RoW

I think I've figured out why so many photographers insist on bringing everything they own on every shoot.

It's a safety blanket.

(I leave mine at home.)

I rarely need more than a couple lenses when I'm working. Before the shoot, I think about the subject and environment, decide which camera and lens is best suited for the task at hand, then bring a logical alternative or two. 

But the fact of the matter is, I rarely stray from the initial plan. And what additional gear I do bring, often remains in the bag. Sure, I'll change a battery or swap out a memory card. I might even add a filter. But that's about it for extra cirrucular activity.

What I've noticed with my Pelican-case-packing-comrades, is essentially the same. Generally speaking, they are using a lens or two, changing a battery when needed, and that's it.

So why so much stuff?

I think it's the same emotion that leads to overpacking a suitcase for a trip. We bring too much because "we might need it." Just in case. It's insurance.

Insurance is based on numbers. So let's look at the math of overpacking. If you carry 30 extra pounds on 10 trips, that's 300 pounds of discomfort. Divide that by the one or two times that you actually use an extra item. Then look at the resulting photos. 

In business, we think in terms of ROI. So my question would be: "What was your return on weight?" I call this RoW.

After this exercise, your conclusion could be that the result clearly justified the bulk. That's great. At least you thought it through. Keep on truckin'.

If your RoW isn't as positive as you'd like, do a test. Think about the next shoot beforehand, carefully select the gear your need, then pack a smaller bag.

If it works out,

this could be the beginning 

of a lighter, more nimble, you. 

-Derrick

Backpack or Shoulder Bag?

It's the most common question in camera-toting lore.

And I think you'd have to be a photographer to appreciate the significance of this decision. Having the wrong bag for the situation is like wearing pants that are too tight or a shirt that's too short. It just feels wrong.

I'm thinking about this because I just switched from a messenger bag to a backpack for my trip to the Eastern Sierra. There's no way I would carry my black Urban Reporter down the streets of Bridgeport. I'd look like someone who got lost on his way to San Francisco.

My blue Photo Hatchback was the perfect choice. It felt right around town, and performed brilliantly while hiking along the Walker River in search of the perfect Aspen grove. With its secure shoulder straps and waist band, I could hop from rock to rock with my gear snugly hugging my body.

Next week I fly to New York City. There's no way I'm carrying a blue backpack down 34th. I'm switching back to my discrete, black Urban Reporter 150. I can easily slide it to my front when riding public transit, it looks good sitting next to me in a coffee shop, and I can quietly pull out my camera for a few quick frames when walking to work in Manhattan.

(I'll be frank. I find giant backpacks very annoying on crowded subways and buses.)

By now, you've figured out the answer to this carrying solution quandary.

You knew what I was going to say all along.

Any photographer worth his or her salt,

has one of each.

-Derrick

A Cold Night in Bridgeport

There were a lot of things on my mind as I drove out of town.

Sonora Pass was ahead of me, Bridgeport behind. I left a few things there. I won't be missing them. 

In the trunk of the car there were two bags. One contained a dusty change of clothes, toiletries, and some basic hiking gear. The other, a backpack, was used to transport an Olympus E-M10, four lenses, an iPad mini, wireless hard drive, and a few accessories. It's my version of traveling light.

Just a few days earlier, I had slung these two bags over my shoulder and walked up the back stairs to the second floor of the Bridgeport Inn. I had room 23.

"It's the one with a power outlet," Laura told me when I checked in. "Plus it's near the back door and the bathrooms."

The Bridgeport Inn was built in the late 1800s. Downstairs was a restaurant and saloon. There was also a large common area "where guests once smoked, read, and kept warm."

Upstairs was divided into two sections. On the left side were deluxe accommodations that contained a bathroom, heating, television, and other comforts. They cost more than what I was paying. The right side featured a long hallway with open doors on both sides. An open door meant the room was available. If you peered in, you would see a 9'x9' space with a bed, dresser, and a single light overhead.

