This is not the case for the road between San Salvador and Guatemala City.  I had never driven the route in my own car but had taken it several times in a bus, from one city to the other and back again.  Leaving Guatemala City you travel up and over the mountains through a misty zone of pines and hardwood, crossing the rim of mountains separating the two Central American countries.  When you crest the mountains, you drop down to a hot plain that calls to mind parts of Texas and Mexico, distinct from the cool Mayan highlands.  The highway is not straight but somehow feels that way.  Up and over the mountains, across the plains and valleys, a stop at the border, across a river, and into El Salvador.  The road continues on, close to the coast but never so close as to see the ocean, until you join the sprawl of San Salvador or turn off somewhere along the way.

We turned off along the way, west towards the ocean, until finally the deep blue Pacific appeared like a lake hovering between a gap in the mountains.  There were signs for La Libertad and Surf City and I rolled down the windows, turned off the AC, and the heat and smell of the sea and the land flowed through the car.  I was traveling with two friends who both worked at La Iguana Perdida on the shores of Lake Atitlan: Danny from Switzerland and Giada from Italy.  Danny was one of the Dive Instructors who I had been training with.  In a few weeks he was pulling up stakes and moving on to Indonesia.  Giada was the hotel manager, not a diver, and just wanted to see El Salvador.  Over the last months I had been researching different places to dive in the region.  My own dive experience is somewhat unusual.  I had been certified at Lake Atitlan some 15 years ago and had recently completed my Advanced and Rescue Diver courses on the way to beginning my Dive Master.  While I have been underwater in the Caribbean and elsewhere, a huge part of my diving has been at that curious, cold, beautiful, and murky Mayan lake.  Danny was about to finish up the better part of a year leading nearly daily dives in Atitlan and had been underwater there several hundred times.

Not that freshwater diving is that unusual an activity, but many, if not most recreational divers get their certificates somewhere tropical and salty.  They might, if traveling through, do a dive or two in Atitlan out of curiosity and, according to the instructors, even experienced divers sometimes struggle with the cold fresh water where it’s hard to see, the air is thinner, and buoyancy more difficult.

Danny and I were both fascinated by the prospect of diving in another Central American volcanic lake and we were signed up to do two dives in Lake Ilopango.  Ilopango, like Attitlan, is a caldera, the result of a massive volcanic explosion.  Both lakes are quite deep, with Atitlan at about 1,120 feet and Ilopango at around 755 feet.  Atitlan’s massive eruption occurred some 80,000 years ago but Ilopango only between 410 and 535 AD which would have a great effect on life in the region and perhaps affecting the climate around the world.  Atitlan is in a rural part of Guatemala, is surrounded by three massive volcanic cones, and stands at 5,125 feet at lake level.  Ilopango, at only 1,480 feet, feels peaceful and remote at lakeside, but is basically within San Salvador.  Both are beautiful places though nothing I have ever seen can compare to Atitlan and its phantasmagoric clouds, mountains, and colors.  Another difference is that Ilopango has both islands and rock formations piercing the surface of the lake.  Atitlan had at least one island in the distant past, submerged a millennia or more ago.  But that’s all on the surface.  We were interested in what lay below.

We were staying on the coast at the Pelicano Surf Camp, a two-story shack, open to the heat, breeze, and mosquitoes and full of backpackers, surfers, and the sound of waves.  Longboards lined the rafters, and the sand floor of the downstairs bar and common area was a menagerie of dogs, cats, and chickens.  There were tents pitched on the floors and people lounged in hammocks.  Giada had a bed in a dorm room.  Danny and I shared a private room, made private by the addition of a bedsheet strung on cord.  I was reminded of the line from many an action movie about being too old for this, but I took off my sandals, put on my bathing suit and found an empty hammock.  I opened a book.  A chicken was staring at me.  Life could be worse.

Danny had arranged the dives with San Salvador-based Pacific Paradise Divers and I was up before dawn the next morning.  The mosquitoes of El Salvador seemed to treat repellant as a delicious DEET-based sauce.  It was tropical hot even in the early hours of the morning, the bed was somehow both too hard and too soft, and there was a cat sleeping by my head.  We had to arrive at the dive shop by 0730 anyway after close to an hour drive into the city.  There was no point in sleeping in.  Sunrises on Salvadoran beaches are worth getting up for and I cleared my head jogging in the surf line.

The unfamiliar drive went better than I had hoped for, albeit with some flexible interpretation of local traffic laws.  We pulled into the lot, knocked on the door, and were greeted like old friends by Henry and Nuria.  I paid for my dives, helped load tanks into Henry’s old pickup, bought the T-shirt, chatted with some of the other divers, and we headed out following Henry to Lake Ilopango.  It took about an hour to cross the city and some more creative driving along the way, but soon enough we were on the shores of the lake.  It was a fine, sunny day with a strong breeze bringing the waves up.

The waves meant we wouldn’t be able to dive certain sites where it was difficult to get the anchor to hold.  It wasn’t a huge boat but big enough to hold our second tanks.  At Atitlan the diving is from a small, open lancha.  You enter the boat fully geared up except for fins, roll out and pull yourself back in over the low gunwale.  Being used to that rather austere experience made the day with Pacific Paradise Divers seem positively luxurious.  A ladder to get back in the boat you say?  A banana to eat after the dive?  I feel like Thurston Howell III in a wetsuit! (I mean no offence to AtiDivers at Atitlan, by the way, their style of boat diving there is exactly appropriate to the conditions!)

We loaded the tanks and gear and headed out to a jagged formation of rocks breaking through the blue water.  The site was called Cerro Quemado and there were several other dive boats nearby.  We rolled into the water and we swam a hundred feet or so to where Henry had told us we would dive.  There is always that moment of thrill and apprehension descending into a new and unknown site and I think it was particularly special for Danny and myself who had spent so much time diving in another, very special, Central American lake.  Ilopango was different and I think for divers less familiar with Atitlan, the differences might have been small but for us they were significant.  The water was clearer and there were schools of fish everywhere.  The water had a different smell and taste and was warmer.  The plants and algae growing on the rocks were different and though it was no Caribbean reef there were some subtle reds and other colors as opposed to Atitlan’s palette of greens and greys.

We descended to around 90 feet and there were a series of religious sculptures.  It was the first time I had seen manmade statues intentionally placed in the deep.  I had always thought the idea a little silly but there in the cool, dark depths of the Central American lake I found looking upon the cross, and Mary, various Saints, and the outstretched arms of the Savior curiously affecting.  There was something indescribably about kneeling on the rocky bottom, almost 100 feet below the surface, and saying a brief prayer to nothing but the sound of my own breath, that I find impossible to fully describe.  We explored the rock formations, searched for freshwater crabs, and swam through clouds of small fish until it was time to come up.

The boat took us over to a small island near the shore.  The islet was perhaps 200 feet across and 100 or so feet high, a lump of tree covered stone called, “La Isla de Amor,” the island of love, accompanied by the local expression, “Two go up, and three come down.”  This turned out to be one of my favorite dives ever because of its form.

We rolled in just 15 0r 20 feet offshore in shallow water, descended to perhaps 30 feet, then swam around the Island of Love, going clockwise keeping the slope off the right shoulder.  In general, I love the idea of going around geographic features, sailing around the globe, circumnavigating bodies of water, circumambulating lakes and mountains.  It was an elegantly simple dive and great fun trying to mentally gauge how far one had come around an island one had only just seen on the surface and never before from below.  We passed the boat’s anchor line with plenty of air remaining, swam a bit farther, retracing part of the circle, then turned back and came up.

After removing our gear, several of us climbed the hill in our wetsuits, dripping lake water on the stone steps.  It didn’t seem that romantic a spot to me, but the view was nice, the sun was hot, and there was a good wind.  I thought I very much wanted to come back, to dive Ilopango again, see some of the other sites and maybe swim around the Island of Love another time.

