white.
What I remember most of all of it was his portrait of a man’s face. After discussing his photo he wrote, “I think this portrait would have been better in color.” That was remarkable to me, as I have generally preferred portraits in black & white and landscapes in color, and I was under the impression that Adams did everything in B&W. I hadn’t even known that color film existed during his lifetime.
I wonder what it was about the face that he thought would have been better in color. He didn’t explain. The only thing I can think that displeased him was the difference in drama between a mountain and a face. Mountains are dramatic in a way that allowed him to capture them in stark blacks and whites, expertly balancing the tones across the page. A face has more muted peaks and valleys, lending itself to the ambivalence of grey. Perhaps Adams was less sure of himself due to this lack of starkness. While most of us need color to comprehend the landscape, perhaps landscape is what Adams saw most clearly in any light. Perhaps Adams needed color to help him comprehend the human face.
While Iris and I went for a walk up the Sainte-Marguerite river,
Martin stayed by the bay and played with metal cars with Akiva.
Upon my return, I noticed we were situated in the perfect location for shooting 4×4 truck advertisements!
I made some mock-ups using Toyota advertising slogans and Lorem Ipsum text.
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In the afternoon, we went on a hike.
In the evening, we made popcorn with a cute little popcorn cage that we held over the fire. I made a couple of batches and timed it: six minutes to pop over good coals. Martin wanted to make a batch, so I filled up the cage with corn. Wanting to be a guy and beat my six-minute average, he tossed a couple of logs on the coals to build up a roaring guy-style camp fire. Unfortunately, Martin never did spend much time studying the physics of campfires and did not know that before you get a roaring flame, the logs have to catch fire. Then after you get a roaring flame, you have to wait for good coals or you just burn the kernels. It took him a good 20 minutes of shaking those kernels over the cold fire in an uncomfortable squat position before I relieved his suffering by moving aside the logs to reveal the coals. Sorry, Martin. Sometimes, it hurts to be a guy.
Whenever I hear the name “Megantic,” I think of this horrible train accident that occurred on July 5th, 2013. I heard about the crash on the radio while driving to Quebec with my one-year-old daughter, Iris, and her father, Martin, the man who I eventually married and remain married to a decent number of years later. Am I not lucky?
Because that was the first I ever heard of Lac-Megantic, the national park and dark-sky preserve will forever be tied in my mind to a train carrying 72 oil tankers that crashed and burned in the middle of a small town. On that day, the beauty of a sky full of stars exploded into an inferno so bright it rivaled the lights of Quebec City as seen from space.
As they say— at least for now— “life goes on.”
We went to the national park & dark sky preserve with our friends, the Maurice Family Girls. It is great to camp with friends and kids! I love it. I did not take any photos excepting on this one day when I was particularly tired. I stayed above on the bridge for a while, using my camera as an excuse to view Claudia and the children from afar. In the entire national park (which I admit we saw very little of), this little river crossing was voted the absolute best place.
The maroon girls work on the mouth of the canal. Akiva attempts various bridges.
Tabéa works on an independent study. Claudia keeps the peace.
Iris fixes the walls of a pond. Tabéa’s tripple-pond complex is revealed.
Back at the canal, bridge construction is not looking good.
Akiva attempts a different style of bridge at the opposite end of the canal from the initial construction.
It works!
Iris says she is all out of English stories.
She begins a series of French stories for Tabéa while sitting atop something tall, hollow, and resonant.
After packing all morning & after some minor issues reading maps in the afternoon (the minimum focal distance for my eyes has recently become greater than the distance between my head and the steering wheel), we arrived late on the 15th & set up camp. Today is day one because packing, driving, and shopping are not camping.
We went to the office before breakfast to find out important information such as how to rent a canoe, but the office opens at 9am, so we walked the nature trail past the Don Eagle museum. After thawing our toes and eating breakfast, we asked for the key to the museum. The museum is small.
Inside, near the door, there are some plaster casts of animal prints, some mounted insects, and a section of a tree demonstrating dendrochronography.
Across the room are some animal skulls and a few posters. In the middle is a selection of local rocks. In the far corner, a broom.
The gems of the museum are on the left wall, which I failed to photograph in its entirety. A collection of photographs and newspaper clippings, framed or mounted behind glass, tell a brief history of Brighton State Park and some native Americans who enjoyed its beauty before it became a park. I expected to be able to find some articles in on-line newspaper archives when I returned home a few days later (now) to write about the museum, but the St. Johnsbury newspaper historical archive is only updated until about 1920 and then the modern archive begins in the 90s, leaving the majority of the last century unarchived. Thus, I cannot find any little local news snippets about Don Eagle, only some big famous stuff that does not pertain to his lakeside camp. Still, I have a few things to share.
