Showing posts with label "Relentless pursuit". Show all posts
Showing posts with label "Relentless pursuit". Show all posts

Thursday, January 12, 2012

Bat Cave Chronicles

Bob Cammarata
Those who are regular visitors to this blog are undoubtedly already fans of Bob Cammarata's work.  He has submitted several stories and each has been exciting, beautifully written, and with some of the most gorgeous wildlife photography on the internet! 

But if you are visiting "Tales of Relentless Pursuit" for the first time, here are links to Bob's previous stories: When Mother Nature Lends a HandNext Stop Oz  , On Snake Mountain ,  Fish Tales, Part I , Fish Tales, Part II . 

Bat Cave Chronicles is the true story of one of Bob's most incredible outdoor adventures. The tale becomes more and more harrowing with every new paragraph.  Imagine yourself alone, deep in the belly of a cold, pitch-black dark, damp. guano-covered cave, when suddenly all of your well-planned lighting equipment fails you! 

This story truly tells an incredible tale of the relentless pursuit of survival, against all odds!  Get ready!
______________________

Thanks for stopping here to see the latest post. I'd love to know what you think of the "Relentless Pursuit" series. If you enjoyed this week's tale, I would greatly appreciate it if you left a comment (at the end of the post) for our author. And please email me with your suggestions on what you'd like to see on this blog or anything else you'd like to share.

Also, to increase the blog's readership, sharing the link with your friends, family, and colleagues would  help a great deal.

If you have a story you would like to share on this theme, contact me. And be sure to take a look at my Photography site. I'd love to hear from you! Thanks again!

Michelle Alton
_______________________





Bat Cave Chronicles
By Bob Cammarata
_________________________

Author's Note:

This Tale of Relentless Pursuit is dedicated to Carolyn Fletcher…who’s persistence in persuading me to relive this memorable experience is truly appreciated. This story lacks the customary collection of back-up photos our readership has become accustomed to,  so hopefully, my veritable efforts to use words alone to illustrate a mental picture will hit their mark. I’d also like to extend a personal thanks to a friend and mentor Giff Beaton  for the use of the title photo.
____________________________

Since the dawn of recorded time, Mankind has evolved with an in-bred obsession to defy logic and reason in his infinite quest to ascertain that which makes our world tick.. Our species has been persistent…unremittingly imperiling life and limb in search of plausible resolutions to Earth’s most puzzling mysteries. We’ve probed deep into her seemingly bottomless oceans and ascended her highest peaks. We’ve even ventured so far as to hurl our rocket ships deep into the stars in an attempt to learn what intimate secrets even they might disclose.

Since it’s safe to conclude that we’re an inquisitive lot, it would stand to reason that when a photographer’s incessant tendency is to place himself and his equipment into jeopardy while in relentless pursuit of that perfect picture, he’s not acting irrationally. His behavior can be easily justified as merely an adverse by-product of an enduring evolutionary process.

It must be… “Nature’s Way."

Photo by Giff Beaton
This story begins as a road trip. It was during the winter of 2006 that this eastern “city boy” decided that it might be fun to take a few weeks off to tour the country. Since it was scheduled as an early January trip, I’d chosen a southern route to minimize any weather-related obstacles which might have impeded my journey westward.

My intended destinations were the arid deserts of the Southwest and the Canyonlands of Utah, but there were to be many planned stops along the way, including the alluring Ozark Mountains, where this harrowing adventure takes place.

 Land of Mystery
It was around daybreak on a chilly morning when I parked my Jeep at a secluded trail head in the aptly-named Lost Valley region of the Buffalo National River. The morning mountain air was cold and clean, with a crispness that mere words could never describe. It almost felt as if I could bite off a chunk of it. I paused momentarily to savor the mystical serenity of solitude before gearing up for my hike along the trail into the Ozark Wilds.

Although I’ve developed a penchant for discharging my camera shutter at just about anything that doesn’t shoot back, my primary objective that day was to explore and photograph a few caves and their inhabitants. From what I’d read about hiking these Arkansas mountains in winter, hibernating bats could be often found within the dark recesses of Ozark’s ubiquitous catalog of obscure caverns. Granted, my expertise in this arena was completely non-existent, but with a silly name like “spelunking”, cave exploration certainly seemed harmless enough to give it a try.

Inside my backpack, along with the usual arsenal of camera gear, was a fully charged, hand-held spotlight for exploring the caves. My back-up light source was one of those little head lamps I could easily clip onto the brim of my cap if the need for it arose.
In the beginning, the hike along the trail was un-eventful, but my journey eventually led into the higher elevations toward a narrow ridge teeming with captivating crags and alluring apertures. The first few caves I explored dead-ended too quickly and seemed devoid of life, but after systematically eliminating those, I finally found an interesting cavern which held promise. The access to the cave was far too narrow to accommodate the bulbous bulk of my backpack, so armed with only the spotlight and my shoulder-strapped camera, I squeezed through the tight crevasse and ventured forward.

The narrow passage eventually widened and navigation became effortless. As I probed deeper into the dark recesses of Inner Earth, I began to notice a dramatic change in the cavern’s interior climate….a balmy, incongruous contrast to the chill of the outside world.

It was around that time when I spotted my first bat clinging to the cave wall in suspended hibernation. A quick glance around revealed several more. They were fairly high up on the rocky walls and well out of the range of my 50 mm 1.2 lens…which I’d selected for its speed and low-light capabilities. As the passageway led me deeper and deeper, progressively more sleeping bats were spotted. Eventually, I found one that was positioned low enough to attempt a photograph.

