Sarah Palin's Wasilla book signing: people in line, animal balloons, LaRouche disciple, Palin herself - a photo got, a photo not got

Being both cheap and in a bit of a tight spot, I had thought about trying to go in and take pictures without a book, but a book was the price of admission. There was one other possibility. When I entered Wasilla's Curtis D. Menard Sports Center, I found a sign posted on the door instructing all members of the media to go to a certain room to get their credentials.

For a brief moment, I thought about it. However, as explained in yesterday's post, based on some of the reports I had read from Lower 48 book signings, I feared that showing up with my professional-looking DSLR's might in itself prevent me from gaining access. So I had come instead with the new, tiny, Canon s90 pocket camera that my daughter Melanie and her boyfriend Charlie had given to me in a gift-wrapped package, with instructions to open immediately - just so that I would have it in time for this event.

So it made no sense to go to that press room and get the credentials that might well prevent me from getting a picture of her.

Plus, one way or another, I figure this is a book I should own and read. 

So I put it on a credit card. Tucked into the back was a coupon for a free coffee at Pandemonium Booksellers and Cafe - AND a free ticket to an Alaska Avalanche Jr. Hockey Game, PLUS another coupon for one free kids meal at the The Wild Olive - a new place that I have not yet tried. 

I will take advantage of all these things. I will blog about them.

I had determined that I would not come like a media person, but rather just as a regular citizen of Wasilla, coming to get an autograph of the lone, non-dog musher, celebrity of his town. I would just get my book, get in line and see what happened around me. I would not get in anyone's face with questions. I would put no one on the defensive. I would just mosey through the line, take no notes, but would snap a picture now and then, just as anyone with a pocket camera or a cell phone would be expected to do at such an event.

When I drove into the parking lot, I had noticed policemen sitting here and there in cars. All seemed to study me carefully as I passed by them. While scrutiny from a cop is always slightly unsettling, this was to be expected, given what a polarizing figure Sarah Palin has turned out to be, coupled with the tendency of individuals here and there in our society to act violently.

More police officers stood about inside. I walked up to this one. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to take a picture of you," I said, "I might as well catch the full flavor of this event."

"Okay," he said, as I framed him in the LCD of my tiny, tiny, new pocket camera. "Don't I know you?" he then added. "You look very familiar."

"I don't think we've ever met," I answered.

"You sure do look familiar, like I've met you before. I could almost swear I have."

"I can't ever remember meeting you," I answered. "But I get around a lot. You could have seen me somewhere."

"Maybe..." he said.

Actually, looking at his picture now, he does look a little familiar - but maybe that's just because I saw him very recently, at the book signing, when I took this picture. And the fact is, when you wander around Wasilla, everybody looks a little familiar, like you've seen them all somewhere before, because you probably have.

I then saw these two, sitting at the top of the bleachers: Ellen Lockyer, a reporter for the Alaska Public Radio Network and Al Grillo, the long-time Alaska photographer for the Associated Press. I used to bump into Ellen here and there in the 1980's, but since then I have come across her very rarely.

As for Al, I can't even remember how many times I have been somewhere in Alaska, maybe out on the Iditarod Trail, in Nome, Barrow, Fairbanks... anywhere... taking pictures and there he is, taking pictures too.

I am always glad to see him. Some photographers share a sense of comradery, and that is how it is with Al. I get a good feeling of friendship from him.

He is conservative in his political leanings; I lean left. But what the hell. When did all this bullshit that liberals must hang out only with liberals and conservatives only with conservatives set so firmly in?

I was shocked to learn that Al had been laid off by the Associated Press - on the same day that they laid off over 100 photographers throughout the country.

That's what this wonderful medium that I make this blog in is doing to my profession. Kicking it to pieces, even as it opens up ever more new and exciting avenues and possibilities.

Al was here freelance on behalf of the news photo agency Zuma.

He had driven out from Anchorage at his own risk. He would only be paid for pictures that Zuma would be able to sell. His challenge was big. The sports arena is a public building, but her party had rented space on the second level for her to sign her books. They were calling that a private area. No photographers were being allowed in the private area.

Al could shoot all he wanted down on the main floor where people stood in line by the hundreds, but he could not go up to the second level to photograph Palin.

So his plan was to stay until the end, and then get photos of her after she came down the stairs into the public area.

At the very beginning, just after Palin arrived but before I arrived, media photographers had been granted a brief window of minutes to shoot photos of Palin from a distance back, but that was it. I don't believe Al was present for that part.

I visited Al and Ellen for awhile and we talked about all the changes that have come to Alaska. Ellen said that the Alaska that we had all began our work in is dying, and, in some ways, might already be dead. This could also be said about the world of American journalism, as we had known it.

Reporting has largely been replaced by screaming; people have divided into their own camps, the voices they hear and listen to are proliferating by the millions, even as these voices funnel people through the talk radio, blogs, and cable "news" networks comfortable to their philosophy into ever more narrow channels of information and opinion.

Look at me and this blog. I'm part of the proliferation - albeit a more quiet part than most, lacking the influence to funnel anyone anywhere.

Finally, I said, "see you around," and went down and stepped to the back of the line. This young woman immediately stepped up to me with a petition that she wanted me to sign. 

"I'm not signing any petitions today," I told her. She took the news in good stride.

I got in line behind the woman at left, Margaret, who, upon seeing my camera, immediately asked me to take a picture of her. She has been living in Wasilla for many years now, but is thinking about moving to Anchorage. She likes the fact that Anchorage has good, well-cared for trails, parks, concert halls and such.

