I’ll take fog over sun any morning. Perhaps I say that because I was born and raised in Colorado, where fog is uncommon and usually gone before I’m out of bed.

Well, I now have an infant in my life (as I seem to mention in every post), which means 6:30am kinda counts as sleeping in. On the Fourth of July, we had a wet and very cold evening that made the prospect of fireworks with our little girl even less appealing. We watched Return of the Jedi on Spike TV and crashed. Upon waking up at 6am, I discovered a soupy fog had descended on the Yampa River Valley. After brewing a pot of coffee and changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, I was off, leaving my two girls sleeping soundly at the condo.

Varenna was born on a day that started out foggy. I remember that weather distinctly because it was so unusual and I knew this was it — Hailey having contractions seated in her rocking chair … me seated on a stool next to her with a stop watch …  the world outside muffled by a thick veil of fog.

And that’s what it is about fog: it is intimate. Broad landscapes become contained, virtually indoor, and the richness of the world’s color comes through.

This was a heavy, heavy fog. Driving down Walton Creek Rd. toward U.S. 40, I was in limbo about where to head for my shots. There were two barns that immediately came to mind. One of them I had photographed a ridiculous amount of times; the other was the one everybody photographed. But I opted for the latter instead because it was close (above two photos). It’s behind a few stores, off a rather unassuming road, and on top of a hill by a construction site. It’s a bit of a let down at first. And yet, it has graced magazine covers, tourism websites and postcards as the emblem of Steamboat. An old Western barn, set in front of the ski area. Perfect dichotomy of old and new, the Wild West and the Recreating West, right?

As a photographer, those postcard shots are nice and exciting for a few years (and clearly, they are marketable), but there is something electrifying about shooting an icon in unexpected conditions. It forces the viewer to reconsider the whole scene. That’s what art is all about.

The fog wasn’t lifting and my coffee wasn’t cold yet. I decided to head for the second barn and see what I’d find. That was when things got magical…

It didn’t, but the green grass and evening sunlight was pretty.

You’d have to believe that sooner or later, this barn — and the iconic one that graces every promotional campaign for Steamboat Springs — will collapse in the night. They’re too old and frail. Of course, they say the same thing about Delicate Arch. For now, this run-down structure is what makes Steamboat, Steamboat.

About 36 hours later, I had a magical hour in the fog photographing this barn. Those images to come in another post later this week …

My graduation gift from high school was a Nikon FM — a mechanical SLR camera from the late 1970s. Because it lacked a brain of any kind, I had to tell it to do everything, and that was the joy of it. I would take two shots of the same thing as much as I could: f/3.2 for the first one, f/22 for the second one. Then I’d play with shutter speeds. Two shots of the same thing became four. And so on.

My first test subjects in the summer of 1997 were Colorado’s wildflowers. I was always in the mountains at that age, if not every weekend, then at least every other weekend, and from late June to early August, the meadows of the Rockies were exploding with color.

This past weekend, Hailey and I and our four-month-old daughter Varenna drove to Steamboat Springs to celebrate the Fourth of July. As we climbed Rabbit Ears Pass, our little girl became antsy — mouth clenched, gutteral “uhhhs” emanating from her throat, kicks to the side of the sunshade on her car seat … OK, we get the point Varenna. You want to be held. You want out. Can’t blame you.

Near the crest of the pass, there is a turn off U.S. 40 where a flat and massive meadow opens to the north, forming a brilliant green apron beneath Rabbit Ears Peak. We pulled off onto the dirt road and bounced along to Dumont Lake, a serene and idyllic lake that has recently been tarnished by beetle-killed pine trees. The wildflowers, however, remain profuse and stunning, with columbine, paintbrush, lupine and glacier lilies decorating the meadows with purple, red, blue and yellow.

Our stop was only 45 minutes, but it gave Renna a break from her carseat and allowed me some time to compose these wildflower shots. Getting a pretty wildflower shot isn’t hard. Getting an original one is. On that account, I don’t know that I got one, but it was a lot of fun trying.

Soon the sky grew dark, the wind kicked up and thunder rolled over the hills beneath the lake. We buckled our little girl back into her seat and drove into the rain…

Silence. An earth-rocking, soul-stirring realization in the middle of bitter-cold ranch country outside Kremmling, Colorado. Exactly what a new parent needs: Fresh air and a deafening absence of sound.