GUATEMALA CITY–Behold the amazing oddity that is the 7 Artisans 18mm f/6.3 UFO lens mounted on a Fuji X-Pro 1. Photo taken with a Fuji XT-4 and a 35mm f/2 Fujinon.

GUATEMALA CITY — It’s a little-known fact that when Cindy Lauper sang her iconic 1983 hit, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” she was lamenting how her second career as a photojournalist, a career that had led her to cover the Iran Hostage Crisis and the early stages of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, left her little time to simply enjoy the pursuit of photography and her love of music.

So, yeah, I just made that up completely out of Wednesday-morning boredom but hey, you read it on the Internet so it must be true.  But I was, quite honestly, thinking about having fun, about the lack of it, about how our deep and serious pursuits (and what seems like an increasing inability to simply have fun) has led the world to some pretty dark places.  I think the general public’s reflexive, addictive need to document everything, every meal, every meeting, every little moment where we used to have space to disconnect, is a large part of that.  And somehow we still end up with no actual pictures.  Instead of having a few snapshots acting as touchstones for memory and nostalgia, we have what amounts to stop-motion movies of our entire lives, movies that are increasingly complete as people take more photos and videos, start using dashcams, bodycams, and action cams that record automatically, film every mundane moment with a cam on a selfie stick, reflecting their own images back to themselves in an endless feedback loop that leaves less and less time to actually live life.  It’s a terrible thing, a strange and brutal way to live where nothing is experienced for what it is and simultaneously, we have created a record whereby nothing can be forgotten.

So that’s why I am going to convince you to buy another lens!

You see, this lens is different…  This lens is fun!

This is the 7 Artisans 18mm f/6.3 UFO lens and if just saying that isn’t fun enough, you can buy it for about $62.00.  It looks sort of like a flying saucer.  It weighs only a few ounces, it’s the size of a lens cap, it has no moving parts or electronics, is all metal and glass, and it actually works.

It works, mind you, within its particular parameters and in my opinion, does very well at that.  I have one mounted on a Fuji X-Pro 1 and I would like to get one for my first ever mirrorless camera, the Panasonic GF1.  And what this lens does best, I think, is turn a loved, senior digital camera into a glorious, worry (and focus) free point and shoot like we sometimes had back in the 80s and 90s (when we remembered to bring one).  You can put this on a small, mirrorless camera, slip it in a jacket or a bag, and pull it out every now and then to take sunlit pics on beaches and group photos in front of monuments or canyons and maybe a friend holding the Eiffel tower: pictures I am more thankful to have than any of the images I have published in newspapers or magazines or shown in galleries.  I do think the lens could well be used for certain styles of street photography, for documenting processions and parades and other public events, and perhaps for certain styles of art photography making use of the particular lens signature.  It certainly doesn’t take up much room or weight in your bag.  But I don’t think this is really what this lens is best suited for.  I think it’s best suited to just use on its own, to mount it to a dedicated, loved camera that has been languishing on a shelf, and to take it along just as it is, with no other lenses, no other cameras, and to, every now and then, remember (or not) and to take a picture (and print a picture) as a keepsake, as a memory of family and friends, because we have far too little fun in this world.  In short, this lens is something that lets you take intentional photos while at the same time relieving you of the responsibility and angst of fiddling with your settings.  Turn on camera, point, shoot, return to your life.  Look at the pictures later.

The 7 Artisans 18mm f/6.3 UFO lens is focus free.  The manufacturer says it has a minimum distance of 0.35 meters, but I think it’s more like two meters.  You might have to remember to set your camera (I had to do this on both the X-Pro 1 and the XT-4) to “Shoot Without Lens,” in the menu.  On an APS-C sensor the focal length is approximately 27mm.  This is fine though to really have that classic point and shoot vibe I’d like to see a 40mm equivalent focal length.  You aren’t going to be taking any macro or tightly framed portraits with this one.  Subjects in the fore=ground might well be out-of-focus.  Who cares?  It vignettes a bit.  It is, particularly in the center, quite sharp enough, but with that particular glow that only a fixed-focus lens can achieve, a look that is drenched in sun and fun and the nostalgia of events best left mainly in memory and maybe one or three snapshots shared with friends that will fade a little over time, like the memories of that day, and like all the people who were there.

I had wanted to learn to dive since I was a kid growing up on the documentaries of Jacques Cousteau but it was one of those things that seemed far off, a thing one did someday when one was grown and older.  But then I found myself grown and older at the tail-end of a documentary project in Central America.  I was staying at my favorite hotel in all the world, La Iguana Perdida in Santa Cruz la Laguna on the shore of Lake Atitlan in Guatemala.  I had been coming to The Lost Iguana for several years at that point and they had the only dive shop on the lake (ATi DiVERS).  As I would sit in a sun-shaded chair with a cold beverage or watch the clouds change over the volcanoes from the safety of my hammock, others would appear, heading for the dive boat clad in wetsuits and tanks and I would feel rather lazy, left out and feckless by comparison.  I was still in my 30s, but I had realized there were no real retakes and that there really was no someday.  I had already traveled a fair bit, lived overseas and had had a few real adventures along the way.  Those made realize how quickly time passes and how much effort it takes to make any little trip, let alone the grand adventures people put on lists and dream of from their desks and chairs and die without doing.  There I was, with the money, the time, and the opportunity so I got out of my hammock when the divers returned and signed up to begin the next day.

Lake Atitlan is a volcanic caldera lake in the Mayan Highlands of Guatemala.  A mega-volcano exploded some 84,000 years ago leaving an immense hole that filled with water over time, forming a lake over 1,000 feet deep, (essentially bottomless in term of scuba gear and its recreational diving limit of 130 feet).  Atitlan is surrounded by villages with populations of the indigenous Mayans (today predominately the Tz’utujil and Kaqchikel groups) who have lived there and considered the lake sacred for thousands of years.  Rising from the shores of the lake are three volcanoes in the 10,000-12,000 foot range: Atitlan, Toliman, and San Pedro which would have been tiny hills compared to the original volcano that formed the lake below them.  Over the years, the lake level has risen and fallen drastically and ancient Mayan cities have been found, one at a depth of around 100 feet on what would have been an island some 2,000 years ago.

I did my Open Water training around 2005 under the tutelage of the woman who founded La Iguana Perdida, and I could not have asked for a better instructor.  It is a far more difficult place to learn than the Caribbean.  That is a good thing; it makes you a better diver.  The water is fairly cold and you wear a heavy two-piece wetsuit.  It is more difficult to maintain buoyancy in fresh water and there are additional considerations related to your decompression tables because of the altitude of around 5,000 feet.  The water isn’t always murky but, in my experience, visibility varies between two and six meters.  I am always asked, by divers and non-divers alike, what there is to see, often in dubious voices, and all I can think is that the world is full of oceans full of pretty fish but there are very few volcanoes to dive in.  At some places the cliffs go from air into water and drop very nearly straight to black.  Other areas are more shallow at first, with beds of mud and reeds inhabited by small lake fish and freshwater crabs.  Then these too drop off to black.  When I first dove in Atitlan there were tiny, nearly invisible freshwater jellyfish with tiny red dots at their centers, but on my recent dives I saw none and the Dive Instructor said that he had heard of them but had never seen them either.  There are schools of sunfish and the elusive, non-native black bass introduced in the 1950s which have ruined the native ecosystem, and there is, of course, a lake monster in the form of an enormous serpent.  In places, identified by a fine white algae, you can put your hands into the thick silty mud and it is hot, so the volcano in which you dive is not quite dead after all.  There are submerged docks from when the lake was many feet lower and rock formations and if that isn’t enough then perhaps you should head back to a reef somewhere.