Knowing that using electronic flash on these tiny, light-sensitive creatures would not be ecologically prudent, I’d planned all along to use only the peripheral light from my hand-held spotlight as illumination. Since I was using slide film, an 80-A corrective filter had to be affixed to the lens to balance the light. Even though I was using my fastest lens at its widest aperture setting, the dimness of the light source…compounded even further by the effects of the filter, necessitated a shutter speed of a full second.. Since my tripod was (foolishly) left outside, my only option was to attempt my shots hand-held.

I braced my body against the cave wall and, with one hand directing the light and the other holding the camera, I squeezed off a half-dozen,  one second exposures…hoping for at least a few cherries but expecting only the pits.

Keep Your Eyes on the Bat
Realizing that any serious photography was futile, I strapped the camera to explore further. I rounded a bend in the passage and the cave opened into a large, globular room. A rancid, musty odor permeated the senses and the ground began to ooze underfoot. I shined my light at the cave floor to discover that I was stepping on what I perceived to be piles of bat guano. A quick glance upward revealed that my supposition was correct. I’d struck the Mother Lode! The entire ceiling was peppered with hundreds of hibernating bats….maybe even thousands! They were everywhere!

My first instinct was to attempt a photograph of this astounding panorama of life, but my thoughts of photography were quickly thwarted when I had a sudden apparition of an infuriated, blood-thirsty horde of flying rodents awakening en-masse and swarming all over me. So rather than risk experiencing some form of Indiana Jones-type nightmarish scenario, I cowered quietly back out of the room and exited the cave…concluding that the wiser course of action was to let sleeping bats lie.

After re-donning the backpack, I continued further along the trail. After about a mile or so, the morning chill had dissipated and I was hiking in short sleeves. Despite the gorgeous weather conditions, there really wasn’t anything worthy of a photograph. I was contemplating turning back when I heard voices emanating from the trail behind me. Moments later, a young couple approached in full hiking apparel.

“What’cha shootin’?”, he asked…in what I perceived to be a native Arkansan dialect.

“Not much.” I replied. “I haven’t seen anything worth photographing for hours.”

“Have you been to The Cave yet?.” He asked.

I began to describe my morning encounter inside the bat cave, but he stopped me in mid-stride.

“NO…I mean the one further up this trail. It’s kind’a tough to get to, but there’s an underground waterfall that’s a real sight to see! We’re headin’ there now…You can come with us if you want.”

I thanked them for their kind invitation and tagged along behind them. We ascended the steep ridge which led to the entrance to Eden Cave. The opening in the rocks seemed wide and inviting, unlike some of the constricted cavities I’d forced my way through earlier in the day.

“Ya better leave that pack out here.” My guide said. “We’re gonna have to crawl through most of the way.”

So with spotlight in hand, and my gear lying in a heap with theirs, I followed their lead into the darkness. About a third of the way through, my guide called out, “Watch your head”, as the ceiling dropped to the point where we had to crawl forward on our hands and knees. There was water flowing around us, but thankfully, we were able to traverse the top of a flat boulder and remain dry. My knees were throbbing from crawling along the hard surface of the rocks, but the sweet sound of cascading water in the distance was getting louder.

“So how much farther IS this thing?” I inquired impatiently.

“Don’t worry.” He replied. “You’ll be able to stand up and rest in a few seconds.”
As promised, we reached the half-way point, where a vertical, cylindrical shaft permitted a brief respite. It was a tight squeeze, but the shaft allowed us to take turns standing for a few minutes to rest our aching knees.

“Just one more push, and we’re there!” He said as we dropped again to all-fours.
After what seemed an eternity, we rounded one last bend and squeezed through one final crevasse. We had finally arrived at our destination…and the spectacle was magnificent! I was so awe-struck at the scene before me that the pains of getting there were instantly forgotten.

We were standing inside a spherical underground oasis! The textured cavern walls were alive with color. From unknown origin, a perpetual cascade of crystalline beauty plunged vociferously from a hole in the 30 foot high ceiling. A collection pool at the base of the falls was fancifully adorned with lustrous, painted pebbles…brilliantly polished to perfection over eons of time. Closer inspection of the shallow pool revealed several small crawfish. They were of a species I’d never seen. Pale white in color and with pink eyes, the tiny crustaceans were fully adapted to life in the darkness.

“So, what do you think?” My new friend shouted over the strident rush of falling water.

“WOW” was the first response I could muster. “You were right. This is amazing!”

I quickly added that…“Somehow, I HAVE to get my camera equipment back here!”

Later, as we were crawling our way out, I was formulating an attack strategy and assembling a series of mental notes for my return trip. “I could easily fit my pack through here…I could drag it through there…I could keep it dry on that rock…”  …etc.
When we arrived back at the entrance, I thanked the couple for allowing me to share their secret hideaway, and they continued on their way along the trail. I stayed behind…because I was on a mission.

After first contemplating lightening the load, I decided to haul the entire pack full of photo gear into the cave so I would not regret having left something outside which might have been needed.

Despite having to drag the heavy load along most of the way, the arduous journey back to the falls seemed somehow shorter than before. As I was formulating my battle plan, the bright spotlight propped onto a ledge seemed to illuminate the cavern and waterfall perfectly for the multi-second, ambient light exposure I had intended to use. The scene definitely necessitated a wide-angle of perspective. The widest lens in my arsenal at the time was 35 mm. (I preferred a wider view, but this would have to do.) Since my camera was loaded with daylight slide film, an 80-A corrective filter was attached to the lens as before, and the camera was affixed to a compact tripod. While looking through the viewfinder, I walked around the cave seeking the perfect spot to set up the camera….but I began to become painfully aware that my wondrous cave was getting progressively darker!

I glanced toward the spotlight and was horrified to see that the once bright light had reduced to an amber glow…and it was fading fast! My thoughts of photography were immediately superseded by the terrifying realization that I was deep underground and might have to find my way out in complete darkness!

“…But how dark WAS it?” I wondered.