It was a Friday afternoon, the last day of April. I’d left work early, and the three of us — me, Hailey and our little daughter Varenna — had made our way to the mountains through sun, snow and their indignant cross-breed, the sunny-blizzard. Our venture would take us to the usual place — Steamboat Springs — for some needed rest and relaxation. But for the moment, I was on the side of the road, hands in pockets and facing the wind, staring at the empty land while Hailey fed our groggy little girl. Getting out of the car meant getting in touch with things. It meant shooting a few frames on my camera.

In the grassy field were a pair of sandhill cranes — perhaps my favorite birds in Colorado. Gawky, golden with a red patch between the eyes, they poked about the grass and lifted elegantly on short breezes, their wings expanding to make use of the wind for a few seconds. What I would have given to have them unleash that awkward, clamorous call of theirs … but they never did. They poked for bugs.

And then, a different calling: over Rabbit Ears Pass by dark. Back in the car, on the road, and five frames in my digital camera. It was good to be back traveling and shooting.

A soldier in a foxhole in Afghanistan? A local guy running for town mayor? A musician writing a protest song? A volunteer at a food bank?

Love of one’s country — at least in American terms — is an action.

It’s doing something, whether modest in scope or monumental in sacrifice. It’s a pretty wide continuum.

I bring this up because I recently went to Williamsburg, Virginia, a place of immaculate preservation and where love of one’s country is expressed by wearing a petticoat and a three-pointed hat. I don’t say this with sarcasm or to make it seem silly alongside other examples of patriotism. But I find it compelling how the people who work and live in this town an hour east of Richmond do more than just an acting job to bring colonial America to life. It’s done with love for the United States of America and a curiosity for our compelling past.

In short, their expression of this love is what keeps the place from feeling like an amusement park.

After four days of excessive eating, imbibing, and Super Mario Brothers on Wii, Hailey, her father, her brother Jason, her sister-in-law Ali and I packed into the car and drove to Williamsburg to see a sliver of the American experience. We were there for three hours, which allowed for a small taste of the place. I’m told that to really feel the slow sway of American history in the area you need to see Jamestown and Yorktown, too. Plus, it helps to pay $58 for a Freedom Pass to gain entry to the historic sites. Another day, another visit.

Christmas in Williamsburg is a big deal. One easily can surmise why when considering this universal truth: any place with historic architecture seems to have its romance amplified by Christmas decor. Just look at Santa Fe’s adobe cubism decked in farolitos. In Williamsburg, the decor of choice is the wreath, where they take its artistry to a whole new level. And thank God. Usually when someone says “Christmas decor” and “whole new level” in the same sentence, I think of these nutjobs.

Nearly every door in Williamsburg was crowned by an elaborate wreath, the best ones labeled with a ribbon from a competition they had just held. Many are truly stunning works of art, like the two I’ve posted above. As I photographed them in the slanted winter light, I was sure I would discover some quaint story as to why Williamsburg was so wreath happy (or pineapple happy for that matter). Wreaths must be a tradition from colonial times…. Maybe they warded off ghosts…. Maybe they were delicious offerings for the town drunkard…. Surely Thomas Jefferson had something to do with it.

Turns out, they caught on in the late 1930s. You can read all about it on the town’s website, but I warn you, it’s not nearly as interesting as my imagination can make it.

As for the pineapples, the same website says they’re “native to South America” and that by 1681 they “became a Christian symbol.” OK. I’ll bite. Why?

Well, they’re kind of like pine cones, which as we know, the Romans used as a symbol of faith in the judiciary, thereby relegating them to imperial prowess. They also distribute seeds, which reminds one of fertility, propagation and survival.

I could make a sarcastic comment, but who am I to talk? After all, my generation of Americans does this at Christmas time.

Now I’m like many men: give me a box to wrap and you’ll end up with a wrinkled 7-sided mass of gift paper covered in 80 strips of tape and an off-kilter bow. So I’m easily impressed when it comes to delicate arts involving careful assembly. But the wreaths of Williamsburg would impress even the most cynical observer. They’re an act of love. Love for community and love for tradition. The roots of patriotism, really.

So what happened in Williamsburg? Why is it significant? On this day, I had no idea. We didn’t buy the Freedom Pass, and with only three hours to tour the massive historic quarter, I wasn’t all that interested. I’ll learn later, I told myself.

I know: sounds terrible for a photojournalist to say that, but it was actually kind of liberating as an artist to just compose a place without any baggage, motives or agendas.