I shot a couple of frames. Then she noticed that everybody around her was carrying books, but she wasn't. "Do I have to have my book before I get in line?" she asked. She had thought there would be a sales table in the signing area. "Could you save my place?" she asked, then she dashed off to the Pandemonium books table to make a purchase.

She was gone for at least 15 minutes. When she finally returned with her copy of "Going Rogue," I showed her the pictures that I had taken of her on my LCD screen.

"Oh! I look like a Russian!" she said. This caused someone standing nearby to make the inevitable joke that you can see Russia from here, which put another person slightly on the defensive. That person emphasized that Sarah Palin had been right. that "you can see Russia from Alaska."

"Absolutely," I agreed. "I actually have - even through living room windows. I have looked out from Alaska and seen Russia."

"You have?" Margaret exclaimed, looking at me with wide eyes.

"Yes, from Little Diomede!"

"Little Diomede!" she gasped, clutching her heart. "Little Diomede! Oh, Little Diomede! I used to work in Nome, at the hospital. I met many people from Little Diomede - from all over the Bering Sea. I love all the places of the Bering Straits region."

This caused someone nearby to inject that he knew someone or had a relative who had been to Little Diomede and, sure enough, you can see Russia from there.

"Little Diomede is Russia!" Another authoratively piped up.

A bit later, Margaret decided that she needed a coffee. "Would you save my place again?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. She left. I never saw her again, even though I had more than an hour of standing in line still ahead of me.

I also told this lady that I was not signing petitions today, but she asked if she could tell me about the petition, anyway. It's an Alaskans for Parental Rights petition - meaning that signers seek a law change that would ensure that a minor daughter could not get an abortion without her parents consent. She said that right now, a 12 year-old girl would need parental consent to get any kind of medical care from a doctor, be it the flu, removal of a splinter, or whatever.

But not an abortion. If she got pregnant, that 12 year-old girl could go get an abortion without ever letting her parents know. That was what "Alaskans for Parental Rights" wants to change.

That's a pretty strong argument.

Yet, there is another argument to be made: What if the 12 year-old girl is pregnant because her father raped her, and now she must get his permission? What if that 12 year-old girl is so frightened of her parents concerning such matters that she would never seek their permission or let them know she is pregnant, but would instead seek out means more dangerous than a doctor's care to make certain they never found out?

This may look like people meandering about in a crowd, but everybody here is in one line - one, long, zigzagging line - the folks below in the public area, the folks above in the rented, private area - some walking beneath a quote accurately attributed to John Wooden.

And then this disciple of Lyndon LaRouche came along, moving up the line towards me, telling people that Obama's health care plan was identical to Adolph Hitler's in the 1930's, that Obama was taking us to the same place of annihilation and death that Hitler took the Nazis. 

To be certain, this was a pretty conservative crowd, but most of those in line ahead of me ignored him - some recoiled when he approached - but not all.

Although I had pledged to myself that I would be the dispassionate observer this day, my blood boiled when I saw the picture of Obama with the Photoshopped Hitler mustache, when I heard the hateful and false words that the man spoke.

He must have sensed this, because he approached everyone in line ahead of me, but very deliberately stepped around me to the next person behind, the one that he shows his literature to here.

This man listened, looked and accepted his literature. After the follower of Lyndon LaRouche moved on, the man behind me held the picture of Obama up in front of the lady who appeared to be his girlfriend.

"This is classic!" he said. "This is a real classic!"

Maybe 20 people up the line, I saw a young woman take his petition and sign it.

Stick with this post to the end, and you will get the response of one conservative to this man and his message.

I had been curious as to what the people in line would be saying about Sarah Palin, but the fact was, hardly anyone within conversation distance even mentioned her as we moved toward her.

They just talked about everyday stuff, like what year they moved to Alaska, the weather, dogs, sports...

The guy motioning to the kid selling books did make one brief mention of Sarah Palin. He said that he had known her before she became famous, that he had already read the book and that it was pretty good but that, in some cases, she stretched the truth.

He cited a passage that had something to do with her and Todd, going from one building to another in Palmer. In the book, he said, they cross the street - but both the building they left and the one they went to are on the same block, on the same side of the street, so they could not have crossed the street.

This guy came along, blowing up balloons, which he then gave to children. This balloon, however, is for a man to take home to his wife. The man specifically requested a pink poodle.

A little boy chooses his balloon.

The man carried a bottle of hand sanitizer with him. He sanitized his hands and then blew the balloon up with a pump as the little boy watched.

The little boy eagerly accepts his doggie-balloon.

I saw several people carrying books by the stack. The rule was that Sarah would sign no more than three per person.

This is Tyler, 19 years old, from Palmer. He was curious about my "Kivgiq 2009" baseball cap. I told him what Kivgiq was. He was very interested. He said he didn't know much about rural, Native, Alaska, but he would like to go out there and learn more.

He said he has a brother who is three-quarters Yup'ik and he wants to know more about what that means -about Yup'ik and other Alaska Native cultures. He hopes the people out there keep hunting, keep whaling; he thought it must be something special to witness. He spoke with pride of his father, who retired after a career in the Air Force. 

I thought of my own father, flying with his crew through flak and bullets in his B-24, dropping bombs on Hitler's infrastructure.

Tyler carried two books for Palin to sign - one for his mother, one for his grandmother.

I liked him; he impressed me as being intelligent and sincere. We exchanged emails today. He told me that his mom and grandmother loved the autographed books that he brought them.

Understand that the line was moving very fast. Each person had only seconds with Palin. The book signing had been scheduled to last from 11:00 to 2:00, but, according to the metadata, I took this picture at 2:09:18 PM. I had arrived at about 11:45 AM.

As Tyler stepped to the table, Palin asked, "what do you do in Wasilla?"

