The sun had diminished during my epic clash with nature. While I fought its troublesome mischief and subdued the turbid green phalanx, the redshift had arrived. From the far edge of the spectrum, bloody vermillion had come, as did Burgundy and Currant. Arrived with companies and contingents, allies and accomplice, with all the vast hosts of the scarlet lineage. Come to wash away the remains of the day on tides of crimson and carmine. The scene was shifting from fiery orange to a rich red before my eyes. From beneath the boughs and branches, the shadows had grown long. Freed from the confines of the forest, they reached out from ethereal realms to commiserate with their departing brethren. Bright golds and ambers, the signage of an October afternoon, had abated. The strength of the light, along with its vibrant hues, were being consumed by richer tones of garnet and merlot. All of this made for an enchanting scene, one that the prepared photographer would cherish and capitalize on. Not so much for the foolish, cursing barbarian types. There is one force in nature that influences each moment, every decision and every course of action I choose while traipsing about the woods playing wildlife photographer. Like a double-edged sword, that element is the wellspring of my exuberant joy, moping defeatism, and apprehensive blundering. Illuminating a governance over all things photographic. That influence has held my attention and concern for many years, while countless other dictums were lost and forgotten.

Light is the deity to which all photographers, both professional and inept, pander for favour. Its blessings give glorious reward to those fortunate few who bask in its illuminating favour. When I turn that dial and mark the settings that burning god dictates the quality of each work. By the guidance of a vast and unknowable will, I work to capture the essence of nature. Through that guidance, I feel as though my actions are determined at the primordial dawn, etched upon the fabric of all things by photons born in the nuclear heart of a star. Right here, at this place, at this moment, the last act of a cosmic ballet unfolds. Mythic particles born in some dim past have travelled across the black expanse to arrive here, at this exact moment. Cascading and colliding all around me, they create the world around me and without those inconceivable fragments of light, the world I know would not exist. Regardless of theory or fact, those photons are the reason that a cursing photographer, that smells of dog sh&t, is standing in a remote tract of forest, struggling to decide which direction to turn a plastic dial. I mulled over the theory in which the sun was the sole responsibility of my anxious awareness of light and time. The fickle properties of which remain an ever-present source of anxiety fuelled checks and balances. Gauging, measuring, adjusting, timing, obsessing, loving and hating light along with every other mystical property that accompanies it. These are all new emotions, now intrinsically embedded within my being. I would look to that star sometimes and contemplate its enigma. Other times, like that October afternoon, I would give my head a shake and refocus on the task at hand.

The conclusion of my melodramatic ideation found my arms flailing about randomly, while I sorted through bags of equipment and assorted gear. All the while, anxiety had crept in and had taken residence deep within my psyche. The unwelcomed fiend dug in with its long claws and scratched at the regions of my brain that control feelings of irritability and haste. The term "bull in a china shop" originated from the legendary tales of my passing. Folk would recount tales of the reckless and clumsy manner in which I would tackle any situation. Like the Norse heroes of old, those sagas described my brute force logic and single-minded determination of my character. I employed scorched earth tactics in even the most delicate of matters. Not unlike the proverbial bull of myth, I broke things easily and with little awareness, though never malign intent. In the confines of the truck, struggling with bags and delicate gear, I fought an internal struggle against that Beserker who dwells at the core of my being as he was furiously vying for control of my various faculties. Exercising caution and care while handling delicate optical equipment had become a monumental challenge since I took notice of the light beginning its transition across the red side of the spectrum. If one internal struggle wasn't enough, that creeping fiend, anxious, had been digging ever deeper into my psyche. Terrible and irritable claws raked across my cerebrum, tearing and gnashing at my patience bit by bit. Its goal, like always, was a coup of the mind. A complete overthrow of the old guard, a change in the regime and the complete dissolution of reason. The sounds of snorting and grunting, similar to that of a mythical bovine, drifted from the confines of the truck. The guttural musings of that bull had now joined forces with the pungent fragrance of dog sh$t, carried aloft on a warm October breeze. Through the forests and the glens, the tidings of a rare Autumn day went and the sound of rustling and whispering leaves followed.

Anxiety turned my gaze west yet again. I noticed, with creeping dread, that the angle of light had changed and weakened in intensity. Silent and subtle, the sun had dipped a little lower and tinted the fall spectrum a little deeper. The bane and blessing of my existence was sinking ever lower on the horizon, taking the precious light with it. The splendid landscape of fall was metamorphosing as I looked on. Colours and tones were oscillating within the deeper groves and lower glades, causing the shadows to descend from scarlet into crimson. Autumn was slipping through my fingers. In a frantic haste that was becoming more distraught by the second, I double and triple-checked my cherished tools. With an inbuilt propensity for adapting to most situations, I shifted immediately from fight to flight. My foot dug into the earth and I spun the world once again. A handful of sparrows landed on a small apple tree nearby as I departed. Fly, you fool, they would say if they could. Back to the forest, while the light still shines and the leaves still fall. I called upon the energy found deep down in those reserves only the reckless possess, to carry me unto the magical forest. Toward the woods and its fantastic vistas.