With the exception of room 23, there wasn't even a power outlet. No heating, and the bathroom was at the end of the hall.

I normally camp when working in the Eastern Sierra. But this was a last-minute trip, so I booked the cheapest room possible instead. I knew it would be Spartan. But there was more there than I anticipated.

Nobody told me this, but I had a pretty good idea of how the Inn once worked. My room, along with the others on the right side of the building, were short-term accommodations. The interior stairs led from the raucous saloon to the long, darkened hallway.

I woke up cold at 3am the first night. The temperature outside was in the mid-20s, and my room was probably in the upper 30s. I had to sleep curled up. I was too uncomfortable otherwise.

"This is how it was," I thought. I remember one story about life in Bodie where the prostitutes would stay all night with the miners who had hired them. It was for the warmth. And in many cases, I'm sure it meant the luxury of a night's sleep.

First thing in the morning, I went downstairs to the heated restaurant. The coffee was good. I ate a full breakfast. I felt great.

This might sound odd, but I loved the experience. By the second day, I was already in rhythm with my life in the Eastern Sierra. I ate bigger meals, found an extra blanket, and worked hard while the sun was out.

I thought about how my life is different than when the Bridgeport Inn was built. And on my way to the Sonora Pass, I realized that I would have been fine then too.

Thanks to a cold night in Bridgeport,

I gained a lot of confidence

from a little discomfort.

-Derrick

Packing for Bridgeport

I'm heading to the Eastern Sierra on a scouting mission.

Bridgeport will be our headquarters during the June 2015 Photography Workshop for Bodie and Mono Lake. I love this area, and Bridgeport is a wonderful place to hang my hat for a night while exploring the rugged terrain of the High Plains. 

Fortunately, the Quaking Aspens still have color right now. So I'll be able to capture a few photographs, find a good homebase for our event, and breath some clean air.

I have a room reserved at the Bridgeport Inn. It's one of those places where you wish the walls could talk. It was built in the late 1800s and has hosted adventurers, fisherman, hikers, and those seeking their fortune in the silver mines of Bodie.  I've never slept there before. Who knows what I'll encounter.

At the moment, the Bridgeport Inn is my leading contender for workshop headquarters in June. But I'm not going to make a final decision until I spend a few nights there. I'll also scout locations for our photo shoots, and of course, test places to eat. 

This is the part of my job that I love. Having the freedom to go off and see something beautiful, then figure out how to share it with others. 

I'll finish packing my rucksack this morning, record the podcast for the week, then hit the road.  I'm traveling light, of course. I'm taking the Olympus OM-D E-M 10, a couple lenses, the iPad mini, and a pocket camera. That's all I need -

Oh, except for the camping stove and some French Roast. 

I love the taste of coffee 

at 6000 feet. 

-Derrick

Wish Upon a Blood Moon

I had already decided that I wasn't going to photograph last night's lunar eclipse.

I just wanted to enjoy it. And who knows if I were to see anything, anyway.

So as I went to bed, I told my internal clock to wake me at 3:30 am so I could poke my head outside. It was closer to 4 when I opened my eyes. At first I wasn't sure why. Then I remembered.

The blood moon.

Theresa woke up too. She looked at me inquisitively.

"The eclipse," I whispered. "Come see it with me."

I put a blanket around her shoulders and we ventured out back. There it was, hanging in the west. Beautiful.

The air was clean, revealing a sky filled with jewels. The veiled moon dimming her beacon, allowing the stars to cast their light. 

We stood silently.

At 4 am that morning, I loved my life, my family, and the creator of such magnificent moments. The experience lasted only minutes. I'll remember them forever.

I was half naked. Cold was setting in. We shuffled back inside and upstairs to the warm bed. Heaven.

Normally, I would have cast a wish up that blood moon. But not that night. Because, as I stood there, eyes upward into the sky, I knew that I had everything

that meant anything

to me.

-Derrick