Abridged

Abridged
(Adirondacks, NY)
Alder Brook is barely a brook, really more of a run from the outlet of Crane Pond down to Alder Pond. It’s me who named it, for lack of a name of the line on a map, and Alder Brook has a nicer ring to it than Crane Brook. I think nearly everyone anticipates the hikes at the end of the badly potholed forest road above me, and bypass the little cathedral down here in a forest-for-the-trees fashion. Which is ok with me. Alternate drops and pools define the corridor, lined with big broken slabs and boulders from some glacial retreat we are not privy to, an obstacle course of stone and moss. In this stretch a couple of impromptu spans connect the banks, but I don’t need to tightrope across to photograph my abridged version of Alder Brook. That’s kind of what photography is—choose a condensed version of the 360 your senses are taking in at the time, which you hope you can recreate in a representative sense later. It is how the memory works too. Our experiences are not recalled in laborious detail, but rather in a compressed synoptic form that gives each of us a unique picture of events. Perhaps it works for the photographer, but these memories fall short in real life when we wish to remember every word, every touch, every feeling of our past. We relive those moments in flashes, much shorter and less satifying than the glow of the moments themselves. I wish I could recall in minute detail all the intamacies, the looks, all the words that my heart swore to me I would never forget, but didn’t tell me would be in abbreviated form. Time is not repeated in full.

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Filename: Abridged
Image Size: 2048x1363 / 4.1MB; Alder Brook Crane Pond Pharoah Wilderness Adirondacks ADK New York NY wilderness forest woods stream brook summer landscape
Contained in galleries: Adirondacks

Abridged<br />
(Adirondacks, NY)<br />
Alder Brook is barely a brook, really more of a run from the outlet of Crane Pond down to Alder Pond. It’s me who named it, for lack of a name of the line on a map, and Alder Brook has a nicer ring to it than Crane Brook. I think nearly everyone anticipates the hikes at the end of the badly potholed forest road above me, and bypass the little cathedral down here in a forest-for-the-trees fashion. Which is ok with me. Alternate drops and pools define the corridor, lined with big broken slabs and boulders from some glacial retreat we are not privy to, an obstacle course of stone and moss. In this stretch a couple of impromptu spans connect the banks, but I don’t need to tightrope across to photograph my abridged version of Alder Brook. That’s kind of what photography is—choose a condensed version of the 360 your senses are taking in at the time, which you hope you can recreate in a representative sense later. It is how the memory works too. Our experiences are not recalled in laborious detail, but rather in a compressed synoptic form that gives each of us a unique picture of events. Perhaps it works for the photographer, but these memories fall short in real life when we wish to remember every word, every touch, every feeling of our past. We relive those moments in flashes, much shorter and less satifying than the glow of the moments themselves. I wish I could recall in minute detail all the intamacies, the looks, all the words that my heart swore to me I would never forget, but didn’t tell me would be in abbreviated form. Time is not repeated in full.