I figured she would ask me the same thing. I wondered what her reaction would be when I told her that I was a photographer?

Then, there she was, in my eyesight for the first time, ready to give me four or five seconds of her time.

As I have earlier recounted in this blog, during her time as Mayor, I was ambivalent toward her. My head and heart and often my body was out in Rural Alaska and I did not pay much attention to Wasilla politics. I live in the unincorporated part of Wasilla and, even though I pay the same sales taxes into the city as do those who live in the incorporated part, I cannot vote in Wasilla elections. Not yet, anyway. The current Mayor, Verne Rupright, is working to incorporate us.

I just didn't care about Wasilla politics. 

Even so, I did pick a few things about her. I learned that she was against any kind of rural or Native subsistence hunting and fishing preference, nor did she support the self-government rights of Native Alaska tribes.

When she ran for governor, I voted for Tony Knowles.

But then what at first seemed to be a very amazing thing began to happen. It seemed like she was going to be a good governor. She seemed to step away from the excesses and arrogance of the Murkowski administration, she challenged corruption in her own Republican party; she seemed to be making accomplishments where Murkowski had failed.

She seemed willing to reach across the partisan aisle - and actually worked better with Democrats in the Alaska Legislature then she did with Republicans.

I began to think maybe she would turn into a pretty good governor - as did 89 percent of Alaskans, according to an Ivan Moore Research poll done in May of 2007. A couple of warning lights popped up, like when she fired Public Safety Commissioner Walt Monegan, a man who I respected and who, by most accounts, was doing a good job, but who would not fire her former brother-in-law.

Then along came John McCain... Sarah Palin then stepped onto the national stage and immediately claimed to have told Congress, "thanks, but no thanks," to the "Bridge to Nowhere."

That simply wasn't true. It just kept getting worse. She began to accuse Obama of "palling around with terrorists" and did not reprimand those on fringe who, in response, rose up in hate - even to shout, "kill him!" In doing so, it seemed to me, she gave new license to the fringe, a certain respectability that they did not deserve, a respectability that no Republican who loves his party should accept. 

She divided America up into those who she said loved America and those who didn't.

I love America. With all my heart and soul, I love this country.

But in her words she placed me in that "Other America," the one that she claimed does not love it like the true patriots.

Then, after she and McCain lost, she appointed Wayne Anthony Ross to be Attorney General - a man who had stood against all the basic, fundamental, aboriginal rights of Alaska's first peoples. Alaska Natives took her on on that one and the Alaska Legislature denied her appointment. Ross had to go.

After she resigned, then came the "death panels." And me, facing the ever growing misery of paying Cadillac Premiums for a clunker insurance policy that has made it extremely difficult for me to get the health care that I thought I was buying into - that I need. This one was personal.

Now, as I placed my book in front of her, she looked at my hat and asked what Kivgiq was. I told her.

"Oh," she said. She signed my book.

I had two thoughts about the matter. First, she was obviously and understandably exhausted. Yet, she had been observant enough and sharp enough to pick up on what was on my hat. She had displayed the curiosity to ask what Kivgiq was.

But... why did she have to ask? She had been governor of the State of Alaska for two-and-a-half years and of all of Alaska, it is the Arctic Slope that has been far and away the most important generator of wealth and economy for this state. The Iñupiat are the People of the Arctic Slope and Kivgiq is the big Iñupiat celebration of dance and feast like no other. 

Frank Murkowski had danced at Kivgiq. Any governor of Alaska should know what Kivgiq is.

I had just enough time to get off this one snap with the pocket camera. I picked up my book and moved on.

I went down the stairs and found Al, sitting at a table, waiting for Palin to come down so that he could take some pictures of her. Al has been photographing Sarah Palin at least since 2002, when she made an unsuccessful bid for Lieutenant Governor. He covered her campaign for Governor and her Alaska activities during the 2008 Presidential campaign. He has several photos in her book. He flipped through my copy to show them to me.

As we visited, the Lyndon LaRouche disciple came by with his pamphlet. On the front, was a picture of LaRouche standing at a Podium, pointing a finger, and these words, "The People of the United States NO LONGER ACCEPT their President or Congress." On the back was the photo of President Obama with the Hitler mustache photoshopped onto his lip.

"This is wrong," Al told the LaRouche disciple. "I don't like Obama, but it is wrong to say he is a Hitler. It makes me angry, just as it made me angry when people called President Bush Hitler." He pointed out that Hitler murdered six million jews and caused the deaths of many tens of millions of people more.

People who spout such nonsense unfairly "give conservatives a bad name," Al said, as the man left.

Al pointed out a photo that he took of the Palins with their daughters, Bristol and Piper.

By now, the line had grown short. Al badly wanted to go up and take his photos. No other members of the media were left. So Al went to the stairs to see if he could go up, but the guard denied him. He would just have to wait for her to come down the stairs.

Gradually, it grew quiet. Above us, we could see only a handful of people in the area where her signing table had been. Al checked again. Sarah Palin was gone. She had left by a route that did not take her past us. 

So we left - Al to drive back to Anchorage without getting any picture that he needed to pay for his gas and his time; me, to Taco Bell because I had grown very hungry.

If I were to turn right at the light ahead, I would be on Knik Road. If I were to turn left, I could drive the three block-length of Main Street and then I would be on Fishhook.

As I waited in the line of the Taco Bell drive-through, I saw the moon, almost to first quarter. I rolled down the window, reached out with my other pocket camera, the Canon G10, framed the scene in the LCD and snapped this picture.