I did those dives back then and loved it almost more than anything I had ever done.  I went directly to Utila in the Caribbean a week later and did a series of dives there.  I nearly went back the next year to do my Dive Master course but I chose to travel and work on medical relief projects with a doctor I was dating instead.  I returned to Atitlan over the next few years and dove the lake more and then life intervened.  They were mostly good interventions but they didn’t afford many opportunities for scuba and my skills were becoming as rusty as an untended dive knife.  Anyway, I had been busy moving to Sweden, moving back from Sweden, getting married, having a son, moving to Virginia, moving to India, having another son, exploring the Himalayas, moving back to Virginia, moving to Mexico, photographing bullfighters, exploring Oaxaca and ten-thousand other things in between.  Any time I thought about diving, which was often, I took solace in the fact that my life was very far from unadventurous.  I might not have been breathing underwater but I wasn’t seeing life from an easy chair.

When we found out our next job would be back in Guatemala I immediately thought of Lake Atitlan and La Iguana Perdida and working toward my Dive Master if not beyond.  I made lists of all the places from my previous life I wanted to show my wife and sons, lists of all the things I had wanted to do in Central America but not accomplished in the past, wrote letters to friends about how this transition would be the easiest on record as I already spoke Spanish and knew the area.  Then Covid arrived and the transition from Mexico to Guatemala wasn’t so easy and the pandemic was (and still is) raging.  Nothing I wanted to do was as easy as I wanted it to be, but then again it never is.  There was one small setback after another but mostly they came down to the fact that I wasn’t traveling the byways of Central America with nothing but a backpack and a camera bag and days or weeks in between anywhere I needed to be.  In place of a backpack and a camera bag I had a house and a car, a wife and two kids, a dog and a full-time job.  Add in Covid restrictions, the months passed, and I still hadn’t gotten any farther underwater than the lap pool in our housing complex.  In the meantime I read about scuba diving, read the theory and gear and physics and history.  I found a YouTube channel I liked (Diver’s Ready) and watched the videos there.  I subscribed to PADI’s magazine and I swam laps.  I swam and swam and regained the fitness I had lost after Covid lockdowns began.  I bought some fins and a dive computer and a vintage press photo of Jacques Cousteau to put on my desk so I didn’t forget.  Finally the time was right and I was as ready as I was going to be.  I put in for nearly a week of leave.  As it once had been, I packed my camera bag and my backpack and closed the door behind me before the sun had risen.  I took a small bus from Guatemala City to Antigua, then on to Panajachel, a boat took me to Santa Cruz, and I walked onto the patio of La Iguana Perdida.  People looked at me from their hammocks.

Too much time induces doubt.  I had thought about it for so long, here I finally was, and what if I couldn’t manage anymore?  I was swimming a mile or more every day in the pool but I was older.  What if my eardrums exploded?  What if I had some rare condition in which two atmospheres of water-pressure caused my head to implode?  Too make matters worse my youngest son, an absolute fish in the water, told his mother he was worried daddy was going to get lost underwater.  I went to my room and climbed into my own hammock.  I got out to have dinner and went back to my hammock to study the course manual and think dark thoughts and went to bed early.  I got up at dawn.  The surface of the lake was smooth and gunmetal grey and I watched the sun rise.  Juan, the Dive Instructor, met me at breakfast and we went over some of the knowledge before going to suit up.  There wasn’t any more time to wonder or worry.  The dive shop behind the hotel hadn’t changed in 15 years and I was pulling on the heavy wetsuit pants and then the top and the booties.  I connected the BCD to the tank and the hoses to the BCD and the first stage to the tank and I was opening the valve and checking the air flow, checking the tank pressure, resetting the depth gauge to zero, and putting it all on.  We walked to the front and then I was standing in purposeful gear while the people in their hammocks looked on.  We went to the dock and into the boat and I got my fins on, squirted anti-fogging solution into my mask, rinsed it with water scooped from the lake.  I splashed cold water onto my face and put the mask on, sat up on the edge of the boat and put air into the BCD.  I put the regulator in my mouth, held it and the mask with one hand, put the other behind my head.

“You’re ready,” said Juan, and I rolled backwards.

I have been keeping a journal off and on since I was  a freshman in High School and (without stating my exact age) I can say that means I have some years of experience in the process!  I have also lived most of my life professionally involved with the written word, studying English Literature as an undergraduate, Writing for my MA, and working as a newspaper reporter, an independent journalist, and media director for international relief organizations.  My current job requires a high level of organization and more technical, official reports and, obviously, I continue to write on my own as well as for various online publications.  And like everyone else I am trying to navigate the waters of the pandemic and the ongoing process of figuring out my own life.  Along the way I have learned a few things about keeping a journal.

I am not one for including too many disclaimers.  Obviously this is my own opinion, my own process, and you are free to use or discard any part of what you read here.  But I do mention it here for a reason.  A journal is a very personal thing and writing for many people is an activity fraught with uncertainty and misconceptions.  Lots of articles recommend you keep a journal but very few offer any good advice on how to do that.  Here is what I have learned in a life spent with letters.

First, and most practically, you need a journal.  Keep in mind that if money or access to buy a dedicated journal is an issue, all you really need is a pencil and some paper.  I have my preferences, which I will elaborate on, but any cheap spiral-bound notebook and #2 pencil is essentially as functional as anything else.

I have a strong preference for the regular, black, 8 by 5 inch Moleskine (or it’s many imitators) (WalMart sells one by Mead that is probably better made and definitely a bit cheaper).  If you’re not familiar with the Moelskine I will tell you why it is the best.  First of all it is a great, practical size.  I like the smaller Field Notes booklets for lists and notes (and longer writing in a pinch) as they fit in a pocket.  The Moleskine, however, is a good trade off between having enough space to get your pen or pencil moving across the page and fitting neatly in a bag or purse.  I find it slips perfectly into the back pocket of my Domke camera bags and can be held in one hand to take notes.  The Moleskine has a couple other features that makes it, for me, the journal of choice.  It is a standard, first and foremost, that has been made for decades.  Once it is full, it can go nearly on a shelf next to its predecessors.  My earlier journals were randomly bought and a disorganized mishmash of sizes and colors and cover materials.  Second, the physical book has several simple but well-thought-out features: an elastic band to keep it shut, a place-marker ribbon, and, to me the most important feature: a pocket inside the back cover that can be used to store receipts, ticket stubs, and other ephemera acquired during the same period the journal was in use.

Now that you have your journal, the big question is what to write?  The answer, quite simply, is write anything you want to.  The journal is the first draft of your own history.  You can show it to anyone you want to, but it is not intended for anyone else’s eyes.  Back in writing school there was one classmate who loved penning un-ironic imitations of 1950s pulp science fiction.  He was a nice guy and very earnest and he loved those tales of ray guns and tentacled moon monsters that had thrilled a generation growing up on the cusp of the space age.  I have no problem with this nor should anyone else.  Having a peculiar genre of escapist literature that makes you happy is a good thing.  This guy, however, was taking a senior-level creative writing course designed for students wishing to become published writers in a different day and age.  The student objected during his critique that he could write anything he wanted to, letting us and the professor know that this was a free country and these were the things he wanted to author.  The instructor was very clear and gentle with him and used the moment to teach us all a lesson.  He said, “Of course this is a free country and you are welcome to write whatever you want in your journal, in private, for your own enjoyment.  But we are here to learn how to write for publication.  In that world you are writing for a public and for an editor and for publishers so in essence you are free to write whatever you want and I am free to grade and critique it as I want.”  Another mentor of mine, Dennis, the City Editor to my cub reporter once told me, “Listen to your editor, Tonn.  You can disagree with an editor—if you can explain why—but an editor will always make your writing better.”

