Ridge Trail Triptych
I.
A narrow black motorboat rocks in rough waters far offshore while this morning’s atmosphere has been drained of heavy overnight showers. On this partly overcast day, large dark clouds along the horizon cross a distant slate-gray surface of the lake, dragging their shadows away. Some slim remnants, seemingly weightless and pale, swiftly float in air currents way overhead. Windblown drifts swell those stubby humps of sand newly amassing among foredunes beside the beach. Most mounds have grown only a few feet high, no taller than the height of that small girl wearing a yellow raincoat I see running from a woman hurrying behind her in a red-and-green-checked sweater.
* * *
As if running in a race, the couple scurry along a lane between a tan pair of sandy lumps lightening under a suddenly clearing sky. Often, I view the world through the benefit of the long focal length on a telephoto lens. From my magnified perspective while hiking a winding path with descending switchbacks overseeing the beach, their movements through these foredunes below me seem reminiscent of navigating a corn maze. Spokes of sunshine poke between already bare trees on a distant hillside, and a faint flow of golden light spills down the slopes of nearby dunes. Though I cannot know for sure, I surmise a young mother is rushing to catch up with her daughter. As the little one sways unsteadily through the foredunes, her body bobs a bit like that silhouette of the distant vessel still visible beyond persistent surges of incoming waves, the form of its slender hull shaking from port to starboard and back again.
* * *
The young girl appears to be tossing bread crust or cracker crumbs to a scattering of white ring-billed gulls now gathering among the freshly formed accumulations of dunes brightening all around her. Brought by the morning’s returning sunlight, this increasing illumination reveals the lively child delighted at the commotion she has created. She appears encouraged by her mother’s laughter and clapping hands. Flapping her arms to imitate wings, the girl gleefully screeches each time one of the equally noisy birds responds with piercing cries, though their calls are muffled somewhat by the humid air before reaching me a fair distance away. Each gull approaches her in curiosity or follows her to peck at brown specks of food left behind. That shimmering layer of sand suddenly shines in the arriving light, its tiny sediments looking like ground shards of glass. However, the surface is very easily shifted by wind, and the footing appears obviously much too soft to be confused with such a harsh texture.
* * *
Following days of hesitation, after waiting for the spell of stormy weather to clear and the local meteorologists’ forecasts to cooperate, I have finally visited this location again. Selecting an isolated spot from which I can see the entire shore bending ahead, I continue to watch the girl’s exuberance from overhead on a ridge trail rising above a cliff and twisting along the upper hillside. Pausing on my mid-morning hike, I intend to capture the long curve of coastline extending west by positioning my photography setup on a small but fairly flat point amid a mixture of sand and moist soil overlooking Lake Michigan. This landscape reminds me of my childhood visits to the north shore of Long Island. Planting the tripod’s three tapered feet a few inches deep into the damp though loose ground, my gear will be secure against any camera shake from whatever winds remain. Nearly sheer clouds still hang over the eastern edge of this setting like undone clumps of cotton swabs carefully pulled apart. Patiently anticipating additional rays of sunshine grazing one of those fading strays from yesterday’s storm front, I have time to stand on this bluff and sip coffee from my thermos while I observe others visiting that lakeshore almost a hundred feet beneath me.
* * *
Nevertheless, neither the girl nor her mother—not anyone—will appear in my final landscape image containing an empty sprawl of beige beachfront partially grayed by lengthening shadows of early-autumn treetops, some still shawled with lingering leaves and sharply piercing the sky beside this shore. The cluster of gulls will have flown away, seeking more morsels of sustenance somewhere else while I, as always, will also stay outside the frame of the photograph. That dark far-off boat swaying on the slowly rolling lake water will be missing as well, diminishing from sight past the razor-straight line of horizon and finally disappearing into the blank but beautiful deep blue hue beyond. The finished image will merely be a study of geometric shapes and plain tame shade, plus perhaps some natural patterned profiles of nearby features in the terrain, the soft light from this season’s weak sunshine slightly defining their outlines.
II.
One day last summer I stood in this same location, crouched behind my camera placed upon its tripod, and I huddled under thick branches bending with full foliage during humid late-morning weather. Despite the dimness of shade, a slim string of sweat snaked around the rim of my midnight blue Yankees baseball cap with its logo of distinctive interlocking white letters. As if the hat had been dipped in ink, a thin perimeter of almost indigo spread just above the level of its stiff bill and along the hem of the lower edge. By then, I felt the wet cloth crown stick to me as if layered with an adhesive against my dampened forehead and perspiring temples. Hoping to capture an image of angled sun rays running under some widely scattered clouds and painting the sides of distant forested dune hills with their gold brushstrokes, I had arrived with plenty of time to await what Henri Cartier-Bresson once famously labeled “the decisive moment,” that isolated instant when every factor in a photograph appears perfect.