Cocoon mode* - day 9: Three more pix from the car: little kid morphs into cop, then insurance salesman; bike jump; Iona Grotto - I get my tail kicked by a lady at the New York Times

Every morning before I go to bed, there are a few blogs that I must check out. At the top of the list is, Lens, the photojournalism blog of the New York Times, and I have mentioned it before. This morning when I opened it up, I damn near died. It featured a photo story titled "Essay, Motor Drive," by Monica Almeida, a talented photographer who relocated to Los Angeles from New York City, but still shoots pictures that wind up in the New York Times.

The essay was comprised of 16 pictures that she took from her car. It was presented as a visionary leap of sorts, the transfer of street shooting skills from the sidewalk to the vehicle.

And of course I have been doing the same thing for years and years and if I could select 16 of my best shot-from-the-car images and put them before a national audience... well, I know this sounds arrogant, but I guarantee you, that audience would see something that would go even beyond what was presented today in Lens.

And now, if I ever get the chance, everyone will think that I am just a copy cat.

Oh well. Monica did it. I didn't, and that's that.

Congratulations, Monica.

Speaking of which, all three of today's pictures are from the car.

This one as I wait in the drive-through to Metro Cafe.

The young man to the left is Dave Eller, who I pretty much got to watch grow up as he was a classmate of Jacob's. Dave grew up to be a cop and I was always worried that one day he would pull me over for speeding or something, but really, I don't speed much and he never did.

In fact, I got my last speeding ticket close to 25 years ago, when Dave was still a kid.

This past year, he left the full-time police and joined the police reserves. I believe that he is an insurance salesman now, or works with insurance companies in some capacity.

This belief is born out by the fact that his camera-shy companion hides his face behind an Insurance brochure from Hartford.

As for the Metro Cafe grand opening Saturday, from noon 'til two, I failed to note the location: Lucille Street, just south of Spruce. 

And here I am, driving by the skateboard park. One commenter on Lens expressed his horror, charging that the practice of drive by shooting is more dangerous then driving and texting.

I suppose it could be, but not the way I do it. It is not anywhere near as much a distraction as talking on a cell phone. When I drive by shoot, I do not take my eyes and concentration off the road ahead for even as long as does every driver who turns his head to look over her shoulder at the traffic behind him. 

When I see something that looks like it might make a good picture, I lift the camera, point like a gunslinger shooting from the hip without ever bringing it to my eye, shoot, and put it back down again.

Usually, when I shoot, I am not even looking at the subject. I have already got a glance of it, just as anybody driving past at that moment would have, and a glance is all I need to know that it is there.

I have a very good sense of where a camera is pointing even without looking through the viewfinder, although it is a fact that sometimes I miss the subject completely.

In this case, the subject was beyond the practical reach of my pocket camera, so this is a significant crop.

Shortly afterward, I passed by Iona Grotto. Remember how, on that day that I pedaled my bike past the bare-breasted young woman and wound up on my knees in front of a grave here, I gave myself an assignment to learn more about the husband and wife buried within? Paul and Iona Mahoney.

Yesterday, an airplane mechanic by the name of Ray Cross called me on behalf of Paulie Mahoney, the daughter of that couple, who asked him to give me her phone number. I called her today. She was very happy, glad that I am interested and promised to help me piece that story together, once I get my big project out of the way.

So, even though I have not done a very good job of it so far, please stay with me. I will yet find the soul of Wasilla, as I promised I would when I began this blog, one year and nine days ago.

And even as I do, I will keep searching for the soul of the larger Alaska. And, in this cocoon mode period, some ideas have come to me on how I might do that.

Speaking of Cocoon mode, I have gone over my time limit by about 15 minutes. Damnit! I so lack discipline!

*Cocoon mode: Until I finish up a big project that I am working on, I am keeping this blog at bare-minimum simple. I anticipate about one month.

The wedding - setting the stage, part 3: The hired photographers

First, let me say that as hard-working professionals with a job to do and the determination and will to get it done, I greatly respect the two individuals to the right - the still photographer and the videographer who works with him. Second, I must also say that, for me personally, they were my bane, my nightmare. They took all my plans on how I would shoot this wedding and utterly destroyed them.

Yet, how can I hold it against them? They were in their country, making their living. They had a job to do and they did it. They are guided by a photographic philosophy that is the exact opposite of mine; a philosophy that when exercised completely dominates the scene and makes it impossible for a shooter such as me to exercise his philosophy.

Yet, how can I say that my philosophy is better than theirs'?

Perhaps theirs' is better than mine.

I don't think so, but I could be wrong. Perhaps it is.

It had been Soundarya's intent that I would be the only photographer to document the wedding, but the groom's family wanted to bring in a photographic team of their own, a team that had worked for their family before and had pleased them with the product that they produced.

It was their right to do so and they exercised that right.

Here, in the above setting, this did not really pose much of a problem for me - but inside, during the actual ceremony, it put obstacles before me that seemed to be insurmountable - yet I had a no choice but to surmount them as best I could.

This was the problem: while a photographer cannot help but interfere a bit in any event that he shoots, my philosophy is to interfere the least amount possible and still do a good job. Their philosophy - and let me say that in India it is not only a philosophy that is accepted, it is expected, embraced and appreciated - is to interfere to the maximum amount possible.

So maybe for India, it is a better philosophy than mine.

By my philosophy, the very act of shooting an event with a flash constitutes interference. First, the flash interferes with the natural light. If I find that I absolutely must use a flash, then I will find a surface to bounce it off of, to soften it up a bit, to direct it at the subject at angle that allows it to throw in some shape definition.

