Originally Posted by
Harrison Braughman
A few years ago I embarked upon a 13 month journey to explore and photograph the American Southwest, the American Northwest, the Alaskan interior and the various provinces of Canada including the Northwest Territories. I packed my trusty 10x8 dorff, 5x4 dorff, hassy, a few changes of clothing, passport, local currency, and a strong supply of adventure. Upon arriving in Washington D.C., I purchased a suitable vehicle, the necessary camping gear, stocked one ice chest with Ilford film and the other ice chest with the necessary beverages.
My plan was to merely follow the many by-roads (paved, dirt, pebbled, rutted, a few shelf roads and a few menacial goat trails posing as roads) and avoid the concrete ribbons. Some days I travelled 10 kilometers other days I travelled from sunrise to sunset. My meandering took me through small towns, rolling hills, and vast spaces devoid of human intervention.
One such location I explored was a small mid-western farming community. It was here I encountered the local "welcoming committee". After spending the night in a farmer's field, I awoke with first light of the day. The smell of the morning aire was intoxicating. As I eat my breakfast, my eyes began to behold the magnificent sight which stretched endlessly before them. As I drove these wide and well-groomed dirt tracts my photographic eye was mesmerised by the abandoned farm houses which appeared on the horizon as sentinels to a bygone era.
One house, which was a mere 20 metres from the road, was a particularly handsome structure. What a perfect opportunity to explore and make some images. I parked the vehicle on the burm in plain visual. After an hour or three exploring the property, I began to make several images. As I was photographing deep in the recesses of the house, I thought I heard voices, hmm my imagination must be running a muck. As I focused the camera, the image I desired appeared on the ground glass with the added feature of four burly men banishing various shotguns, pistols and rifles. Initially I feared I entered a warlords domain, damaged the property, or over stepped my boundaries. Oh hell I thought, what do these rough necks want?
The leader of the group demanded to know what I was doing. Removing myself from under my dark-cloth and leaning on my 10x8 dorff, I stated rather frankly I am attempting to photograph the scene you and your chums are blocking. Could you be so kind as to move? Then it happen!
Suddenly they recognised I was shooting a rather large wooden camera. Hey, what kind of camera is that? My grandpappy had one one of those? Hey can we look? Dang picture is upside down? What kind of film does this thang use? I didn't know they made film? How long you going to be here? How did you find this place? Are you lost? Do you know that Hizel guy (Ansel Adam) who makes those big pictures? Do you work for National Geographic?
I, or should I say, my old wooden camera had ignited a photographic curiosity. Not only did they have a thousand questions but provided me with additional photographic locations, told me many yarns, gave me a historical lesson of the land, the people, and sometimes personal histories. They told me about people I should visit, places to see, provided me with a place to rest my head, and more than thrice a delicious home cook meal. Many a time I would be photographing and people would stop to chat, inquire if I been to this old farm, down this dirt road, encountered any troubles or if I had a decent meal recently. I become known in the community as that guy with the big old wooden camera.
In return for their generosity and friendship I pledged (a pledge I have always honoured) to supply each of those who had befriended me a few images.
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