* * *
Despite strong sunshine between sparse cloud cover and predicted record-level high temperatures, a narrow stretch of the beach below had been cleared of swimmers and sunbathers by law enforcement personnel. About a dozen uniformed figures had gathered in small groups at the water’s edge—park rangers, state patrol officers, members of a local sheriff’s department, and an EMS unit—a few carrying bulky orange bags or black backpacks, as a drone flew overhead. A couple of dim profiles silhouetted by the sunlight—apparently a female county police officer in a blue uniform and a lifeguard wearing a yellow vest, probably a high school student who chose this as his summer job but hoped he’d never be in such a situation—also drove slowly in an ATV farther ahead of the others. Leaving darkened marks in the sand, the twin scars of the tire treads closely followed the slight curve of coastline yet white with turbulence. Along that shore, all the human forms moved eerily, their shadows trailing behind them while the interlacing of whitecaps from breaking waves were weaving through the scene depicted on my digital screen by a zoom lens set at maximum range. A small Coast Guard boat floated just offshore, as four sailors on board were spread about the bobbing deck and checking the lake’s choppy surface in every direction.
* * *
According to stories heard by a fellow photographer who had been walking along the waterline earlier to capture images of the impressive lake waves, a young boy had entered the surf to wade waist-deep with friends. They were at a section of the shore away from the public beach where there are no lifeguards and visitors are prohibited from swimming. The missing boy might just have been pulled away from the beach in a rip current caused by breaking waves, as frequently occurs along the southern shore of Lake Michigan. Advisories had been posted in recent days, since these dangerous conditions can create an undertow just beneath the surface and flowing a hundred yards toward deeper waters, an invisible stream that will overwhelm even experienced swimmers. In some instances, individuals are surprised when swept from a sandbar maybe fifty feet from the beach by a turbulent surf. In my research since then, I have read a list of incident reports chronicling decades of drowning accidents. Except for the occasional death from a sailing mishap, details in the records are remarkably similar, as every year the lake claims rip current victims, and the ages of those who have lost their lives due to such a hidden undertow range from young children to a man in his seventies.
* * *
Before long, members from that gathering of emergency responders have been dismissed, and park staff have re-opened the public beach to visitors. However, I can hear warnings blaring from a loudspeaker advising all to remain on the sand or in shallow water, preferably no more than knee deep, in areas under the watchful eyes of lifeguards. The strand below this ridge where I am standing soon fills with sunbathers, and two teams of young volleyball players have begun a pickup game, accompanied by the soundtrack of a party mix music playlist from a Chicago radio station, whose clear signal has crossed the lake with strong electromagnetic waves. In turn, each teen athletically leaps to slap the ball over the net. Word has reached me from a park ranger passing by my path with the sad news that a body had been found at a spot about a half mile away. The lake’s current had not carried the child down the coast as far as officials had originally figured. Instead, he was found near the less-visited stretch of shore where the missing boy had been seen last, jumping joyfully amid those incoming waves of early morning.
* * *
Since the ridge trail narrows in a few places where the steep slope falls off sharply toward the water more than fifty feet below, heavy snowfall or slick ice can create dangerous conditions. In winter, some sections of this path become almost impassable at times. Even when the way is manageable in those colder months, I am aware I might stumble while awkwardly climbing with my camera gear over an exposed tree root crossing the trail like a speed bump yet temporarily concealed under drifting snow smoothed by rushing onshore winds. Thus, I prefer summer’s more welcoming façade, the transition to a tranquil appearance. After noon, sunshine splays golden across the crowns of distant trees while the season’s thickening tangle of undergrowth paints the terrain beneath them with rich greens. Easing my focus on the telephoto lens, I lessen the sharpening just a touch and allow the sunlight to envelop the scenery with a soft glow. I hope to establish that deceptive sense of serenity I always feel when peering with one eye into the refuge of my viewfinder and the four borders of my camera sensor’s frame block any distractions. By slightly adjusting the exposure compensation, I also marginally enhance the saturation of certain colors present in the setting, which suddenly seems more vivid, offering a modified and more comforting reality, now greatly necessary.
III.