What I would never do is point the flash straight at the subject, except, perhaps, very rarely, on a low-power discharge as fill light. When a photographer aims the flash straight at his subject, it just takes whatever quality of light and subtlety of tone that might exist and wipes it out. It washes out shape and definition. It creates a pasty image.

Yet, the first Indian wedding photographer that I ever encountered quite literally chastised me for shooting without a flash. "Straight on flash - that's the best light in the world," he told me. "It's the only good light. You can't get a good picture if you don't use straight on flash." He actively sought that straight-in, pasty, washed-out look and treasured it when he got it. His clients were happy with his work.

The natural look disgusted him and he made certain that I knew it. 

The second way a flash interferes is that it can simply be annoying to people to have flashes going off in their eyes all the time.

So I try always to avoid flash.

But India is a place where 50 things always seem to be happening at once, so I suppose a flash going off repeatedly at a wedding might not be an annoyance at all. Probably, no one even notices it.

Here, you can see the difference in philosophy. Note the little red light that says his flash is recharging, but still ready to fire. Also note the two windows through which a nice, soft, yet defining light pours down upon the beautiful bride.

I would (and did) use that window light. I would turn Soundarya just a little bit, so that the window light would give some shape and definition to her face; I would allow the light to preserve what it could of the natural subtleties of the scene as it actually appeared before me.

In just a moment, this photographer will blast his flash in full-force, and wipe out that window light and all the shape-defining and tonal subtleties that it carries.

But this was not really the problem for me. He could shoot his flash all through the wedding and I could shoot available light and only very rarely, perhaps one, maybe two frames at most, if at all, would his flash overlap into my exposure.

The problem was the photographer's assistant, the videographer. He had his own, straight-in-light, and it was a monster - a genuine flood light. Raised a short distance above his video camera, it poured a bright, intense, glare down upon everything that it pointed at, and anytime anything was happening, that light was on.

If I was by the videographer, then it washed my pictures out. If I was off to the side, it might cast some shape and definition into the scene, but it was harsh shape and definition, with hard, dark, shadows falling straight behind the subject.

If I were opposite him, then it was just like shooting straight into the sun. I could hardly even see. The lens flare was awful.

As for the photographer, who was also a choreographer, he also had no qualms about pushing me out of the way. He usually did this by holding one hand out, palm toward me. If there was no contact, he meant "move right now!" If he was not satisfied, then that hand would push against me.

Now, I am not a photographer who lets any other photographer push me around. Once, while I was shooting a story that was also an international event, a videographer for one of the major television news networks bulled butt-into me as I was framing my picture and forcefully shoved me out of his way. I retook my position and he wound up face down in the snow with a major lens cleaning task ahead of him and did not try such a stunt again.

But this was different. I was in another man's country and he was making his living and this was Soundarya's wedding and I did not want to take any action that might put a blemish on her special and beautiful day, so I would yield and look for another angle, even if I did not like that angle so well.

Except for one time: I had a scene framed just the way I wanted it when the photographer put his shoulder against mine and began to push. I held my ground. He pushed harder. I held my ground still, shooting as I did. He pushed still harder.

And then I said, "Did you know that I came all the way from Alaska at my own expense to shoot this wedding?" He eased off. But that was the only time he did so. He considered the wedding his and saw me as interloper.

Yet, a thought occurred to me. If I somehow insisted on having my way, on shooting this as I would like, then perhaps I would be an interloper. I was shooting a wedding in India. In India, or least in Bangalore, it appears to me that this is the way weddings are shot - with a photographer blasting away with a flash while at the same time directing a videographer who has a monster flood-light atop his camera.

Obviously, their clients like their work or they would be out of business.

This means that it is all part of the scene - even that monster flood-light is part of the natural scene; it is the light that is available and if I am really any good, then I just had to work with it - harshness, shadows, and all - and somehow make it work. 

And I would be an "Ugly American" if I tried to make it otherwise.

So I did not shoot Sandy's wedding the way I had wanted to, I shot it the way circumstance mandated and did the best that I could. I shot it as it was, not as I wanted it to be. And really, to one degree or another, that's how a shoot almost always is. Nothing is ever completely as you would want. A photographer must be flexible.

In this case, really flexible.

Following a fine lunch with excellent company, I witness the mercy killing of an injured moose calf

This day began hard. I had gone to bed at 3:30 AM, and the workshop in Anchorage was scheduled to begin at 8:30, which meant that I had to leave the house by 7:30. I seldom sleep well, and even worse when I must get up early. I tend to wake up within 15 or 20 minutes of whenever I fall asleep, just to check the time.

This happened repeatedly throughout the three-and-half hours that I was able to spend in bed. I figured that if I got up at 6:50, this would give me time to shower, get dressed, warm up the car and leave in time to stop at MacDonald's to buy an Egg McMuffin and hashbrowns to eat along the way.

So I got up right at 6:50, stepped into the master bedroom bathroom, then became aware of the sound of water flowing through pipes, and the spray of a not too distant shower. This meant that either Jacob or Lavina or both were already taking a shower in the other bathroom. 

I did not want to give whoever it was either a cold or hot shock by turning on the water to our shower, so I went back to bed and then lay there, listening, waiting for the water to be turned off.

This happened somewhere between 10 and 15 minutes later. The water was still hot when finally it began to spray on me, but it only stayed that way for about two minutes. My shower was short.

Soon I was on the road, with a mug of coffee that Lavina had made for me, along with a free Latte that they had given me at MacDonald's. I love McDonald's egg McMuffins, hash browns and regular coffee, but this McMuffin was dry, the hashbrowns too greasy and I did not like the latte, so I stuck to Lavina's coffee, which, as is everything she prepares, was excellent.