But we are not talking about writing for publication.  We are talking about the journal you are interested in keeping.  So what do you write in a journal?  As I said: ANYTHING.  Really, anything.  I think this more than anything else is what keeps people from beginning.  There is a blank page of paper in front of you and it belongs to you and no one else.  So use it, fill it, it is your space.  This means it can be the first draft of your great novel.  It can also be a grocery list.  It can be bad poetry (or good, but most is bad).  It can be lists of the places you want to travel to, the things you want to buy, your favorites types of dogs in descending order of preference.  It can be free-form rambling about your hopes and dreams and plans.  It can be eloquent story-telling, one true sentence after another.  It can and probably should be all of these things (you can skip the dog thing if you want).  In other words this is a space for you to write whatever you want without fear that you are doing it right or wrong.  There is no right or wrong in how you keep your own journal.

That pretty much covers the psychological.  Here, however, on the practical side, I am going to give some more concrete advice.  In my experience, creativity is aided by organization and preparedness.  As with photography, I can go out and create freely because my camera bags are in order.  I know I have the lenses and batteries and memory cards and film (and the journal and pens) I need and where they all are and thus can concentrate on making images.  With keeping a journal I do several similar things.  First, as we already discussed, I decided on one type of journal and don’t deviate from that choice other than by some necessity.  Second, I have developed a way of beginning each entry regardless of what that entry might be and this centers my mind as well as provides continuity and reference information.  It is quite simple and I am including a photo of how it looks.  I write the date (in military/European format, ie: 24 April 1872) on the left.  In the middle I write the day of the week, and on the right the time of day (23:46).  Then, before the entry begins, I write what is in essence a newspaper Dateline.  The Dateline is the place from which a story is filed, written in all capitals (GUATEMALA CITY—).  Keep in mind that this information alone is a valid journal entry.  If you don’t have time or inclination for more you can still go back and see that, yes, on April 24 of 1872, at just before midnight, I was in Guatemala City.  I often go a little farther with the “Dateline” as well and add a more precise location if I think it important.  Remember that this is your information so your “Dateline” can read, “AT WORK,” or, “HOME,” or anything else that tells you where you were.

The most important thing (as it is for pretty much everything else in life) is to begin.  If you want to keep a journal then go get a blank book and start writing in it.  The above is only a guideline but it’s good to have guidelines, particularly for unfamiliar activities.  And really that’s all you need: blank paper (most conveniently in book form), a writing utensil, and the will to put the two  together in conjunction with your thoughts.

“STOP WORRYING THAT YOU AREN’T GOOD ENOUGH BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT, NONE OF US ARE. WE SHOULD ALL BE TRYING CONSTANTLY TO IMPROVE. BUT YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH TO BEGIN, GOOD ENOUGH TO LEARN MORE AND TO BECOME BETTER.”

Ever since Joseph Nicéphore Niépce took an eight-hour exposure from a window in Burgundy, photography equipment has been moving in a single direction.  It would have been impossible for Niépce, Louis Daguerre, and Henry Fox Talbot to conceive of the specific technologies behind digital photography but the overall practical abilities of current cameras have been worked towards, without ceasing, since that first image was taken on a sunny day in France around 1826.  Ever since then we have been developing smaller, lighter cameras able to take larger and larger numbers of faster, cleaner, more detailed images under a wider and wider range of circumstances. We may marvel at the low light ability of the Nikon D5 or the Sony A7 III, but they are nothing more than the descendants of those first image-making machines.  The incredible Zeiss and Leica and Nikon optics of today are directly descended of the first telescopes and microscopes developed before Galileo ever looked to the heavens.

The idea that Mathew Brady might have chosen, out of some sense of authenticity, to make collodian wetplates and drag a wagon through the muck and blood of Antietam and Gettysburg, rather than carry a couple weather-sealed Nikon D5’s or Canon 5D Mark IV’s is laughable.  The idea that Martin and Osa Johnson would have turned up their noses at the opportunity to take a Nikon D850 and a 600mm f/4 Nikkor to photograph lions in Africa is pure comedy. It is only in retrospect that we choose outdated technologies of lesser convenience to enjoy the process or aesthetic differences.

Because of and despite all of the above, if you want to be a better photographer, you should shoot some film.  Ideally, you should not only shoot some film, you should learn how to develop and print it.  Even if you don’t become an expert, even if you only do it a few times, you will know far more about photography and how it works than you did before.  But don’t let the lack of a darkroom or a super hip and cool 1970s SLR stop you. Don’t put off for the imagined perfect what you can accomplish now. Shoot some consumer color print film from whatever point and shoot is lying on the shelf at your local Goodwill and get it developed at Wal-Mart.  Or wherever is cheapest and most convenient.  As with everything, stop making excuses, stop waiting for the time and money to do a thing perfectly and all at once.  There is still a world of affordable, excellent vintage cameras out there for sale online and at your local camera shop.  Be warned, however, the world has finally realized that these will never be made again, that what at the time were basic SLRs are, in fact, incredibly well made examples of mechanical near-perfection.  The better ones are more and more scarce, commanding ever-higher prices.

“THE CIVIL WAR PHOTOGRAPHER MATHEW BRADY HAD TO TRAVEL WITH A MOBILE DARKROOM IN A WAGON.  THE WET PLATE PROCESS WITH WHICH HE WORKED PRODUCED AMAZING NEGATIVES AND AN IRREPLACEABLE RECORD OF THAT BLOODY CONFLICT.”

There is magic in film. There was a cost to each frame and the knowledge of the art had a whiff of sorcery in the arcane terminology, the alchemical smells and precise rituals conducted in dark rooms under red light.  There was a feeling that exposing a frame of film was a little like breaking a pane of glass, a thing that done could never be undone.  Unlike breaking glass, however, the transmutation of film via light and time and chemical reactions is an act of creation and preservation, not destruction.  The actual light reflecting from your subject forever changed the film into something else, burning a brief moment of time into another thing. What was dark and inert became a true record of the light of history.

If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well and in order to know anything well you need to understand the process.  People used to apprentice in order to learn an art or a craft. I have stated this before and I will undoubtedly say it again.  Too many people enter photography because of laziness. They perceive it to be a less demanding entrée to the creative world than, say, blacksmithing, or sculpting marble, or being a novelist.  They put down their money and then find themselves putting down more and more money and still producing images little to no better than the ones they made with their phones. They haunt online forums and sometimes become supercilious gear trolls, making pronouncements about what should or should not be done with this or that lens, and insulting others for a perceived lack of knowledge or talent.  The problem is that photography is not easy. It is easier for everyone who isn’t dragging around wagon-mounted darkroom and preparing collodian wetplates with an occasional Confederate canon ball whizzing overhead but the more convenient equipment doesn’t a photographer make.   There is an innate need in all of us to be better, to do a thing well, to create, and to attempt to explain why and how we are creating. We may not even consciously acknowledge this need but it is there and when we ignore it or deny it we are frustrated as both humans and as artists.