I turned off the dying flashlight to see if the megatons of rock surrounding me were possibly permitting a few trickles of light to filter through from the outside.

…No such luck! It was darker than the darkest night…. Blacker than black!
My heart was pounding in my chest as I muttered to myself… “Don’t panic!…You’re still OK. …THINK dammit, THINK!”

“A-HA…!” My back up flashlight was inside my pack. It was small and not very bright, but it would surely provide enough light to get me out of there.

With the last few precious lumens fading from the dying spotlight, I frantically searched for the head lamp. The entire contents of the pack were strewn about the cave floor by the time I’d found the tiny light tucked away inside one of the compartments. I sighed an audible “Thank You!”…and flipped on the switch…but nothing happened!

“OH  NO!! …Dead batteries?? How could I have been so stupid!!”

With my spotlight advancing evermore quickly toward its ultimate demise, my pulse was racing at record speed.

“…STAY CALM…don’t  panic…and  THINK  dammit, THINK!”

“A-HA!” …The headlamp takes AA batteries…and before the trip, I’d remembered to put a fresh set in my motor drive! So with the camera’s motor drive held inches away from the nearly extinguished glow from the spotlight, I fumbled with the battery compartment’s retaining screw, removed the flange, and quickly popped out two batteries. With lightning speed, I had the old ones out of the headlamp and the fresh set in their place. With fingers crossed, I flipped the switch.

NOTHING!! The headlamp, which I hadn’t used for years, was inoperable…most likely corroded from sitting idle for too long.

“OK, Cammarata…NOW you’re allowed to panic…’cause you’re SCREWED!”

Accepting the inevitable, that my only viable option was to “feel” my way out, I turned off the spotlight to conserve the precious iota of energy that remained.

“What if a REAL emergency arose?  What if I were to take a wrong turn and find myself at a dead-end?”

Another disconcerting realization came quickly to mind as I remembered that all of my expensive gear was still scattered around the cave floor and needed to be re-packed. With shaking fingers fumbling in total darkness, I started grabbing at things with both hands and jamming them into the pack. I was hoping to get through the blind panic without forgetting anything expensive, all the while, praying that I wouldn’t latch onto something icky and disgusting in the process.

Feeling confident that I’d re-packed everything, I zipped up my backpack, then, guided only by touch, I followed the round circumference of the cave’s interior wall toward the opening. Fortunately, there was only one way out. I crawled through the narrow crevasse and entered the tight passage which would lead toward the outside. The spotlight, as it turned out, was very beneficial in maintaining my course. When I started to feel disoriented or confused, I’d flip the switch on for a few brief seconds of light, albeit very dim. It was just enough to keep me on track as I literally felt my way, inch by inch, back to freedom.

The Land of the Ozarks is a diverse region of mystery and adventure. It’s a picturesque panorama abounding in grandeur and scenic splendor. My experiences in the Ozarks have taught many valuable lessons and fashioned an enduring reminiscence. What I learned most of all, is that there’s no more wondrous spectacle to behold than to catch that first glimpse of the light of day as seen from the inside looking out. While I remain consummate and resolute in my quest to try to understand Life’s mystifying riddles, I’ve vowed from that day forward to view my world only from the outside looking in.
…and leave the spelunking to the spelunkers.

--
  All photography (except the title photo) by Bob Cammarata

Bob Cammarata's Biographical Sketch

I am a Maryland photographer who specializes in nature in all its forms.
For as long as I can remember, my love for the outdoors has inspired me to capture nature's beauty and intrigue. My primary interests photographically involve traveling the country and getting up close and personal with subjects in nature. My travels have taken me to every corner of the U.S. and parts of Canada but the majority of my photography occurs less than a tank of gas away.
I prefer to shoot in full-manual 100% of the time because I believe that it affords the ultimate in control and accurately represents the challenges and rewards that this great art has to offer. I’m an active member of BetterPhoto.com and a regular contributor to their Forums and Newsletters. My photos have been published in business and travel brochures, on Bugguide and other popular wildlife sites, and many have been sold as fine art prints. I’m currently working on my first book, which should be completed some time next year.

I consider photography to be the therapy which keeps one sane in a crazy world
Feel free to visit my website at www.cammphoto.com

 
Bob's Bonus Photos:

(Since this story’s visual validation is limited, I’ve opted to include a few photos from the interior of Carlsbad Caverns…New Mexico’s Hidden Jewel…and arguably, the world’s ultimate Bat Cave!)














__________________________________

*** This Blog Needs Your Story! *** { I'm Serious!} If you have a story to post on this theme, or know anyone who does, contact me, please! We have zero stories on tap at the moment. Give your imagination a stretch--your story can be about any sort of Relentless Pursuit, fact, fiction, poignant, or humorous. I'd love to hear from you and work with you on your story! And we need to keep this theme going! And if you have a few moments, please stop by my website and have a look around.
_________________

##

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Fish Tales - Part 1

Bob Cammarata

A frequent contributor to this blog, Bob Cammarata is a consummate Adventurer, superb wildlife photographer, and a just-plain-wonderful story teller.  So it isn't surprising at all that he can also weave a fascinating "Fish Tale!"  Here he takes you on a harrowing journey that you won't want to miss.  There are some good lessons to learn for anyone planning to emulate the guys in "A River Runs Through It!"  Last weekend I met a woman who had broken her leg in two places when she lost her footing on some slippery river rocks while fly fishing!  Enjoy this quick read and Bob's gorgeous photography as you find out how he lived to tell the story!

Here are links to Bob's previous Tales of Relentless Pursuit:  On Snake Mountain , Next Stop Oz , and When Mother Nature Lends a Hand .

________________

Thanks for stopping here to view the latest post.  What do you think of the "Relentless Pursuit" series?  Please leave a comment below or email me with your suggestions on what you'd like to see on this blog.