I arrived at the workshop just a few minutes late, and had to take a seat at the back of the class, which I hate. I like to sit right up front. A bit later, I noticed an empty seat three tables ahead, and moved to it.

I won't describe the class or the teaching, but the morning session was all about Lightroom and it was great. I learned many useful things.

The man in the picture is Charles Mason, who I have known since I first saw him climb off a snowmachine on the sea ice off Point Barrow during the great gray whale rescue of October, 1988. Charles is not only an outstanding photographer who knows how to photograph contrasting asses of distinction, but, as his Macintosh Powerbook Pro attests, is also a loyal, patriotic, American. 

Despite my interest in the class, I figured this day would have two highlights that would rise above the all rest. The first would be lunch, which daughter Melanie had committed to me.

We met at "Ultimate Thai." When she first suggested it over our cellphone connection, I thought she said, "Ultimate Pie." I had  wondered what kinds of pie they served.

Note the position of the band of sunlight as it falls upon her shortly after we first got together.

Now notice the shift in the band of sunlight, as our lunch nears an end. It is so good to have the sun back. Alaska's days remain the shortest in the nation, but spring rapidly approaches and the daylight is piling on fast.

Soon our days will be the longest.

It had been -5 at the house when I left, and in Anchorage it was a positive 23 by afternoon, pleasantly crisp. It felt kind of like spring was already here.

As for lunch, our conversation was pleasant and bore no significant import and sometimes, these are the best kind. She did express concern about my consumption of fast food. 

"I've been reading your blog, Dad," she said.

It was a good and pleasant lunch. I was sorry to see it end, but eager to get back to the workshop.

As I turned off the busy New Seward Highway into the driveway to the BP Energy Center, where the workshop was taking place, I was surprised to see police cars with flashing lights, and an officer wielding a shotgun.

I missed him, but did snap this shot as I crept by at about two miles per hour. My settings were still set for inside the restaurant and I badly overexposed. That is why it looks so strange.

Wondering what was going on, I turned into the parking lot, which is divided into two halves. The farther half is closer to the BP Energy Center door and, just as it had been in the morning, appeared to be full. I pulled into a spot in the first half, not far from where the police cars were parked. As I got out of the car, I saw three policemen advance slowly into the trees, their weapons held to the ready.

It had to be an injured moose. I soon spotted it, obscured by birch trees - a yearling calf, lying in the snow. As it's mother stood in protective watch, it struggled to rise from the snow. I felt a little sick inside, both to see it struggle in pain, and because I had the certain knowledge that, very soon, it would be dead.

In this photo, trees obscure two of the policemen, but if you look closely, you can see what appears to be the glove of one of them. The one that you do see points his shotgun at the moose calf. I assume it must be slug-loaded. The birch also camouflages the calf, but again, a close study will reveal its head, poking out from behind a tree, down in the lower left hand corner.

Although he is taking aim, he and his peers are being exceptionally careful. They are checking, double checking, triple, and quadruple checking.

A click on the photo will reveal a larger copy of the image.

As I shoot it, I hear the female officer, who is now in the same parking lot as me, but a bit closer to the entrance through which I just came, shout angrily at me, "Get back in your car! Get back in your car! Get back in your car right now!"

I was not about to get back into the car.

I told her that I am a photojournalist and that I had a right to document what is happening here. Again, she told me to get back in the car. She sounded very angry. I doubt that she believed me. I was not holding a big,  professional-looking camera, but only my tiny pocket camera, a camera that anyone might carry.

Most of the time, this pocket camera is great for blogging. I can carry it anywhere and it does not weigh me down or tire me out. It does not attract attention, the way my big D-SLR's do. I always know, though, that every now and then I will come upon a scene that the pocket camera is not really suited for. This was such a scene.

But when something happens and you have a certain camera in your hands, that is the camera you must use to do the job.

"You could get shot!" she yelled. "Get back in your car!" 

I was about 89 degrees from the impending line of fire. My car was about 90 degrees. I did not think that I would be a whole lot safe in the car. Anyone in the far parking lot would have been in greater danger of taking a stray slug.

"Come here! Come here!" she said.

I moved slowly toward her, studying the scene as I did. The calf had now risen to its feet. The apprehensive mom was checking it out. I found myself with a better angle to see them through the trees, so I stopped to shoot the above scene. This angered the officer. I did not want to anger her, but I had to take the picture.

If you look closely at the above image, you can see blood, running down the left-rear leg of the calf.

As it struggles to keep its injured leg suspended, the calf attempts to move away from the danger. Its mother momentarily steps toward the danger.

"I am trying to keep you from getting shot!" the policewoman said. "Do as I say! You do not want to mess with me!" The implication was clear. A mental image appeared in my head, of me leaving the scene in handcuffs, in the back of a squad car.

She was right. I did not want to mess with her. Yet, sometimes, when a person sets out to document the world around him, he must stand up even to the threats of a police officer.

I could sympathize with her, too. Anchorage has had many bad moose incidents take place because people do stupid things, like taunt moose, throw rocks at moose - occasionally, such an incident results in human death or injury.

Even though I was obviously safely out of the line-of-fire, perhaps she truly did worry that something could go drastically awry and one of those shotgun slugs could inadvertently slug into me, although it appeared to me that the officers assigned to euthanize the calf were advancing in a most deliberate and cautious manner.

The thought also occurred to me that she might not want her fellow officers to be pictured gunning down a moose calf. Clearly, it was something that needed to be done and no knowledgeable, rational, person could hold it against them. Still, someone surely will.

Even so, the Police are a public entity and their actions subject to the public eye. As long as I did not interfere, I had every right to photograph what was happening before me. I knew that I had to compromise, by shooting from a position closer to her, but I could not back down.