“THE IDEA THAT MATHEW BRADY MIGHT HAVE CHOSEN, OUT OF SOME SENSE OF AUTHENTICITY, TO MAKE COLLODIAN WETPLATES AND DRAG A WAGON THROUGH THE MUCK AND BLOOD OF ANTIETAM AND GETTYSBURG, RATHER THAN CARRY A COUPLE WEATHER-SEALED NIKON D5’S OR CANON 5D MARK IV’S IS LAUGHABLE.  “

The state of being both a human and an artist is frustrating enough anyway, so I would suggest, propose, that if there is a thing you want to do, in this case photography, to stop taking short cuts.   Set out methodically and with a desire to learn. Read everything you can find on the subject. Take your camera out into the world and experiment with it. Take long time exposures. Take a photo of something at every aperture and examine the difference.  Start carrying a notebook and write in it, write everything, thoughts, hopes, short-stories, dreams, ideas, shopping lists, lists of people, destinations, photos you want to take, things you want to do. Take walks with your camera and a friend. Take a trip somewhere, anywhere, with the express intent of taking photos.   Get the cheapest ticket you can find to a city you’ve never been and explore it, talk to people, take their pictures, and send those people their pictures.  Print your photos and arrange them into stories. Think about how images tell stories and how you, in your way, would like to tell stories with them. Stop worrying that you don’t have this camera or that lens.  Learn the process, shoot some film, and make something tangible. Stop worrying that you aren’t good enough because you’re not, none of us are. We should all be trying constantly to improve. But you are good enough to begin, good enough to learn more and to become better.  There is no someday. There is only now. FP

I have come here on a few days free from work to do what I feel perpetually drawn to do: to walk old streets that are new to me; to look around; to see what people are up to. If I should be so lucky, I will capture something special with the camera I bought after my grandfather passed away. Through my growing understanding of photography, I’ve found a medium for the never-ending exploration of my connection to music, to people, to America, to myself.

It is midnight in Vicksburg, and I am falling asleep in a home once rocked by cannonballs blasted from the Mississippi during Grant’s siege. On an upturned newspaper aside the bed, a headline announces a parade in honor of Dr. King a little farther south the next afternoon. At daylight I am cutting through a nearly carless Natchez Trace on Martin Luther King Day, blue chimney smoke rising in the leafless distance. From the radio, the calming voice of the late Reverend Ralph Abernathy, beautifully and painfully recalling his time with our martyred hero. In Natchez, brilliant colors on a bittersweet day. Through my viewfinder, I see the proud high school marching bands, the lovingly adorned floats, hundreds of smiling faces. I am grateful to be surrounded by strangers in a town I’ve never wandered, celebrating the American I admire the most.

In April I am sitting at a lunch table in the town where I was born, shooting a post-beauty-shop portrait of my grandmother at 86. Ora Faye says ” oh lord ” when she sees my camera appear unexpectedly, but is somehow still quick to laugh. The death of her beloved youngest sister a week prior has left her the only remaining child of ten. I love the sound of her name and those of her sister’s born before the Second World War: Nellie, Margorie, Ethel, Mildred, Dorothy, and Bernice. Later that night I’ll look at this portrait in awe of the humanity and kindness emanating from her face. I’ll think about my grandparent’s unfailing generosity that allowed me to buy this camera and how, in doing so, changed my life.

I am merging onto I-55 just east of the dog track and crossing the rusted bridge into Memphis as sunlight streams across the longest river in the United States. I curve south towards the state line with the windows down and big rigs howling. Blocks from the balcony where Dr. King lay slain, I photograph a soul singer on the verge of a worldwide comeback at 74 years old. I tend bar for a living, but through the interconnectivity of the internet, some folks have seen my photographs and ask me to shoot something from time to time. In Memphis I am enamored by the natural light falling across the man’s face, and I feel inspired by such vibrancy of spirit.  My shutter clicks and the singer quietly croons ” I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free. ” His eyes shine and he is clearly channeling something powerful I can’t explain. In the months ahead, I will awake to see these images in the most popular music magazine in the country, the byline reading: ” His voice remains marvelous, even though it’s rarely been recorded in the last four decades.” The man will smile and say “I never stopped singing.”

Time goes by, I travel on, and my collection of photographs grow. A portrait of one of my oldest friends on the eve of moving across the ocean. Gazing at her picture, a flood of memories: the faces of her father and brother, the fading streets of our little hometown. A country churchyard in late spring, Sonny Boy Williamson’s headstone in the shadows of the tree line. Orange Trumpet Blossoms falling from a fading shack along the sun-drenched banks of the drowsy White River. Entire homes swallowed whole by the hot green of summer. A stranger squinting from a field in the Delta city of brotherly love. My neighbor Frankie flashing a smile so pure it almost hurts. Magic everywhere on the entrancingly beautiful longest day of the year. Condemned buildings and generations of history rising up like set pieces in Forrest City, Arkansas and Yazoo City, Mississippi and countless seemingly forgotten communities across the South. I feel drawn to these towns facing railroads, built along rivers, not yet overrun by the short memory and unforgiving homogenization of corporate America. There is a sense of urgency to photograph these fading places where people lived, loved, suffered, and died. An old music hall I visit in the spring has fallen in on itself by the first frost.

” EVENING IS FALLING, AND EVERY DIRECTION I TURN LOOKS THE WAY A LUCINDA WILLIAMS SONG SOUNDS.”

October dawns, and I am winding through the Delta to pay final respects to the bluesmen CeDell Davis in his hometown of Helena, Arkansas. Turning off the highway, I recall taking CeDell’s picture under hot Autumn light one year ago to the day. Looking into his eyes through the back of my camera, I understood in an instant that these photographs would be among the most personally moving and otherworldly pictures I would ever be a part of. In the accompanying magazine article, CeDell told the writer  “When my mama didn’t want me to play when she said I’d die and go to hell, my stepfather told me ‘ You keep playing. You keep doing like you doing. Guys gonna be coming for you, wanting you to play everywhere, take you wild places. ‘ He knowed, I don’t know how, but it sure has come to pass. ”

Gone alas at 91, I feel lucky to be among the friends that have gathered to say goodbye. Jimbo Mathus sings “Hold To God’s Unchanging Hand.” Someone blows “Amazing Grace” through a harp. CeDell Davis is lowered to rest in Magnolia Cemetery next to his old bandleader, Robert Nighthawk. Jimbo says ” another good man done gone on, ”  and I snap a photo of him under a cowboy hat at the bottom of the hill. Dusk lingers and I drink a beer and walk down Cherry Street as black and white folks laugh on the sidewalks of a uniquely beautiful town with a lot of heart. I take a picture of the collapsing brick building where CeDell heard Robert Johnson play as a child. On the drive back to Little Rock and in the glow of the radio, an anguished DJ bids Tom Petty farewell. Back in my apartment, I recreate the day in my head and stare at the photographs in quiet disbelief. FP

Follow Matt on Instagram @MattyWhite17

ALL IMAGES © Matt White published here with permission 2019

“ALMOST AS SOON AS WE ARRIVED IN MUMBAI I STARTED LOOKING INTO THE LOGISTICS OF PLANNING A TRIP TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD.”

In 2015 my wife and I found ourselves living in Mumbai, India working at the U.S. Consulate there for two years.  We were in our late twenties and early thirties, in pretty decent shape, and didn’t have kids. It was the perfect opportunity to make my dream a reality!  Almost as soon as we arrived in Mumbai I started looking into the logistics of planning a trip to the top of the world. Not only were we close to Nepal, I had plenty of vacation time to squeeze in the 19 day trip, and I had a friend living and working in Nepal who set us up with a reputable Sherpa.  We locked down our dates and put down a deposit. My dream of following in the footsteps of famous mountaineers like Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay was coming to fruition.

Though it was still over 6 months till we set foot in the Himalayas it was time to start preparing for the trek.  One of the biggest concerns that we had about trekking up to 18,500 feet was the prospect of getting struck down by altitude sickness and needing to turn around.  Our Sherpa assured us that we would move slowly enough and adjust our itinerary if either of us was exhibiting potential symptoms, but we wanted to do everything we could to prepare our bodies for walking uphill for several hours a day, for 9 days, at extreme altitude.  

Living in a mega-city choked with pollution isn’t exactly the best place to train for a high-altitude hike but we had to work with what we had.  We decided to focus on strengthening our legs and improving our cardiovascular ability. My wife and I got into a regular routine of running one to five miles, three days per week.  On top of that we started doing Crossfit and high intensity interval workouts two to three times per week. These workouts helped us get stronger, strengthened our cores and helped us make big gains in our cardiovascular abilities.  