Also, I'd very much appreciate a click on the green SU icon at the bottom of this post, to recommend the blog to Stumble Upon members. It will dramatically increase the "exposure" of our authors' work.
If you have a story to post on this theme, contact me.  And be sure to take a look at my Photography Site.  Also consider forwarding the link to "Relentless" to your friends and family.  Thanks again!
--
  Michelle Alton
___________________

FISH TALES (Part 1)

“It has always been my private conviction that any man who pits his intelligence against a fish and loses, has it coming”.
--

  John Steinbeck



It’s the narrowest of bridges which separates pastime from obsession. More often than not, only the clinically trained mind can accurately discern between the two. Since my passion for nature photography originally emanated from sport fishing, it’s easy for me to draw parallels between the two.

Both involve acquired species knowledge, the incessant accumulation of expensive tools and gadgets, endless experimentation, travels to exotic locales, and a LOT of patience infused with just the right splinter of luck. Of course, both obsessions are awash with those harrowed tales of misfortune, and of missed opportunities from “…The Ones that Got Away”. So therein lies the fuel for obsession.


As the true sportsman of those earlier years, I vowed to release all of my catches to fight another day so whenever I ventured afield armed with rod and reel, a trusty pocket Instamatic camera always traveled with me so I could document the trophy fish I was releasing. (…mainly to prove to my buddies that I wasn’t just telling fish stories.)

Later, as my angling success and photography improved, I was invited to lecture at local fishing clubs and other public gatherings. To augment my slide shows with a few action sequences, that cheap point-and-shoot camera eventually mutated into a comprehensive 35 mm arsenal…complete with several motor-driven film bodies, a half-dozen lenses, teleconverters, filters, flash units, a compact tripod, and various remote triggering devices. The full pack weighed in excess of 25 lbs. and was carried on my back while wading in slippery streams or negotiating treacherous river rapids.

As one might imagine, working in and around water and slippery rocks with expensive (and heavy) photographic equipment suggested obvious challenges, so preparatory measures had to be implemented. Each photographic component was individually wrapped in a soft felt bag, then double-sealed in a  gallon-sized  Zip-Loc plastic bag. This inexpensive waterproofing system, although quite effective, made shooting “on the fly” literally impossible since it required several minutes of set-up time to find dry ground, pull everything out, then unwrap and assemble the necessary equipment for the intended shot.

But having the ability to “get in the shot” and shoot action sequences while in the field made the extra work worthwhile.

Landing a Small-Mouthed Bass

As all fishermen (and photographers) know, the last thing we want to have happened is to find ourselves lacking requisite tools in situations which cannot be duplicated. This thought was foremost in my mind early one warm summer day as I assembled my gear before venturing south toward the rivers of central Virginia. My goal was to accumulate a few action photos for an up-coming presentation on river smallmouth bass fishing, which was to be held at my local chapter of Trout Unlimited. It was crucial to avoid being many miles from home and find myself saying, “…Boy, I really wish I’d brought my (whatever) for this!”

So I packed EVERYTHING!

My river of choice that day was the Rapidan. A large tributary of the Rappahannock, the meandering Rapidan River is characterized by sporadic, raging rapids and an intermittent succession of long, boulder-strewn pools. It’s a large river, by eastern standards, and impossible to wade except during the driest months of late summer. Fortunately for me, the East was experiencing a severe drought that year so the usual strong currents of the rapids were reduced to ankle-deep trickles, which were a cinch to navigate. Despite the drought, the crystal clear pools were still too deep to  wade effectively so I was forced to remain close to the banks where I could safely walk along in waist-deep water, casting into the depths in search of my bronze-backed quarry.

Striking
A Hefty Bass
The day was progressing as expected. The wading was relatively easy, a few nice smallmouth bass had succumbed to my presentations and I was successful in getting my photos. My heavy pack was burdensome, but as mentioned before,  it was satisfying knowing that the proper tools were there when needed.

Around mid-day, I found myself half-way through a particularly long pool when I noticed that the water on my side of the riverbank was getting progressively deeper. It soon became apparent that I could wade no further upriver without the bottom of my back-pack getting wet, so I was forced to temporarily abandon the river.

This scenario had happened before, and it was usually an easy chore to climb the riverbank into the woods and walk around the deep stretch until the water was once again, shallow enough to return. …Not this time!

Here on the  Rapidan, the riverbank was a high, near-vertical expanse of slippery red clay.

Those who are familiar with river fishing on foot are aware that wet, felt soles and clay don’t "play well" together. My initial attempt at scaling the slippery slope while holding a fishing rod and wearing the heavy pack was deemed a crusade in futility. It was as if I were running in place but getting nowhere so I opted for an alternate strategy.

I removed the pack and jammed it safely into the only dry spot I could find in the crotch of a large sycamore growing along the river’s edge. The plan was to attempt to scale the muddy clay bank without being weighed down by the pack or the fishing gear. Once into the woods, I could pull the gear up the bank with a piece of rope I had stashed. (I told you that I packed everything.)

Tying one end of the rope to my belt loop, and using the trunk of the big tree as a starting point, I scurried northward toward the top of the slippery bluff. With my hands and feet working in unison, I somehow made it to the top on the very first attempt. I grabbed onto a sapling for support and noticed that the spot I’d chosen to climb out was covered in briars.

As I held on there assessing the situation, my felt-soled wading boots, now covered in mud, lost what little grip there was. I landed on my chest but somehow managed to turn over and began sliding on my butt back down toward the river, plunging vociferously into the water. When I regained my composure, I noticed that my cap had decided not to make the trip. It was waiting for me at the top of the bluff…left dangling there swinging in the breeze like some bizarre trophy amidst the prickly briars which had callously plucked it from my head.