"Ma'am," I stated emphatically, "I am a professional photojournalist and I have a constitutional right to document what is happening here and if you prevent me from doing so, you will be violating my First Amendment rights."

"I'll worry about that later," she said. "Right now, I need you to do what I say."

"Later..." when it was all done... when there would be no photographs left to take... when, as far as the visual record was concerned, it would be as if it had never happened.

I climbed atop the snow berm that rose in front of her, and there took this image of the officers as they took aim.

The man in the suit studied the scene. He stood in the area where the police had first gathered. I was quite certain he was official - maybe police, maybe game. Perhaps he was someone whose name I have read in the newspapers. Maybe not. Maybe he was just a bystander - but I don't think so.

A shot was fired. It hit the calf, but did not bring it down. Limping on three legs, it hobbled off a short distance with its mother. She would have been accustomed to having her calf rapidly flee right on her hooves away from any perceived danger. Now the calf did not rapidly flee, but moved slowly.

Now, she held herself back to the pace of the calf.

The officers continued to advance toward the calf. More shots were fired. All hit their mark, but still the calf did not go down.

It was awfully damn hard to watch, let alone to photograph. I wanted to scream, "Get a rifle! Get a rifle! Get it over with! End this suffering now!" But a rifle would have been too dangerous to humans. An errant bullet would carry much farther than a slug, even after it passed through the calf. When I took this image, the cow was maybe 10 feet in front of the calf, but panic was beginning to overtake her.

I thought I counted six shots, but later got confused, and wondered if it was seven.

The mom finally panicked, and fled across the parking lot.

Please take note of the blue vehicle in the far section. I am not certain it is the one, but later a blue vehicle will enter the narrative. It could be that one. It might be another. All I know for certain is that it was blue.

She turned to watch as her calf went down and then did not get up.

She was angry. The man in the suit now stood right beside me and we both stood not far from the van you see above. "Be ready," he said in a friendly but earnest voice. "She's going to charge. I've seen it a hundred times."

I knew that he was correct. I took note of the nearest automobile in the direction away from the line between mother and downed calf (the van was closer, but toward the line). It was my car, and it was about 40 feet away. I started to move slowly toward it. Sure enough, the cow charged across the parking lot, reached this spot, kicked up the flecks of hard-packed snow that you see flying and from there came straight for us.

We skedaddled towards the car. I was worried that she might kick in the paint job, but she pulled up short.

"She's done now," said the man in the suit. "It's over."

She went back into the midtown, highway-bound, band of trees. 

Now I faced a bit of a dilemma. I wanted to stay; to take more pictures, to talk to the officers involved, to follow the process through to the end. I wanted to find out who the man in the suit was, what his job was, how he had come to see such a thing "100 times."

But I knew that by now, the afternoon session of the workshop had probably already begun. I had paid good money to attend this workshop and I needed to learn what was being taught in there. Missing just a little bit could make a huge difference in my comprehension of what would follow.

"What happened?" I asked one of the three officers who had pursued the calf through the trees, "Did the calf get hit by a car?"

"Yes," he said. "Hit and run. But somebody took down the license number. We're going to find the driver."

Anyone who lives in this area can understand how a driver could hit a moose. It happens all the time. I have almost hit a number myself, because they can suddenly dash out of the trees and be in front of you in an instant. Once, one did this to me and I slammed on my brakes to come to the most sudden non-crash stop possible. I came so close to smacking it down that in sheer fright it fell down flat on its side.

Virtually every day, a driver smacks down a moose - especially this time of year. So we all understand.

But to hit a calf and run, to drive off and leave it to what fate you do not know...

I quickly took this shot from a safe spot, then headed back to the BP Energy Center.

The hall on the second floor was both quiet and empty as I approached the classroom. Even though the doors were closed, I could hear the voice of instructor Kevin Ames coming through, so I knew that I was late. Class had begun.

I stepped inside and saw that he had his cellphone to his ear. He was telling someone that he had just begun class and could not talk now; he needed to go.

I had not really missed anything.

Not long after I came in, BP staff stepped in to tell us to be very careful if we went outside, as moose were about. Shortly afterward, we were asked if any of us owned a certain blue car. The back window of a blue car down in the parking lot had been shattered - shot out, he clarified, when asked.

For just a little while, it was a little bit hard to concentrate, but for a person who spends as much time in Lightroom, Photoshop and Adobe RAW as I do, it was riveting stuff, and I soon became absorbed in it.

As I mentioned in my last post, among Kevin's excellent images are many of beautiful women and all, no matter how much or how little they wear, are tastefully posed. 

About mid-afternoon, he pulled out a few of those images for a lesson on mask layers and smart objects. He showed us the original shots and in each case the woman was beautifully photographed. The images would not only catch the interest of any heterosexual man, but would attract women, too.

Yet, the women themselves had not seen the photographs that way. One gorgeous, seemingly perfect-proportioned model had looked at the original image Kevin had shot of her and saw someone who was fat and short. So Kevin showed us how he made her body appear slightly taller and thinner - just enough to make her happy but not to throw the viewer off. He kept her face and head completely in the original proportion.

Another model hated the way her left nostril looked, and she was not happy with the teeth that glimmered from the left side of her beautiful smile. So Kevin showed us the technique he had used to replace the left nostril and teeth with mirror images of the right, and how he had then modified the highlights and made other small adjustments to make it all look natural.

In this case, as you can see, he is working on the naturally striking eyes of a model. The photographer next to me is following along with his own laptop.

As for me, this is interesting stuff, but it is not what a photojournalist does. No, no, no...