On a gloomy afternoon at the end of winter a year ago, with spring supposedly only days away, I waited near here with my camera when a young couple moved through scenery upon which I was focusing for a photograph of this landscape shaped by Lake Michigan winds. The pair strolled hand in hand along a dune slope just below a tree-studded ridge that I’d centered in my picture’s frame. Both were dressed in overcoats, each displaying a differing shade of gray. Fine overnight snowfall whitened slender bare branches, though the dark bark of thicker trunks had remained stained black from the wet weather. With a hint of golden tint dully shining in spots where the land tilted and sand still showed through old windblown snow, the mostly black-and-white setting retained a smudge of color. From a distance, the two individuals stepping amid the setting isolated in my viewfinder appeared to be maybe in their mid-twenties, and he seemed about a head taller as she listed slightly against his shoulder while they walked a path already worn through to the soot-black soil by other hikers earlier in the day.
* * *
As I hesitated in taking my photograph, I sought the subtle intimations of spring beginning to appear around the area, searching for some indications of change to come. Indeed, the southern facing slope of this hill annually grows green quickest, and in mid-spring this northern hillside is filled with clouds of wildflowers. Often, I have confided I find the end of February and the start of March to be among the most difficult portions of the calendar to capture attractive landscape images in the Indiana Dunes region. By this time of year, notwithstanding a rare spell of milder temperatures, many days stay somewhat cold if not frigid. Therefore, even as winter is beginning to give way to spring, the colorful signs of life with budding branches or blooming flowers are still distant. Although most, if not all, accumulations of snowfall and shelf ice have disappeared, the damages to the land done during the past few months by northern storms, wind gusts, and erosion—those effects that had been camouflaged by smooth white snow cover—become evident. Additionally, the lingering stark silhouettes of leafless trees with trunks of damp bark contribute to a darker mood throughout the area. Despite the lengthening span of daylight hours, much of the weather continues to show smoke-gray overcast skies usually appearing dreary or offering an ominous tone when viewed in photographs.
* * *
The man and woman lingered within the still wintry setting in the selected vista visible on my electronic viewfinder. A favorite path extending along the ridge and then winding down a sandy slope toward the extended ribbon of shore line, this route moves through the dunes near where the Prairie Club beach house once stood almost a century ago. That historic cultural location served as a gathering place for those early activists and artists who were concerned with conservation of the region’s natural habitat. I’ve long admired the group and am always thankful for their efforts that helped to preserve this landscape. Peering at the lake, I could see the wind had stilled, and the water lay mostly untroubled, though there were no boats crossing the lake on this day. Only sporadic low waves slowly scrolled toward the shore. The beach and foredunes, empty of other visitors, made the couple appear to be in private isolation. Each seemed to be speaking softly as they leaned slightly toward one another affectionately. Both kept their heads bent and their eyes lowered a bit as if to glimpse their companion with a gesture of reverence.
* * *
The anticipated shift in seasons from winter to spring is a development I welcome each year since my days as a boy in New York. As a practice, at the start of every March, I photograph the same familiar locations in the Indiana Dunes to compare conditions influenced by wintry weather and to witness scenes displaying those initial signs preceding an approaching spring. Usually, the amount of snow accumulation in an image indicates how far along the seasonal transition has advanced. However, snow quantity among elements of the landscape has varied dramatically here in recent years, part of a continuing climate cycle that has been evident over decades. Indeed, I like hiking wooded trails when those bare trees observed throughout winter finally begin to add a bit of green in spring but the leaf cover is still thin enough that the skeletal structure of dark limbs remains visible. For a brief time, changes in the surroundings begin to emerge, and any location viewed in the present seems also to capture glimpses of details suggesting lingering traces of the stark past, along with limited indications hinting at a future of flourishing color. Nevertheless, weather thus far has been colder and snowier than normal, significantly delaying that arrival of first foliage sometimes seen by this time of the season.
* * *
The young couple paused and huddled a little longer at the base of the trail, unaware of my presence a significant distance up the slope. As I observed the man, he poked in the exposed sand with a broken twig. Far from the pair and protecting their privacy, I did not photograph them. In any case, I was simply anticipating their departure so I could collect an imitation wilderness picture of the landscape without human interference or even any indirect reference to the presence of people. Through my long lens I could view that the man might have scrawled a message in the loose dune sand to which the young woman, obviously delighted, responded positively with a wide smile. They kissed and hugged before continuing on their way toward the lake. As I awaited their exit from the rectangular composition I had created with my camera, I looked away from the trail and peeked toward the shadowy skyline of Chicago barely discernible on the horizon across the waters of Lake Michigan. A bit later I pressed the shutter button, delaying the exposure by two seconds to avoid any distortion due to camera shake. Until I returned home and examined the photos on my larger computer screen, I did not realize that I had accidentally included two words in capital letters etched faintly at an odd angle into the dune. Captured in the lower left corner of the nature image—just barely visible now—was the trace of a brief note the man apparently wrote in the exposed sand: MARRY ME.