My long time fixation never to abandon a fallen soldier was put to the ultimate test when repeated attempts to reclaim the hill were met with disastrous results…especially since now, I was soaking wet! It wasn’t long after I was completely covered in slick red mud that I decided to give up on trying to climb out of the river or re-claim the cap. My only viable option was to back-track a quarter-mile downriver where the water was shallow enough to cross to the other side.

After cleaning off as much of the slick mud as possible, I re-donned the pack, grabbed the fishing gear and began the arduous trek downriver. It was nearly an hour before I could see that the river was beginning to shallow. Eventually, I arrived at a location where I could clearly see the bottom all the way to the other side and decided that this was likely the best place to cross. The clear water was waist-high as I began the journey toward the middle of the pool and became even shallower as I progressed further.

Yeah…this was a smart move. This would be a breeze!

I was almost to the other shore when the water began to get progressively deeper. With the end so clearly in sight, it was too late to turn back. I had to keep pushing forward.
I removed the pack and balanced it on top of my head. With one hand supporting the pack and the other controlling my wading staff, I gripped my fishing rod firmly in my teeth and began inching forward.

The depth of the gin-clear water was deceptive to the eye and before long, I was in up to my chest. I figured,  “No problem! … I can do this!” When the level of the water reached my neck and began lapping at my chin I began to worry a little but, as the level seemed to be stabilizing at that depth, I pushed forward. “…This is good!…I can do this!”

The end was so close I could almost taste it.  I stood on my toes to squeeze out a few more precious inches and stepped forward…but this time, the bottom was no longer there to meet me!

I plunged under water and came up sputtering and thrashing. My arms were flailing as I gripped the backpack and attempted to swim those precious few more yards toward the shallows. Finally, the bottom was there to meet my feet and I dragged myself out of the water and onto the safety of dry ground. During the melee, I’d dropped my fishing rod but knew it could be easily retrieved later. My primary concern was for my delicate camera equipment, so I immediately pulled everything out and assessed the damages.

Miraculously,  everything survived! The Zip-Loc bags held out the water and everything inside was bone-dry. For that I was relieved but there still remained the task of retrieving the fishing rod which rested on the bottom in nearly seven feet of water. One deep breath and a dive later, I was back at the shore repacking everything for the journey back to the car.

That fateful summer day on the Rapidan River in central Virginia is a reminiscence to be treasured. Times spent in relentless pursuit of what we love is what keeps us going. We should be truly thankful for the experiences and lessons we learn along the way.
(I’m just thankful that I learned how to swim!)

--
  All photographs by Bob Cammarata

Bonus Photos:
(Note: Some of these were scanned from old Kodachrome slides and are nearly 25 years old.)

Crankbait Bass


Day's End


Flyrod Bluegill


At Streamside


Flyrodding the Susquehanna


Leaping Shad

Fall Fishing on Meadow Run
Water Works
_______________________________

Bob Cammarata's Bio Sketch:

I am a Maryland photographer who specializes in nature in all its forms.

For as long as I can remember, my love for the outdoors has inspired me to capture nature's beauty and intrigue. My primary interests photographically involve traveling the country and getting up close and personal with subjects in nature. My travels have taken me to every corner of the U.S. and parts of Canada but in today’s economy, it’s becoming evermore difficult to plan a road trip unless it’s all downhill!
   
I prefer to shoot in full-manual 100% of the time because I believe that it affords the ultimate in control and accurately represents the challenges and rewards that this great art has to offer.

I’m an active member of BetterPhoto.com and a regular contributor to their Forums and Newsletters. My photos have been published in business brochures and on Bugguide and other popular wildlife sites and many have been sold as fine art prints.

Lately though, I do this for fun. 

I believe photography to be the therapy which keeps one sane in a crazy world.

Feel free to visit my website at www.cammphoto.com


____________________________
Please Note:


*** This Blog Needs Your Story! *** If you have a story to post on this theme, contact me, please!  We have no stories on tap at this moment.

Stretch your imagination a little--your story can be about any sort of Relentless Pursuit--fact, fiction, poignant, humorous, or even harrowing!  I'd love to work with you on your story!  It would be wonderful if we could keep this theme going indefinitely!  Or suggest a new theme!  There have been some truly fabulous posts over the last several months. Why not add yours to the anthology?

My sincere thanks to you for stopping by.

Michelle Alton

__________________________

[Click on the green SU icon below to recommend this blog to Stumble Upon Members. One click can dramatically add to our readership!]

_______________________




##

Thursday, September 15, 2011

The Red Scent - by Joe DiGilio

Joe Digilio


"The Red Scent" is the third installment of Joe DiGilio's "Rainbow" triology that includes "The Green Light" and "The Blue Ladies."  In fact, it is actually the sequel to "The Blue Ladies,"and you should really read that one before you continue.

Joe claims that his stories are fiction, but I have just a little shadow of doubt about that., and so will you!  Either way,Joe weaves the plot with such aplomb that  I predict that you will NOT want this story to end!  See how the latest Relentless Pursuit winds down.

If you enjoy this new story, please leave a comment for its author below or email me.  He really appreciates your feedback as do I!






__________________________________________

Thanks for stopping here to see the latest post. I'd love to know what you think of the "Relentless Pursuit" series. Please leave  a comment below or email me with your suggestions on what you'd like to see on this blog.

Also, I'd very much appreciate a click on  the green SU icon at the bottom of this post to recommend the blog to Stumble Upon members. It will dramatically increase the "exposure" of our authors' work.