Williamsburg was the capital of Virginia back when it was a colony of England (Jamestown was too buggy to be capital) and it is home to the second oldest university in the United States, the College of William and Mary. It was the sight of the Gunpowder Incident (I wish all historic events were so bluntly named), which was one of many precursors to the American Revolution. During the Revolutionary War, it lost its stature as capital because the Governor, Thomas Jefferson, felt it was vulnerable to British attack.

Oh, and they now have a Busch Gardens nearby.

Hailey is now seven months pregnant, so walking around in the cold for three hours staring at doors is more exhausting than it used to be. Just as we all hit a wall, we came upon the more modern downtown of Williamsburg, and the college campus. A gourmet food store overflowed with customers, kids played in the square, shoppers walked around with bags, and perspective diners read menus.

With Jason and Ali an hour away, it became clear to me that I wasn’t done with this place. We could easily come back, hit Jamestown and Yorktown, drive the scenic and tree-lined Colonial Parkway, and make a bigger photo story of it. I resolved to make a story pitch in the near future.

It was just then that Jason and I got arrested for Public Defamation of the Queen of England.

On the outskirts of the historic quarter lies a re-creation of the Great Hopes Plantation. I would have poked around, but a woman dressed in period clothing wanted to see my Freedom Pass. Entry wasn’t permitted without it.

Love of country. It’s a broad continuum: some get dressed up in period clothing to express it. Others uphold the rule of law. Some do both.

So I snuck off to this wood pile and snapped a shot of the setting sun.

I’m about to implement a serious revamp of www.tanagerphotography.com, which will include my 2010 wedding and portrait packages, as well as an overhaul of the galleries section by splitting weddings from portraits. While I was at it, I decided to take another look at the travel galleries, which got me thinking about whether I should include Ecuador in my portfolio, which got me thinking that Ecuador isn’t anywhere on the blog, which got me thinking how much I want to go somewhere pretty much at any moment now, which made me realize I’m not going anywhere for a while … what with the baby and all.

Just because I’m not traveling doesn’t mean I can’t spice up the blog with photos of faraway places here and there. Ecuador has been on my mind lately because of the birds and monkeys. Impending fatherhood naturally lends itself to daydreams of future adventures with the kid, and tops on that list is looking for animals in a rainforest, be it Costa Rica, Panama, Peru or some Caribbean Island.

We visited this magnificent country in April and May of 2007, visiting the Napo Wildlife Center in the Amazon, the capitol city of Quito, the Otavalo Indian Market, the rainforests of Mindo and the hot springs of Papallacta. Conspicuously absent from that list are the Galapagos Islands. Too much time, too much money, and being the mountain boy that I am, I’m always going to pass over islands to insist we see something like the Andes.

My lasting memory of Ecuador was a place of insane topography. Ravines inside canyons wedged between mountains with volcanoes on top. Quito’s size and scope was unfathomable because of the way the land buckles and swallows the city. It is amazing place to see from a window seat on arrival.

But right now, I’d bypass the Andes, the volcanoes sitting on top of them, and pretty much anything to do with that dusty wrinkled city, for a little hut in the rainforest and the sound of howler monkeys and parrots piercing the air.

NPR’s Morning Edition ran a great story on a Brazilian farm town’s efforts to restore the Amazonian rainforest and balance nature with farming. The soundtrack alone transported me back to Ecuador this morning. Soon enough, we’ll get back out there …

Things just got a lot more interesting with Tanager Photography. On Wednesday, our new camera arrived: the Canon 5D Mark II, an upper echelon camera with an incredible 21.1 megapixel full-frame sensor and HD video capabilities. Paired with the Canon 40D we’ve been shooting with, we now have even more expanded coverage for weddings, portraits, events and of course, our travels.

So its been an interesting week beyond just the new camera. What’s Halloween in Colorado without 14 inches of new snow … in the city? We carved a pumpkin last night (OK … Hailey carved a pumpkin last night), and I plopped it on the porch to photograph it (above). I was blown away at how the 5D balanced the inner glow of the pumpkin, the moonlit sky, the street light, and the streaking traffic on Holly St.

Hailey is knitting a baby blanket for our child, which made for an interesting test subject. Same with lighting a match. On day one of the blizzard, Hailey baked some beer bread, which I promptly photographed fresh from the over. I feel like I’m just scratching the surface on this camera’s capabilities.