There were a few small mountains in the countryside just outside of Mumbai.  Trekking on these hills was great for training and a great way for us to escape from the bustling city.  When we didn’t want to battle the horrendous traffic and pot-hole filled roads to get out of the city, we had to get creative to train at home.  Most weekend mornings leading up to the trek were spent walking up and down the 12 flights of stairs that made up the central stairwell of our apartment building.  When we started to feel good doing 5-10 rounds up and down the stairwell, we started doing it with our backpacks on, weighted down with books. Most people overlook the need to train for walking downhill, but while you have to walk uphill about 25 miles, you also have to walk back downhill, to where you begin the trek.  While walking downhill isn’t as strenuous, it can be punishing on your knees and exerts your muscles differently from walking uphill. It would’ve been easier to take the elevator back down to the lobby every time we reached the top floor but it was very important to training walking downstairs too. It certainly wasn’t pleasant trudging up and down 12 flights of stairs for over an hour in an internal, unairconditioned, stairwell in the scorching hot Indian summer heat, but every step we took in training would pay dividends on the trail.

One of the most exciting parts about preparing for our trip to Everest was shopping for all of the gear that we were going to need.  The weather in the mountains can change in an instant and can be as extreme as the altitude. Much like our fitness preparations, we didn’t want to leave anything to chance, so we opted to buy the best gear we could get our hands on.  The most important piece of kit for a multi-day trek in the mountains is a good pair of boots. We both opted for the Salomon Quest 4D3 GTX boots.  Salomon did a great job on this boot combining the best elements of a running shoe and a hiking boot to make this “light hiker.”  The boots held up great and kept our feet comfortable on miles of trail in rain, sleet, and snow.

The other main piece of kit that you want to be comfortable with is your backpack.  We did a lot of research on our favorite gear websites and both ended up getting the Deuter ACT Trail 30.  At 30 liters it was the perfect size for a daypack that could carry snacks, camera equipment, valuables, and wet weather gear.  The integrated camel back bladder meant we didn’t have to fumble around with opening and closing our Nalgene bottles while we were on the trail and the included rain cover kept all of our possessions dry.  Not only did the backpack perform great during the trek to EBC, it has since become my go-to backpack for all of my travels and trekking.

Since we were planning on investing a lot of money on our gear, we wanted to buy gear that would last a long time and be just as capable in the Himalayas as it was comfortable and fashionable in Washington, DC.  Layering is the name of the game in the mountains so that you can quickly adjust to changing weather conditions and stay warm when it gets cold. We layered up throughout the trek with base layers, sweaters, fleece jackets, down jackets as well as hard-shell jackets and pants for when the weather got truly wet and cold.  While I opted for mostly Patagonia clothing, my wife relied on Columbia and North Face. All of it performed great. While it was important to have clothing that was purpose-built to be worn in the elements, we didn’t notice a significant difference in the performance of the cheaper clothing versus the more expensive clothing.  Our much cheaper Eastern Mountain Sports branded hiking pants performed just as well as the more expensive one from Patagonia.

“THOUGH IT WAS STILL OVER 6 MONTHS TILL WE STEPPED FOOT IN THE HIMALAYAS IT WAS TIME TO START PREPARING FOR OUR TREK.  ONE OF THE BIGGEST CONCERNS THAT WE HAD ABOUT TREKKING UP TO 18,500 FEET WAS THE PROSPECT OF GETTING STRUCK DOWN BY ALTITUDE SICKNESS”

The higher up you get along the trail to Everest Base Camp, the scarcer and more expensive electricity to charge your various devices becomes.  In order to keep all of our devices powered up we both got Anker Powercore 10000maH battery packs.  These worked great, and while we used them almost every night to keep our phones and cameras charged, our powerpacks never ran out of juice.  

One of the best pieces of kit that I bought was the Peak Design CapturePRO Camera Clip.  I searched exhaustively for a solution that would allow me to keep my camera handy, but not hanging from a strap around my neck all day, every day.  The CapturePRO Camera Clip clipped onto my backpack strap right around my right hip and worked perfectly. I used a paracord wrist strap on the camera, and when I wasn’t using the camera, I kept the camera clipped to a carabiner secured to the strap on the backpack.  The camera was secure but always accessible and was out of the way when I didn’t want to use it. The rig worked great throughout the trek and proved to be extremely functional.

“MOST WEEKEND MORNINGS LEADING UP TO THE TREK WERE SPENT WALKING UP AND DOWN THE 12 FLIGHTS OF STAIRS THAT MADE UP THE CENTRAL STAIRWELL OF OUR APARTMENT BUILDING.  WHEN WE STARTED TO FEEL GOOD DOING 5-10 ROUNDS UP AND DOWN THE STAIRWELL, WE STARTED DOING IT WITH OUR BACKPACKS ON, WEIGHTED DOWN WITH BOOKS.”

When it finally came time to head off to Nepal we were both in excellent shape and had spent probably as much money on kit as we had on the trip itself.  All of our preparations paid off when, 9 days after flying into Lukla, we made it to Everest Base Camp. The morning after making it to Everest Base Camp we hiked to the summit of Kala Patthar at 18,500 feet to watch the sun rise over Mount Everest.  

It was an experience that we will never forget. We stayed happy and healthy, and all of our gear and clothing ensured that we stayed comfortable from head to toe throughout the trek. FP

PHOTOS & STORY FROM  CHRISTOPHER URBAN © 

“THERE IS A SORT OF MENTAL ILLNESS AMONG DSLR USERS THAT PREVENTS THEM FROM USING A SINGLE PRIME LENS.”

20mm is a focal length generally defined as being on the edge of, “ultra-wide,” and I think this is fair.  I don’t believe there is any official governing board or regulatory agency of wide-angle lenses to declare things officially ultra or otherwise.  These categories are somewhat amorphous but have utility nonetheless. Is a 35mm lens within the “normal” lens family or is 40mm the wide end of normal?  Is 60mm “normal” or is it a wide portrait lens? Is 20mm at the narrow end of ultra-wide or the widest point of everyday wide? How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?  All of these things make for interesting discussions but they don’t alter the essential nature of optics or the divine.

Any wide lens can be a tricky beast to manage.  Used incorrectly the photographer can introduce distortions or, worse, simply render a flat and faraway scene.  The wider one gets the more this tends to be true and the 20mm f/2.8 Nikkor is no exception. This is not a lens for the timid.  Used in almost any context other than as a landscape lens, you need to be right up in the action. Even as a landscape lens objects generally need to be put into the foreground.  

People often mistake ultra wide angle lenses as some sort of primitive substitute for a panoramic camera.  You can use them like this if you want to take stunningly boring pictures of mountains that look very far away.  Robert Capa may have admonished us to get closer but he was using a 50mm. To really give depth to a scene with the 20mm — to compose various objects and people at different distances within a scene — you usually need to be a foot or two away from the closest subjects (or 10 inches, the minimum focus distance for the 20mm f/2.8).  This takes some practice as well as a bit of steel. It is, in this, that you test the boundaries of your comfort, your subject’s comfort, and your own personal charm. I most commonly used this lens on its Nikon in concert with a 50mm lens on a rangefinder. I would begin a little further out with the rangefinder then, having established a connection with my subjects, move in closer with the 20mm.  Even the friendliest people can become unnerved with a lens right up in their faces. Frankly, almost everybody is unnerved by a lens placed 10 inches from their faces but if you spend a few moments establishing a rapport you’re much less likely to get punched in yours.