If you have a story to post on this theme, contact me. And be sure to take a look at my Photography site. I'd love to hear from you! Also, consider forwarding the link to "Relentless" to your friends and family. Thanks again! 
--
  Michelle Alton

__________________________________________


The Red Scent By Joe DiGilio


Bald-Headed Mannequins are Comical

It has been 2 years since poor Lenore lost her head for me.  Since then I’ve noticed a change in the look of mannequins in the show windows of Midtown Manhattan boutiques.  They are almost exclusively faceless or headless. The few shops that still use figures with heads and faces use very old ones whose expressions are almost comical.   Is it the intention of designers to minimize distraction from the product on display, or could it be Lenore’s courage ignited some kind of revolution in the ranks of the bewitched.  I find myself entertaining these thoughts as I walk back and forth from Penn Station to my office on West 46th Street.

Tourists

Lately I’ve focused my camera and attention on people walking the streets of Manhattan, tourists and other commuters mostly.  My targets are random and my intention is to be unobtrusive.  Lots of people walk around New York City with cameras hanging around their necks so my doing so doesn’t really distinguish me from the masses.  I maneuver through the crowd looking for interesting faces and “get ups” or find a post where I can blend in with the surroundings and catch passersby unaware.

I was doing my sidewalk photographer thing late one summer afternoon when, through the crowd, I noticed an attractive, shapely, dark haired woman approaching.  I had just moved from shade to bright sunlight at the intersection of 34th Street and 7th Avenue.  Once you cross this street you are back in shade again so I never make adjustments for that short span.  She was too close anyway; I just looked at her and smiled.  Our eyes met, hers narrowed into a frosty glare.  There was no trace of a smile as we drew closer.  Her gaze made me feel uncomfortable and I looked aside.  As we passed I detected a delightful fragrance.  I inhaled deeply; was that her scent or another’s carried my way on the gentle summer afternoon breeze?  I didn’t look back.  The memory of the scent lingered. On the train home I thought about her but I couldn’t make a connection.  No matter, the chance of encountering her again in Manhattan was remote.

About a week later, I was walking through the Fashion District when I spotted the woman’s icy stare through the crowd.   I didn’t think she saw me.  I tried to get a picture but I couldn’t get a clear shot and avoid her eyes at the same time.  I continued on my way and came upon a photo shoot at the next corner.  A tall, dark Asian model wearing blue spiked heels and a 1940’s hair style was posing for a couple of photographers so I stopped to steal a few pictures.
The 7th Avenue Strut
While I was framing a shot I heard the distinctive click of high heels approaching from behind.  Soon the sound was accompanied by a heady bouquet of perfume.  It filled my senses and I wondered if the woman wearing it was as exotic as the fragrance she wore.  I continued to shoot not wanting to appear aroused or anxious but my curiosity got the better of me.   I came up for air and a peek; it was "Frosty", the mystery woman.  She was lovely indeed, wearing a smile and a sultry black clinging dress, slit up the side to mid-thigh, stiletto heels, and a knowing kind of smile.
Blue Spikes

“Are you a professional photographer?”
“No, I’m an amateur.”
“Are you any good?”
“I do alright.”
“I’ll bet you do.  I collect photographers.  Do you have a portfolio or a website I could look at?”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you give me your information and I’ll check you out.  If I like what I see I’ll be in touch.  How does that sound?”
“That sounds good.”  I handed her my card.
“My name is Joe, what’s yours?”
“I’m L. W. Craft.  You can call me Crafty; nice to meet you Joe.”  She shook my hand and moved very close to me.  Her perfume was intoxicating. “I have a good feeling about you.”  And she handed me her card,  L. W. Craft  Modeling  Agency.
We made small talk for a few minutes and I took a couple more pictures of the leggy Asian beauty.  I sure liked the unique smell of the perfume Crafty was wearing.  I inhaled deeply before excusing myself. I had to catch a train.
My cell phone rang at 10 AM the next morning.
“Good Morning Joe.  This is Crafty, remember me?”
“Good Morning; sure I remember you. “
“I checked out your website and I was very impressed.  Have you ever shot any fashion models?”
“No, not really, I haven’t.”
“Oh, well would you like to give it a try?”
“Sure I would!”
“Come to my studio at 5 PM and we’ll talk.”
“See you then.”

The rest of the morning and afternoon crawled by.  For a while all I could think of was having the chance to take some pictures professionally.  Then the little voice in my head called me back to Earth and reality.

 I arrived at Crafty’s studio at 5PM sharp.  It was on 37th Street, off 7th Avenue in the heart of the garment district.  The door to her loft displayed the security sticker of Jewelers Protection Services, a former employer of mine that was bought by a company that was bought by a company more than 20 years ago.  Her suite was cool, clean, well lit, and freshly painted.  There were a couple of mannequins in the corner, camera equipment and studio lights were set up.  It looked like a professional operation.  Because it’s my business I always take notice of alarm systems.  This one was an antique.  Most likely it hadn’t worked for years.  She greeted me at the door wearing a tight black skirt, heals and a revealing white blouse.

Crafty
“Hi Joe, glad you could make it.  I’d planned to have a beautiful, young model here for you to photograph but she called about 15 minutes ago and told me something came up and she couldn’t make it.  Say, I noticed some images of mannequins in your gallery and I have a couple here at the studio.  I know it’s not the same but would you mind photographing them?”
“No, not at all.”

Lenore and Irene:  The Blue Ladies
These mannequins had heads and faces. I was sure I heard Crafty whispering under her breath as she dressed them for the shoot.  That made me thinks of sweet Lenore and her sister Irene and wonder what ever had become of them.  I shot the pictures and told her I’d e-mail the images to her in the morning.

“I’m hungry Joe; would you care have dinner with me?”
“Thanks Crafty but I already have dinner plans. Perhaps another time.”
“How about a glass of wine then?”
“I’ll take a rain check.  I never drink on an empty stomach.”