So here’s the big deal with the Canon 5D for me. The camera shoots at high ISO settings with little trouble. ISO basically means how sensitive the sensor is to light. The higher the number, the more sensitive, the better the camera does in lower light (like churches, indoors, dusk, etc.). Many cameras (40D included) do OK through 400 ISO. At 800 ISO, you are pushing it and asking for a bit of post-production work to have less grainy, less noisy images. I pushed the ISO to 3200 on some of these images, and experienced very little grain or noise in the image.

I’m sure I’ll be posting a lot of new stuff in the coming weeks. Hailey and I might even do a maternity shoot together. We’ll try to avoid cliches, but we certainly have a lack of baby bump images. Stay tuned.

Well, I’m back. Been a long while since I’ve blogged, in part because of how busy things have been at work, plus, my Canon 40D needed to go into the shop, so I’ve been on a bit of a shooting haitus. And I’m not talking about a three-day stint at Metro Camera Service in Englewood for a sensor cleaning. I had to ship it to Canon’s Main Service Branch in California to have the shutter mechanism fixed. So, all is better now, as these test shots of cabernet grapes and backyard carrots indicate. However, the situation pushed me off the fence on acquiring a new camera, and so, this Wednesday, according to UPS, I’ll be getting a Canon 5D Mark II as my main ax. The 40D, loyal soldier from trips to Italy and Mexico, will still serve me, but as the backup and as Hailey’s camera, too.

So, just to update things, I thought I’d get these pics of our bumper crop online. Hailey faithfully tended to a veggie garden this year, and along with cherry tomatoes, rosemary, oregano and jalapenos, we had great success with carrots from seed. On Saturday, we pulled 50 out of the ground, and only stopped because we didn’t want them wilting in our fridge. Best to keep the last 50 or so in the ground and harvest them for Thanksgiving. And yes, we recommend washing them before cooking them. Less gritty that way.

Somewhere, buried in the emotions and endurance of Holy Week’s brutal processions was a story angle. A child walking in their first parade, an old centurion wearing his Roman helmet and armor for the 40th straight year, a devout gringo who signed on and was carrying a shrine to St. Peter. I wanted to know about them, understand them and retell their story in some way.

But as the stream of parishioners flowed out of Oratorio de San Felipe Neri into San Miguel de Allende’s streets, it was clear that I was only going to encounter these personal tales on the surface. I was wedged between a hulky teenager and a posse of expat Texas housewives at a nearby intersection, legs locked, with little mobility, and, oh yeah, little command of Spanish. The writer in me would never get to the bottom of these stories. I was merely an observer with a 200mm lens.

This was to be the ultimate spectacle of the week: the funeral procession of the savior. Hundreds of the faithful dressed in all black, or in the garb of period piece re-enactment, waltzing somberly to the slowest drumbeat on Earth. After high noon’s broiling crucifixion ceremony, standing through five more hours of slow-motion walking might sound like torture, but it wasn’t. All I can say is that sometimes the mystery of something can captivate you so much that time, bloodless legs and cooking skin are rendered insignificant.

“You’ve found the best spot in all of San Mee-gul. How’d ya know?” asked one of the Texans. She had bleach-blonde hair that was tamed into a bob by what could only be called an ample amount of hair spray.

“I guess its because we came early and scouted where we wanted to be,” I remarked.

“Well, you’ll get great pictures from here. I do every year, but you’ve got a better camera.” It’s true, I did, but I was paying for it with a spine that had been twisted severely from the awkward weight of my camera bag and its multitude of lenses. Such is the price of devotion to a hobby.

Then again, my devotion was nothing by comparison. Take for instance, the women in black. Caught between the need to dress sufficiently dark and somber, and the need to look graceful, many of them shouldered the weight of the massive altars on top of severe, four inch heels. The simple physics equation of doing so — on cobblestones no less — befuddled Hailey.

As the minutes passed, I came to realize that we may have had the best spot in the city for viewing the procession. It hung a sweeping left turn in front of us, affording a 270-degree view as it went by. An hour into the parade, the sun passed low enough down the street to allow for amazing backlighting conditions. Flooded with sun, my 24mm, 50mm and 200mm lenses were capturing an ethereal light that washed the images with warmth.

Nothing was done the easy way during Holy Week. Midway through, music was provided by an actually orchestra, who carried their instruments — from flutes to timpanis — through the streets. Eventually, the casket and shrine of Christ — a massive 10-foot tall structure of wood, brass, glass, plaster and flowers — was ushered through the crowd by 20 men.