The dog s^&t remained fixed in the same location on the grassy trail where it had been throughout the afternoon. An unmoving albeit heavily trampled waypoint which marked my passing. I took a mental note of its noxious locale once again, when I had to turn back for a third time. I had forgotten to bring the tripod in the aftermath of my battle with the bull and the berserker. Miraculously, I had discovered its absence within a minute of departing the truck and didn't have far to backtrack. A second miracle happened just then. Twice in under a minute my boots trampled through the same pile of dog sh$t squashed upon the path. I spit out a half a dozen expletives to express my distaste of that coincidence, but I maintained forward momentum. The sticky blight which had been plaguing me throughout the afternoon had become impossibly more noxious this time around, and there was no way to outrun its putrid aroma. No matter, I was growing accustomed to the fragrance, and had no intention of stopping and losing any more precious light in some futile attempt to remove its tar like grip.

Encumbered and burdened like a pack mule strapped with a plethora of equipment, I stumbled and slipped across a carpet of rustling and whispering leaves on my way toward the entrance of an enchanted forest trail. Red shadows and golden canopies awaited me there. When finally my gaze fell upon the threshold of autumn, I was witness to the most magical and stupendous scene of splendour anyone had ever witnessed; I was sure of it. A great golden trail yawned wide and inviting before me, beckoning those few intrepid troubadours who passed this way to come and explore its heavenly secrets. A dirt road, largely hidden from the world, cut a path through the glowing maples to some enchanted realm I could not fathom. It was as if a bridge spanned from this world into another, into a realm of pristine natural beauty and peaceful quiet. An untouched realm of cascading shadow and amber twilight was there, hidden away out here at the edge of the county. I pondered the fantastic miracles that lay in wait between the boughs and through the golden canopies.

A glowing expanse of corn bordered the western verge, with decaying fenceposts and rusting barbed wire as adornments. The field led away from the entrance to forest, out toward the west and the horizon. A lone maple, heavy in limb and gnarled with age, stood like a guardian to the entrance of that forgotten causeway. Its wooden skin was a mosaic of textures, where heavy knots and burls converged at random and covered every inch of the old tree. The colossal limbs, twisted wild and fantastic and supported a vast flaming canopy of orange and yellow. An aged behemoth that ancient and mighty tree surely was, the kind only found in the forgotten tracts where axes had never swung. It was perfect. The glowing cornfield and the mystical forest were perfect. Autumn perfection. I watched a radiant orange maple leaf descend with languid ease toward the old earthen road; all the while gold, amber and crimson shadows danced betwixt the trunks. I stood fixated upon the scene, while the forest fluctuated with the tones and colours born at this time of the year. My eyes fell upon the old road and the canopy that encircled it. A tunnel was there, a bridge to another realm crafted by nature herself from the verdant foliage and painted with organic colour. It was a scene indescribable by mere words. Trivial phrases could never paint a picture such as this.

I had found it. Out here, through the struggle and the dung and cursing, I had discovered my Autumn paradise. The masterpiece which I sought. The fruit of my endeavour lay before me, and if there was only one picture to paint today, this was the one. If there was only one photo to take today, this surely was the one. The scene before me was a rarity occurring only once in a man's life, if he were fortunate. The Sun god had turned his radiant gaze toward me this day. On this rare and beautiful October day. I had discovered the very heart of Shangri-La, and I gave my thanks. Gingerly, I assembled a tripod and mounted a camera. My mind was finally at peace, without the claws of the anxious fiend or the rage of the Berserk. My soul awash in cool and calm serenity while I composed a beautiful scene of fall and the country. Indeed, I had found my autumn heaven today, out there on a lost road by that mystical forest. Elated and exhausted and enraptured, I managed a sigh of relief and sat down in the dirt on the old overgrown hardpan. In that sanguine place, in the paradise, I readied myself for the shot. For an exceptional moment. For my glorious moment. Holding my breath, I looked through the viewfinder with my sight set on glory. The release quivered in anticipation under my finger, and I was ready to create my masterpiece, thus entering those penultimate halls of photographic excellence I yearned for. Its time, I was ready to meet my destiny at long last.

#Autumn #inspiration #beauty
© chriscroW