Thursday, the “first day of Spring,” was welcomed with ice, sleet, rain and snow. Ah, seasons in the north country. Makes me feel strangely at home; I remember plenty of June snows back home in Montana.
I’ve spent the days at work, and the nights at FGP headquarters, madly working my way through contest and grant entry season. Applied for an interesting-looking oceanographic journalism training session to take place this summer. We’ll see if I make the cut, but it would be an instructive “101” course on the waters of my new area. I’m a Western river girl, and admittedly at a bit of a loss when looking at ocean-based conservation matters. Time to do some research. The brain is already clicking away with all the new story and photo essay possibilities.
Every time I look at a map, I still wonder how the hell I ended up way over here. It’s safe to say the northeast was not on my radar prior to the unexpected adventure of Orvis.
The routine of the work week was broken by the ordering – and subsequent arrival – of a new piece of gear. For years, my go-to lenses have been a 17-40 and a 70-300. As I progress as a photographer the 17-40 gets more of a workout, but sometimes the longer lens is indispensable for the simple reach of the damn thing. With a recent payday from a photo essay, I took the leap and ordered a new version of the big boy. My current telephoto has traveled the world with me and been subject to more adventure than most people ever will. While said adventure has produced some strong photographs and some excellent memories, it has taken it’s toll on the gear.
The old lens will be kept in the rotation; used as a “high-risk” lens when the odds are good I’ll be caught in rain, mud, or will be knocked about. I have no doubt it will still get plenty of use. But I felt like a kid in the candy shop when the B&H box containing my new lens was dropped off at my desk Thursday afternoon. A new lens translates into new adventures. I fully admit to sitting there, staring at the box for a minute, totally zoning out from the speech script I was supposed to be writing and wondered what kind of adventures this lens will see. Where will we go? What will we do? Who will we meet?
Maybe I have an irrational attachment to my gear. I dunno. But while the rest of my life was in storage for two years, the camera gear stayed on my person nearly constantly. It’s become an extension of a reality and I rather like it that way.
My theory is this: keep the kit small, with proven pieces that work well. Trekking across the Russian tundra or photographing bands in downtown Austin, there’s no place to haul sherpa loads of gear. And you can only shoot one lens at a time. So I like to keep my kits tight, agile and ready to work. Give me a camera body, a good lens and my press ID and I’m good to go.
Here’s a brief look at the camera gear I’m bringing along to Montana this next week for the Orvis Guide Rendezvous and Down the Hatch Festival. I’ll be working the event with the Orvis crew, but want to keep a camera on my person at all times. For days on the river, I’m giving a modified fishing sling pack a go as a bad-weather camera bag. For days in town, either the Think Tank Retrospective or the LowePro backpack will take the load. It’s up in the air at the moment.
Feels immeasurably good to be packing gear for a trip once more. Nothing makes me happier than being on the road with the camera in tow.
Who needs multiple clothing outfits? Give me the basics; I’d rather spend the space on gear.