I have worked like that for years as a documentary photographer.  First with the 20mm f/2.8 MF Nikkor on a Nikon F3 or FM and a 50mm f/2 Summicron on a Leica M6ttl.  Today, in a more digital world, I do pretty much the same only with the 20mm f/2.8 AF Nikkor on a Nikon D800 and a 50mm Zeiss Planar ZM on a Leica M-P.  I have other lenses for both cameras but this particular set up seems to function very well for a certain type of work. I use these two cameras when I am in the middle of a scene, working the normal lens with the ultra-wide in concert with my feet, moving in and out, circling around, getting low, getting up above.  From a few feet away, right in the middle of a crowd, I can take a portrait with the 50mm and then capture a good portion of the scene with the 20mm without moving backwards.

“PEOPLE OFTEN MISTAKE ULTRA WIDE ANGLE LENSES AS SOME SORT OF PRIMITIVE SUBSTITUTE FOR A PANORAMIC CAMERA.  YOU CAN USE THEM LIKE THIS IF YOU WANT TO TAKE STUNNINGLY BORING PICTURES OF MOUNTAINS THAT LOOK VERY FAR AWAY.”

One thing I love about this 20mm lens, is that despite being an older design, I find it draws in a natural way.  It is clean, very sharp, and contrasty, delivering a high level of detail without being clinical. It begs to be used right in the middle of the action and its images make you feel like you are right in the middle of things.  It is a lens that doesn’t lie and has a certain indefinable charm. You can even use this lens for certain types of environmental portraiture. If you are careful to step back a bit and keep the subject and camera more or less on the same plane, there is very little distortion until the edges of the frame.  In other words, a person, placed near the center of the frame, and not too close, will be rendered in a natural manner that includes a fair bit of their surroundings.

The manual version of this lens, the AI-s, was introduced in 1984 and the current AF-D version in 1994.  In other words, this lens is somewhat Paleolithic. You can pick one up for a little under $500 but there is also a more modern 20mm f/1.8G Nikkor lens which, for around $800, gives you undeniably improved sharpness, less falloff and more than a full stop of speed.  Sigma also sells a 20mm f/1.4 lens for around $900 offering two full stops of speed over the older Nikkor and, by most accounts, incredible performance. Keep in mind, however, that both these faster, more modern lenses, in addition to costing more, are considerably larger and heavier.

The 20mm f/2.8 contains 12 elements in 9 groups and uses a 62mm filter.  It is small and weighs very little and thus provides the photographer the option of an excellent, ultra-wide lens that takes up very little space in a bag.  The 20mm f/2.8 Nikkor doesn’t have the absolute perfection of its faster, larger, more modern brother, but I maintain that it has a unique visual signature that, to my eye, makes me feel more in and of the scene.  Counterintuitively, I think the older lens, not quite as razor sharp, with a little more vignetting wide-open, ends up delivering an image of greater verité.

Keep in mind, however, that this lens is of the older auto-focus system that needs a camera with an focusing motor in the camera body.  Nikon’s lower-end models will not, therefore, auto-focus with this lens. On pro and prosumer bodies, however, the lens focuses without issue and is, indeed, very, very fast.  Keep in mind, as well, that this lens’ smaller size gives you benefits beyond mere weight and camera bag real estate. DSLRs, particulalrly full frame DSLRs, are big, heavy, and rather obtrusive.  Sometime, if you get a chance, pick up a Nikon FM/FM2/FE etc. Minus the prism at the top, these cameras are almost identical in size to a Leica of the same vintage.

Single lens reflex cameras are having something of a crisis as of late.  Their newer, shinier, ever more smart-phone-like mirrorless cousins are taking an increasing amount of market share which has led too many hacks to pronounce the SLR’s imminent death.  I will maintain, however, that it isn’t the essence of the SLR itself that is the problem. In fact, the experience of looking optically through the lens that takes the picture cannot be replicated by electronic means. It is not antiquated simply because it was invented a long time ago.  To the contrary, it is a brilliant technology that has endured because of how perfect it is. The essential problem is that camera manufacturers are unable or unwilling to design digital SLRs with the mechanical elegance and pure function of their ancestors from the 1970s and 1980s. This is what has seriously hurt the DSLR’s market share, not the fallacious notion that the technology itself is inherently flawed.  

Nikon makes many incredible DSLR’s but they are all too large (at least the full frame models).  One way to mitigate this is to use small prime lenses.  Even a D3 was almost fun to use when mounted with a 50mm f/1.8 and when you take a pro f/2.8 zoom off your D800 in exchange for a prime there is a (brief) moment when you feel almost stealthy.

There is a sort of mental illness among DSLR users that prevents them from using a single prime lens.  Far too few people can even limit themselves to a single zoom like the incredible 24-70 f/2.8 Nikkor. A D800 with a 24-70 would cover almost any normal situation in a large but, by itself, manageble package.  Yet it seems like DSLR users have been convinced that not carrying everything is a sin against the ethics of DSLR ownership. I will remind you that no one is watching. There is no regulatory agency concerned with how many lenses you carry.  No one would question a Leica user for only carrying a single lens. In fact, that person would be praised for their purity and dedication. DSLR users seem to panic at the thought of carrying less than two zooms, a prime, and a flash unit. I will argue that the experience of combining the purity of a prime lens or two (or maybe three) with the optical purity of the SLR’s operating system is a joy that should not be overlooked in favor of the often joyless electro-digital wizardry of mirrorless (non-rangefinder) world.

I think it is time to rediscover what a technological and tactile joy it can be using an SLR.  It is also time for camera manufacturers to develop the next generation of SLRs. The technology is mature and now it is time to perfect the ergonomics.  Make models that are smaller, models with manual controls, models with the finely machined elegance of a Leica or of the SLRs of 30 years ago. When you buy a full frame Nikon DSLR (or film body for that matter).  Drop that machine into your Domke bag with a 50mm (maybe an 85mm) and a wide angle. If you follow this path then the 20mm f/2.8 Nikkor should be a serious contender for your wide-angle optic. FP

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All Images © A. Tonn

It’s easy to crank out an insulation piece these days, with many brands having their own take on synthetic insulation that allows them to market the product as their version of Primaloft. Of course we’ve yet to find any of these that offer the performance of Primaloft, so these rarely win us over. I was happy to find Aether not only uses Primaloft, but uses Primaloft gold, an upgraded performance spec version of Primaloft. Primaloft breaths better than any other synthetic, it’s water resistant, maintains retains up to 96% of it’s warmth and insulting ability when wet, provides superior warmth without bulk, it’s packable and Primaloft Gold is also surprisingly lightweight. The Shelter hoodie’s microfiber ripstop shell/liner may not Pertex, but in testing we didn’t tear it, snag it or even find any areas of wear. It held up remarkable well, with no signs of it ever having even been used after months of wear.

“…IT LACKS A STUFF POCKET, WHICH IS FAIRLY STANDARD ON COMPARABLE MID-LAYER OR PRIMALOFT PIECES. IT’S ALSO MISSING THE SEAM TAPE WE LIKE TO SEE BEHIND THE FRONT ZIPPER…”

It doesn’t seem to come with any DWR treatment, this is a pretty big oversight, however I didn’t see anywhere on the Aether site where they claim it has a DWR finish, so it’s excusable as a DWR treatment is simple to do yourself. The fabric itself seemed to have moderate water resistance regardless of the fact it’s not DWR treated, and because Aether choose to use Primaloft Gold the piece did well fighting the wind. I was concerned about warmth and wind resistance with Aether only putting 60 grams of insulation in the Shelter, but Primaloft has come a long way in recent years and I found 60 grams of Gold to be enough on most days where the temp was going down into the teens. NOTE: I wore this mostly as a mid layer on these super cold days, with a canvas or leather jacket over. 

So the Shelter hoodie preforms well in the cold. But it is missing some important features, it lacks a stuff pocket, which is fairly standard on comparable mid-layer or Primaloft pieces. It’s also missing the seam tape we like to see behind the front zipper, which keeps the fabric from getting caught in that zip. And then there’s the Lycra cuffs and hood trim, yuck. I’d have rather seen nicer trim of the same fabric they used for the rest of the piece. Lycra is better than some of the cheaper substitutes, but it’s going to show wear and not hold up as well with time as real fabric trim would.