We were 100 yards from the starting and ending point of the procession — the Oratorio San Felipe Neri — and after the casket and shrine to Christ passed, the corridor of people dispersed and reorganized to accommodate the parade’s return. Just as they did, the front of the snaking procession (pictured below) appeared down the street in the late evening light.

By now, we were three and a half hours in, and somehow, someway, each character in the procession remained true to their part, even the children.

We stayed until nightfall — five total hours — and quietly watched as the casket and shrine of Christ passed through a corridor of lit lanterns. The crushed plants that the angels had sprinkled on the pavement (a mixture of herbs and daisies) were scattered across the cobbles, a pleasing but biting smell of tarragon hanging in the air. But as the parade rounded the last turn to head back into the church, a cleaning crew — an army of sweepers and blowers positioned in a V formation around a sanitation truck — turned the tranquil, meditative street into a buzzing dustbowl. Good Friday had come to a close.

Just outside San Miguel de Allende lies a village named San Luis Rey, where the Passion is enacted with such brutal devotion on Good Friday, they actually tie three men to crosses and hang them up in the hot sun. Such is the intensity of faith in this part of Mexico.

But in San Miguel de Allende, it was appearing that Good Friday was just as much a spectacle for visitors as it was a community event. What had seemed like a sleepy hamlet in the middle of nowhere on Monday, had by Friday become the center of attention. El Jardin — the charming tree-lined square set underneath La Parroquia — was swarming with Mexicans on vacation, gringos clammering for a spot on the parade route, and Indian women aggressively selling dolls. By the time the procession began to flow from the stairsteps of La Parroquia, the hot April sun was directly overhead, the makings of a sunburn and a brain-boiling headache underway.

A steady drumbeat once again set the even and slow pace. Women in all black lead with a large altar bearing a sculpture of Mary, followed by a small boy in a purple tunic carrying a skull. More children followed, dressed as angels or wisemen with beards painted across their cheeks, and then the centurions — the brutish, stone-faced warriors who were so effectively played by the men of the town. They marched with a swagger and a touch of subtle arrogance, as if they were the embodiment of man’s flawed sense of justice.

Pontius Pilate emerged, a sneer spread across his face as the hot wind blew his white cape. He lurched from step to step, stopped, produced a microphone, and read the death sentence of Christ to the hushed crowd.

As the drum beat picked up and the procession threaded through the streets, barefoot men in purple robes with thorny crowns followed in twos bearing large wooden crosses, and just beyond them…

…two shirtless men, tied to posts with nails dramatically positioned as if they’d been nailed through their palms. These were the two thieves who had been crucified alongside Christ, and they were covered with rusty paint to signify their profuse bleeding.

Two centurions handled them with a taunt rope, and occasionally would unleash a ghastly flog across the men’s back. The audience gasped in horror, an exasperation of disbelief that these men were actually being whipped. Despite all of the gringo tourists (and I do not pretend that I was not one of them), Good Friday would not resign itself to a quaint cultural festival. This was the supreme sacrifice, a moment of deep meaning and transcendence, and by reenacting the cruelty of their savior’s death, these people were somehow closer and more intimate with his suffering. It was a level of devotion that was all at once remarkable and rare.

The thieves were followed by a richly decorated altar of Christ carrying the cross, and then more figures on more altars — St. Peter, Mary Magdalene, Joseph — each weighing a few hundred pounds and bearing the scent of lilies. Scattered girls dressed as angels dropped herbs and petals on the streets. It was a beautiful set of contrasts and juxtapositions. Pain, suffering, death. Beauty, rebirth and fragility.

The parade redefined our notions of endurance; we had thought we were enduring physical distress just by standing, locked legs, in the 100-degree heat. As the parade tapered off, we ducked back into El Jardin’s shade and I quickly deleted images I knew were no good. A blocked face here, an out-of-focus subject there. In a mere 45 minutes I had fired off 300-some shots.

As the procession circled back to the square, we headed back out into the sun and found a prime viewing spot for its return. The procession’s players were looking exhausted: the angels seemed restless, the men behind their fake beards were clearly melting, and the barefoot devotees who had carried their crosses through town for 90 minutes looked utterly spent.

And then again, there were the two thieves — one looking down the whole time, the other gazing into the distance. A centurion flogged the older of the two, who winced and then returned to his far-off gazing. Guilt spread on the centurion’s face, a moment of humanity in a role of utter brutality.