“Joe, you’re hurting my feelings,” she said pretending to be heartbroken as she put her arm around my shoulder and drew me close.  That’s when my sinuses filled with the scent of her fragrance.  It was like she had just put it on.  I think I got a little weak in the knees.  I needed air.
“I can’t remember the last time a man turned me down twice in the same day.  I won’t bite you Joey.“

“Don’t take it personally Crafty.  You are a very attractive woman and I’d love to have dinner and a drink with you some night, just not tonight.  I have plans this evening.  I really have to run now and catch a train.  I’ll be in touch.  Good night.”

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  Once outside I took a couple of deep breaths.  The fresh air helped but that scent lingered in my head.   Crafty’s perfume was overpowering and so was she.  I told myself, “This woman is DANGEROUS Joe; keep your guard up.  You know what they say, when it’s too good to be true it usually is.”  I felt a headache coming on and wondered if I had overdosed on perfume.

Lenore in Shadow
 I fell into a deep sleep on the train ride home to Bethpage.  I dreamt of Lenore and her predawn winter morning whispers to me from the boutique show room window on 6th Avenue two years earlier.  I dreamt about her warning me to stay away, her fear of Lotta’s wrath, and I felt guilty for not having helped her get free.  Then I was awakened by the conductor’s announcement; “Next stop Bethpage.”  My head was stuffy; a trace of fragrance still lingered.

After dinner that night I downloaded the images of the mannequins I had taken at Crafty’s loft earlier. As I reviewed the images I noticed one of the mannequins wasn’t in focus in any of the shots in which it appeared.  Close examination made it appear to be some kind of double exposure. Closer examination revealed that the blurred images resembled Lenore.

I edited the images and sent all but the imperfect ones to Crafty for her approval.
It was a cool summer night; perfect for sleeping with the windows open but I didn’t sleep well; I had too much on my mind.  I had to find out; I had to know.  What if the L in L.W. Craft stood for Lotta?   What if Lenore was a prisoner in that loft?

I packed a small black duffle bag with dark clothing and a few hand tools and caught the 4:30 AM train.  It was still dark when we arrived at Penn Station.  I went directly to Crafty’s building at the corner of 7th Avenue and 37th Street.  Her second floor windows were dark.  There was some kind of work being done on the faƧade of the building; a scaffold had been constructed on the 37th street side of the building to protect pedestrians from being struck by falling debris. There was no sign of activity except for the lobby attendant going about his business.

The Scaffold on the Corner of 7th Avenue and 37th Street


Joe Watched and Waited from the Coffee Shop Across the Street

I went to the coffee shop across the street and sat at a table with a view so I could keep the place under surveillance while I drank coffee and ate breakfast.  After two hours and 5 cups of rich Colombian I was pretty jittery and my bladder was about to burst.  I knew if I got up to relieve myself I’d miss something but a man has to do what a man has to do.  Sure enough when I returned to my table the second floor lights were on.  I needed to know if Crafty slept there or not.  So I crossed the street to see what I might be able to glean from the lobby attendant. I was greeted immediately by a friendly face and a wide smile when I walked up to his station.

“Good morning sir, may I help you?”
“Yes, thanks; can you tell me what time L.W. Craft gets in?”
“Sure, she arrived just a few minutes ago; gets in about 7:45 every morning.”
“Will you be going up?  I’ll announce you.”
“Not just now; I’m going to take care of some other business I have in the neighborhood.  I’ll come back later.”

That was easy; now I knew she didn’t sleep there.  Crafty called me at 10 AM.  She said she liked the images I sent her and wanted to meet with me at 6PM to discuss a project she had in mind.  I agreed enthusiastically but I had no intention to keep that appointment; I had other plans.  Later that afternoon I called Crafty and cancelled our appointment due to a family emergency.  She was sympathetic, understanding and she agreed to meet with me the same time the following evening.


It Wasn't Hard to Climb the Scaffold
At about 9 PM I changed into my dark clothing and made my way to the Garment District.  Crafty’s lights were still on so I walked around to get a good feel for the block at that time of night and see who was around.  Crafty’s lights on the second floor went out at 9:45 PM.   I waited 10 minutes then made my way to the scaffold along the 37th Street side of the building.  The street was dark and deserted.  I wouldn’t have a better opportunity than this so up I went.  It was easier to climb than I thought it would be.   Once on top of the scaffold I made my way to Crafty’s windows.  I opened my bag, laid out my tools and got ready to go to work.  Then I remembered a lesson I had learned long ago from an old safe and loft man; “Always try to open the door or window first, don’t assume it’s locked”.

Well what do you know, the window was unlocked.  Once inside I moved to a shadow and gave my eyes a chance to adjust and my pulse time to time to slow down.  Once I was composed and sure I was alone I went directly to the naked mannequins facing the wall in the corner.   I turned around the one I thought resembled Lenore in the images I shot the night before.

Lenore
  "Oh Joe is it really you?   Is this some kind of cruel dream or the answer to my prayers?”
“It’s me Lenore; how do I get you and your friend, or is that Irene, out of here?”
“She isn’t my friend Joe and she isn’t my sister.  She is just a mannequin.  Irene was destroyed by Lotta.  She beheaded her in a rage thinking she was me.  She was mad because Irene told her I revealed her secret to you.  I have been pretending to be Irene ever since.  Freeing me will be risky but I think we can pull it off if you are willing.”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

Lenore briefed me at length about L.W. Craft, Lotta Witch Craft, and how she operated.  She explained that her hatred for photographers stems from her envy of their skill. She lures them to her loft using an enchanting Red Scent that makes her irresistible to men.  I had some firsthand knowledge of that already.  After she has her way with them she turns them into mannequins using the same special vintage wine she used to enslave Lenore and her sister.

“Can the spell on you be broken Lenore?”

“Yes it can. I overheard Lotta tell one of her cronies which spell she used and how to break it.  It’s just like in the fairy tales Joe the spell is broken by the kiss of someone who truly cares.”
I moved to kiss her but she stopped me with an urgent, “No!  Not now, I want revenge.  I want to destroy Lotta.  I know how but I need your help.  Will you please help me Joe?” For the next couple of hours we formulated our plan of attack.   Then I left the same way I had come, leaving everything as I had found it.