“THE SHELTER HOODIE FROM AETHER IS A SERIOUS PERFORMANCE MID-LAYER BUILT FOR THOSE WHO NEED A ULTRA LIGHT PIECE WITHOUT COMPROMISING WARMTH.”

These details seem like big oversights in a $265 mid-layer, even more so when you look at the details they got right. The Small and tight reverse coil zippers, these decreasing your chance at breaking off chunky plastic teeth or catching the fabric, they gave us a garage on the top of the from zip to keep you chin/beard safe from rubbing or digging and front draw cords for the hood. And then there’s the biggest win, 60 grams of PrimaLoft Gold insulation. This is really what it’s all about, and the biggest reason this and other brands pieces like it have seen a price jump in the past 5 yrs. Mid-layer Primaloft hoodies are a standard product nearly every outdoor preference bran has in their lineup. And 5-6 yrs ago these pieces ran around $180-220 depending on details and which brand you went with. Now they seem to be starting around $220 and going as high as $300-350. So while I find $265 for a Primaloft piece to be high, it’s actually on the middle end of the market right now and it does feature Primaloft Gold, which although much better than just about anything else, we’re seeing less and less in the industry. In fact, more and more what we see is brands moving towards the much heavier and less warm recycled Primaloft, or the even worse recycled plastic bottle insolation, which I first noticed brands using for fleece about 6-7 years ago.

The plastic bottle stuffing, in case you’ve not heard of this, is when they take plastic from sources like milk cartons or pop bottles and recycle them  using this recycled material to make fleeces and recycled insulations. The fleeces fail to hold up well with time and I’ve even seen them melt in home dryers or when left in hot location such as a car. They same can happen with your recycled insolation pieces. Which eliminates one of the major benefits of using synthetic over down (this being the ability to wash and dry at home with ease rather than hand wash with care and hang dry like you must do with down). So Aether using Primaloft Gold gets them high marks, as it’s very likely the absolute best synthetic insulation out there.

The fit is very trim. Not super skinny, but trim. And although is was actually way too small for me in a size L, I still was able to move around some and felt less constricted than in the Patagonia down hoodie, which actually fit me better overall. The stitching is good, with it being reenforced in multiple areas that will see stress and although theres no reinforcement in the shoulders, I didn’t have any wear showing up on the stitching or fabric after walking around with a pack or camera bag. So high marks there as well. The hood is not helmet compatible, but because of the fit you’re able to tuck the hood in the helmet without any fuss and it didn’t seem to get in the way. Although this means it’s not going to be easy to drop the hood while climbing and it could restrict your movement some.

Overall the Aether hoodie is a winner. It’s not the least expensive mid-layer out there, but it’s also far from the most expensive. It’s ultra light, making it barely noticeable in a pack. even though the industry is raising it’s prices on Primaloft pieces, $265 is still too high in my opinion with it’s oversights. It’s cut well, with good to great stitching and it’s easy for me to get on and off. But best of all it kept me warm in some seriously cold weather.

Serious warmth in a series hoodie, with a clean cut, high end Primaloft Gold insolation and only a few missteps. $265 is pricey, but it’s built well and weighs less than anything else I’ve found in it’s class. The Shelter hoodie from Aether is a serious performance mid-layer built for those who need a ultra light piece without compromising warmth.  8/10. FP

Don’t forget you can win this awesome piece this month! Details can be found right here!

Rating Notes: I took off two points for a few things that really bugged me, the trim on the hood and cuffs, the lack of seam tape and no stuff pocket. All of these would be hard to forgive if this was a heavy weight coat, feather than an ultra light mid-layer that can be worn by itself. 

In Sevierville Tenn, just a couple hours from Nashville was sitting a 1959 CJ-5, the price was right, the engine had just been rebuilt and it was surprisingly free of visible rust and damage, showing no signs of ever having lived a life off-road, it even came already equipped with manually locking hubs. This would be the perfect starting point for me to build the classic Jeep I’d always wanted….

I headed down to Nashville to visit my lifelong friend Cullen Marriott, and from there the two of us took off to go meet up with the CJ’s owner, Dan. After thoroughly checking over the Jeep and getting some of its history, as well as documentation on work done to it, and a short test drive we shook hands and swapped paperwork for cash. Getting home to Columbus was a simple matter of finding a good transport and once it was here the fun would begin. Getting the CJ painted, a few upgrades, some small modifications here and there, lighting, winch, new wheels and matching tires and I’d be on the trail.

After it arrived and my Dad and I had a few test drives, as well as a more thorough inspection, it was clear there was a lot more work to be done than first appeared. The engine was rebuilt because of compression loss according to the paperwork, an issue we are still having. The steering components were loose, pedals crooked and wires I hadn’t noticed before were hanging loose. I also found out thanks to Grove Cities finest, that my rear lights stopped working, even though they were hooked up correctly. Thankfully the officers were kind enough not to worry much about it, and truth be told, I think they were more interested in the CJ! I’ve actually been pulled over twice just to talk about the Jeep!

Then there was the paint job. Not a huge concern of mine when buying the CJ, because I’d already planned on painting it a different color. But when I started sanding away some of the divots, I found rust and poorly done Bondo work. When the Jeep was “restored” prior to Dan’s purchasing it, they shop just quickly painted over the old color with some tractor paint. Any chips, divots, rusty or worn spots, were simply painted over. So underneath these spots, there was rust forming in pockets all along the fenders and side. The gas cans were also mounted on the sides, and had been rubbing against the paint, so there was rust eating away the bare metal. None of the gauges worked, so when I drove it around I was shining a flashlight into the tank to check the fuel level… This gets a few laughs at the pumps.

The list goes on, and we’re still finding things as we get into it more. But it was still a great starting platform. The body and frame are solid, the engine runs well and has been completely rebuilt. It’s pretty cool to be driving around talking to other Jeepers with an original engine in a 1959 Jeep. Many do an engine swap and I, for now at least, want to keep this original.

So where do we start? After running around town, we got a better idea of what we needed to address before it was trail worthy. These are things on top of any modification I wanted to make. A few days ago we started pulling it apart, cleaning it up, getting the inside painted first, and working our way out. Getting out all the uncomfortable MilSpec seats, removing the jerry cans and mounts off the sides, so we don’t bang them on every tree on the trail, and getting new seats installed.

Getting the seats installed is tricky, although many say they bolt in, none of them really are in a ’59. The MilSpec seats are cushions and frames all in one. So when you pull the seat, you have no frame and no mount. And frames are $100+ each with no clear idea of which one you need for an old CJ-5. I called up multiple seating companies, no one had any idea which frames were needed for any of their seats. So my Father, being who he is, came up with a workable, and awesome, solution. Build em.

While he’s fabricating seat frames, I’ve been stripping it and cleaning it. Using a Bosche orbital sander with P60 grit paper and a grinder with paint removal wheels, to get down to the bare metal where necessary and clean it up. Where it isn’t essential, I’m just smoothing it out, so the next paint job looks a lot better (we hope). This work has taken the better part of two work days, and we still have work to do. Getting the Bondo work fixed, cleaning out the surface rust, some of it starting to eat away metal, and fabrication is all taking longer than we estimated going into it. But this time, the restoration is being done right. A steady stream of parts are coming in, replacement lighting, new grill bar, old-school light guards and the new seats all have to wait until we get the bodywork done, frames built and installed and the whole thing painted.

It’s going to be a lot of work, but when this Father/Son project is done, we’ll be bombing down the trail is a fully restored and modified 1959 CJ-5 that’ll be the classic Jeep I’ve always wanted. FP