ESSENCE OF BRIGHTON STATE PARK
—by Eric Bouchard, Brighton State Park Manager
“Don Eagle, the son of Chief War Eagle and Kawasadie was born on August 28th, 1924. A Mohawk member of the Iroquois Nation, Don grew up on the Caughnawaga reservation, just outside Montreal. He attended a Catholic school, participating in and excelling in such activities as football, track and lacrosse.
“At age 20, Don found boxing. Professionally, he won 17 of 22 bouts, which ultimately lead to the obtainment of the highly esteemed Golden Gloves in Cleveland, Ohio. A hand injury, unfortunately, ended his boxing career. However, under the advisement of his father (a former wrestling lightweight champoion of the world), Don took to wrestling.
“A wrestling training camp was established in Island Pond in 1945. This camp was created both for himself and other aspiring wrestlers. At the peak of his wrestling career, on May 23, 1950, Don became the wrestling World Champion after beating Don Saxton. The $10,000 diamond studded belt which was in Saxton’s possession for five years was then Don’s.
“While still in possession of the World Heavyweight Title, Don performed in Island Pond at the municipal hall on August 11th, 1951.
“He spent a great deal of time in Island pond, and inspired a whole generation of locals, young and old alike. Youths were taught outdoor skills while teens and adults were granted a role model and friendship that was beyond comparison. Island Pond was more than just a getaway for Don, it was his home. He and his parents resided on Eagle Point during the 1040s. They spent many memorable years there, hunting, fishing, and just enjoying all this wonderful place has to offer.
“The state of Vermont purchased his Island Pond property in 1956. This purchase resulted in the creation of our beloved Brighton State Park.
“Don passed away in his Caughnawaga Reservation home in 1966, leaving behind a legacy and memory that will continue to inspire for years to come.
“His essence and memory will always remain within the hears and minds of those who knew him and those who love and cherish Brighton State Park. This museum is dedicated to his memory.”
And then there is this poem, written by Don Eagle’s father, chief War Eagle—
When the pale-faced European drove the Red man from his land
drove him from the broad Atlantic to the far Pacific sand
the Great Spirit looking downward grieved to see his children sad
told them they may leave one small thing of all the things they had.
Then they quarreled all and one said, let us leave a thing of war
a tomahawk that they by fighting may exist no more.
But another said, no let us leave an arrow that it’s point
may draw their life’s blood, until these people are dead.
But brother cried a third one, tomahawks and arrows bring death, so
silent swift and painless that it looses all it’s sting.
Rather let us leave this snakeskin that I belt around my waist,
with a silent subtle poison to destroy them not in haste.
Then spoke Assinaboine, he the greatest chief of ALL, from his hut
beside Niagra where the thunder waters fall— brothers, cried
the aged assinchen, while ye are about to go, leave not hate and
strife behind you. D not treat the Pale face so. Rather let us
answer the Great Spirit asking not for strife and war, but to
scatter peace and plenty o’er this land for ever more. Now ye
thunder-winters listen and ye rolling rivers hear, ye rocks and
trees remember, listen brother all in fear— though the Red
man leaves his wigwam while passing toward the setting sun, though
he takes along his blanket, his tomahawk and gun, let him leave
behind his peace pipe by the ashes of his home, leaving it alight
and burning o’er the land he used to roam. The great spirit heard
the answer and it pleased him from above, for he said, “Between the
Pale-face and the Red man shall be love.”
—Chief War Eagle
Upon returning to camp, Iris made a museum. At one point, it had a dead snake, but the dead snake was carried off by an unknown animal. The beetles, which she had named “leather beetle” and “fabric beetle” after the appearance of their exoskeleton under a magnifying glass, were consumed by some animal who left behind some legs and a carapace that Iris then neatly arranged on a piece of bark. The water lily, found picked and floating, refused to re-open. The mosses and lichen were relatively unfazed by being displayed in the museum. Two dragonflies, found dead, apparently have very little worth scavenging and were left relatively intact for a while. Birchbark is displayed as a useful fire starter. The mushroom was kicked up by Akiva during a tantrum and collected by Iris. The white moth was not-quite-dead. The copper rings were found in the box of scrap lumber we brought to burn. It was a beautiful museum.