For a photojournalist, there is a troubling side. The other day, I saw a striking image of a dog musher driving his team past Denali, at dusk, as the Northern Lights danced in the sky.

I didn't believe the picture. I thought it was faked. Yet, maybe it wasn't. Once, a man looked at a photo I had taken of an Iñupiat whaler harpooning a bowhead, and he congratulated me on my processing skills. He did not believe the photo was real. But it was.

And that is the downside to all this.

But Kevin's world of advertising and modeling is different. Nobody expects such images to be the literal truth. And I was glad to learn something about his technique. It improved mine, however I put it to use.

After the workshop ended, I shook Kevin's hand, congratulated him for providing an excellent learning experience, said a few "see you laters," then headed down the stairs and out the door.

Just beyond the doors I saw the above warning.

I then went to the spot where the calf had died. Drag marks stretched across the snow, leading away from big, blotchy, saturated, bloodstains to the parking lot - and there was this small tuft of fur.

From the spot where the calf had gone down, I twice punched the button on my auto-start. I saw the lights of the red Escape come on. I heard the engine turn over, then start; I saw smoke emerge from the tailpipe, then boil out into the chilly air.

I walked to the Escape, climbed in, then drove out onto the New Seward Highway, where the calf had been struck. As I braked for the next light, red, I glanced into my rear-view mirror and saw this truck coming.

Earlier, I stated that at the beginning of the day I had anticipated two highlights that I had expected to rise above all other experiences of the day. This is the second. I am in the apartment of my daughter, Lisa. She is dangling a toy mouse that Bryce bought for their new cat, which still does not have a name, other than "Deborah by Default."

I don't think even that temporary name is being used much anymore. Until what will become its final name reveals itself, she seems mostly to be called, "kitten."

The name "Juniper" did come to Lisa, and when she told me on the phone, I immediately liked it. Juniper struck me as a fine name, one that fit this cat.

Bryce does not like the name. So they await the revelation of a one that both can agree to.

Kitty finally catches her mouse. She plants a decisive bite on what, if it was flesh, would be its spinal column, then carries it to a place at the foot of the couch. There, she falls asleep with her "kill."

It is a sweet moment. 

I get flipped off, wind up by the airplanes; get together with some of Alaska's best photographers

The driver of this car flipped me off; he had red hair, he was rude, and he did not know the rules and courtesies of the road. For just a little bit, my heart was filled with a stupid desire to run him off the road and knock some sense into him, bump him around a bit with my titanium prothesis.

After he let his bird loose, I wound up behind him at a stoplight, in the lane just to left of him, behind the vehicle that was momentarily stopped alongside him. I studied the scene and plotted how, when the light turned green, I could cut into his lane, zip around the vehicle that now blocked me from him, pull up alongside him and then force him over to the side of the road and give him a dose of sense; teach him some rules of the road and give him some instruction in common courtesy.

Then some sense came into me. I decided to take a picture instead. When the light turned green, he gunned it and I snapped the shutter. The vehicle that had separated me from him then started rolling again and I did too. I could have gone straight down Ingra, and continued the confrontation, but I turned left, onto Northern Lights Boulevard.

He probably thought me a coward, imagined that he had scared me off, but a flipped bird isn't worth someone getting killed over, and you never know when it will come to that.

It has happened many times around here.

This great drama took place in Anchorage, where I wound up wasting over three hours. It was all my fault. I needed to deliver some photo files to a client and I had misunderstood and thought that anytime today would be fine, but she had a morning deadline and I missed it. She then called the place in New York where she was going to send the pictures and told them my images would be late, so I burned a disk and skeedadled on into Anchorage, where I planned to attend a workshop that started at 5:30 PM.

So I dropped the pictures off a bit after 2:00 PM and then I had nothing productive to do. I bought a burrito at Taco Bell, then drove slowly around, listening to various programs on NPR, including Fresh Air with Terri Gross and All Things Considered.

Somehow, when I just drive idly and aimlessly about Anchorage, I always wind up at Lake Hood, where the airplanes are. Always. I don't set Lake Hood as a destination. I just drive and soon I am there.

So here I am, on the bank of Lake Hood, watching a plane taxi for takeoff.

Damnit. When will I get an airplane again? This blog can never fully be what I want it to be until I get another airplane. Probably right now, I could not even pass the medical, given the events of the past year and my still incomplete recovery. Still, I must get another airplane and I must finish healing; I must get my medical renewed, so that the skies over Alaska can once again be mine again; so that Alaska can be mine, as it was before.

This is Kevin Ames, the expert conducting the workshop that lasts through tomorrow. You can learn about Kevin and his expertise here. For blog purposes, I think enough to say that he knows much about aspects of digital photography and software that I do know a fair amount about, but need to learn a lot more. So here I am, at the workshop.

In the course of his lesson, he showed us a few of his images. Many were of exquisitely beautifully women wearing very little but tastefully posed.

I have never taken photographs like that.

How come?

The workshop is being sponsored by the local chapter of the American Society of Media Photographers. Long ago, I was not a member and then I joined, but I let it lapse. Finally, after more than a decade of being out there there pretty much all by myself, I joined again, at the end of 2008.

It is not that I have had any intent to do so, but my interaction with Alaska's photographic community has been limited. I am sure this has hurt me, because you always learn when you get together with people of like interest. Everbody that you see in this picture knows things about photography and this profession that I don't. I would be much better off if I did. So would Margie.

Some of Alaska's best photographers are right here, in this image. I won't name any of them, because there are some in the group whose names I do not know.

They are all my peers and it is time that I get to know them better, time for me to learn from them and to give something back, instead of just being the loner all the time.

I can be still be a loner most of the time, but not all the time.