Fashion District News Stand
While on my way to meet with Crafty the next day I stopped at Duane Reade and picked up a small jar of Vicks Vaporub.  Lenore told me placing a bit of that in each nostril would inhibit the potency of the Red Scent.

When I arrived at her building I was greeted and announced by the same happy fellow I had seen the day before.  Crafty met me at the door.  She was dressed casually but her eyes and hair were made up for an evening out.   She welcomed me with a two handed shake that sandwiched my right hand between hers.  Her nails were long and she gently raked them across both sides of my hand as they parted.

“Glad you could make it today Joe.  I hope all is well with the family.”

“All is well thanks Crafty.”

We discussed her project and my involvement and the generous amount of money I would make.  Then she offered me a contract for my signature.

“I’ll look this over later. Right now I’m hungry, how about you Crafty?”

“Well I’m really not dressed for it. I’d have to freshen up a bit first.”

When she returned a short time later she was wearing that simple, black, form fitting dress; the kind that accentuates a woman’s figure and never wrinkles.  The package looked good but there was a very dangerous woman inside. She stopped, whirled around giving me a 360 degree view.  Then she invaded my personal space and said in a sultry voice, “How do I look Joe?”

With my best “play dumb” response I answered, “You look real good Crafty.” What an understatement that was. Still standing close in that same sultry voice she said, “Are you still hungry?  Do you want to go out, or should we just relax and order in?”

“I’d like to go out;” she moved closer.  I could barely detect the Red Scent; the Vicks was working but I had to pretend to feel something so I blinked my eyes a few times shook my head a little and took an awkward step back. “Whoops almost lost my balance.  Guess I need some food.  Where would you like to go?”

Broadway
 “I like Tony’s off Broadway on 43rd Street.  Do you know the place?”
“I sure do; let’s go.”

After dinner she asked me to walk back to the studio with her so she could fetch something.  I agreed knowing what was coming next.  She hugged my arm the whole way; I needed more Vicks.  Once we got upstairs she excused herself and went to the powder room.  I immediately went to the corner where Lenore was and kissed her like someone who cares.  Instantly she became flesh and bone.   We smiled briefly but our work was far from done.  I put more Vicks up my nose and got ready for action.

When she returned she had changed into her casual clothing again.  As she crossed the room I noticed her blouse was unbuttoned and she wasn’t wearing a bra.  She hung her arms around my neck and peered into my eyes.  I was sure she had the Red Scent on though I couldn’t smell anything but Vicks.  I pretended to get a bit weak in the knees and she moved in for the kill.  She kissed me aggressively moving her firm breasts across my chest.  Lenore told me how she had seen men respond at this stage of the game so I played the role.  While kissing her I pulled her closer with one arm, grasped her firm butt with my free hand and squeezed one cheek hard enough to make her yelp and break the hold.

“Hey! That hurt. Take it easy Joe.”
“Sorry, guess I got carried away.  You are a very exciting woman.”

“Mmmmm yea, how about some wine?  It will make you feel romantic and bring your more gentle side into focus.  I have something very special for you that I only bring out on occasions like this.”
She poured two glasses full; Lenore told me Lotta never drinks the wine she just watches as her victims drink and turn to chalk.  We toasted but before I could put the glass to my lips Lenore pounced on Lotta and applied a choke hold from behind, just as I had demonstrated the night before on the mannequin in the corner when we planned our attack.  Lotta dropped her glass and squirmed but the hold had been applied well and she wasn’t going anywhere.  When she gasped for air I poured the contents of my glass into her mouth.  I grabbed her head and held her mouth shut while Lenore released her hold.  A look of horror shot across her face.  She spat and coughed to no avail.  The wine worked quickly.  She stood transfixed at her image in the large studio mirror.  Lenore stepped before her, enraged.

“Remember me Bitch?  That was my sister Irene you beheaded, not me.  Now it’s your turn.  Look at yourself.  Watch me strip you of your clothing.  Watch yourself turn to stone. Watch as I avenge my sister and all the others you enslaved.  Do you like what you see?”

Lenore’s anger turned to tears.  She cried on my shoulder as we watched Lotta become a lifeless chalk figure of a woman.

“Put some clothes on Lenore; we have to get out of here.  You know, I think she is still dangerous.  It would be a mistake to leave her like this. Let’s wait until she hardens well then smash her into a million pieces and scatter her around the city.”

“That’s a wonderful idea Joe.  How do you like it, Lotta piƱata?”
So we waited a while and when we thought she was well cured Lenore hit her right leg with a chair just below the knee.  We took turns whacking her with everything we could find until there was nothing but small pieces remaining.  Then we put the pieces into a couple of plastic trash bags, hailed a cab and delivered her piece by piece to trash baskets throughout Manhattan.

Lenore went home to her parents.  She told them some fantastic tale about drugs, bikers and a lost love that was easier to believe than what had actually happened.  I went back to my street photography, my New York job, and writing my short stories.



The Red Scent (from a Google Search)

- 30 -
--
  All photographs by Joe DiGilio


__________________________________________________


Please Note:

*** This Blog Needs Your Story! *** I'm Serious!} If you have a story to post on this theme, contact me
, please! We have only a single story on tap at this writing.

Give your imagination a stretch--your story can be about any sort of Relentless Pursuit, fact, fiction, poignant, humorous, or even harrowing!  I'd love to hear from you and to work with you on your story! We need to keep this theme going! There have been some truly fabulous posts over the last several months.  Why not yours?

My sincere thanks for stopping by.
Michelle Alton


___________________

[Click on the green SU icon below to recommend this blog to Stumble Upon Members]

___________________________






 



##