Imaginary Conversations about Landscapes
I have an embarrassing habit. Often, as I drive alone through the forests and mountains of rural Arkansas in search of a good shot, I have conversations in my head. More often than not, my conversations are with landscape photographers from the handful of YouTube channels I follow. What would Nigel Danson or Thomas Heaton see in the cluttered, verdant woodlands of the Ouachitas? How would James Popsys approach the “human element” of old barns falling in on themselves under rusting tin roofs? Could Mads Peter Iverson find an epic vista among our old, worn mountain ridges and pinched hollows?
They ask me questions about the way a certain native tree grows in a strange and beautiful way, or about the subtle yet fundamental differences between the Ouachitas and the Ozarks. I make polite warnings to them about chiggers, ticks, and the paramount importance of strategic deet coverage. We chat about Arkansas’ natural history, political history, geography, and local culture. I list all the hole-in-the-wall cafes, diners, and dairy bars that they absolutely must try.
It’s silly. I know.
The thing is, I want them to see what I see. I want to share this wonder with them. I need them to get to know the quirky, wondrous beauty of my home state, inside and out, warts and all.
It was on one of these drives through the eastern edge of the Ouachita National Forest that I was having such a conversation with my imaginary friends. I’d driven the road to Flatside Pinnacle more times than I can remember, often as a quick photo excursion out of Little Rock, or sometimes as a lazy Sunday drive with my wife, Carmen. The Flatside Wilderness is a hidden gem of central Arkasas, and I’ve found some of my favorite shots there. Scenes from low on the forest floor, or of an intimate woodland landscape on the side of the road, or stunning Tolkienesque mountain views that I come back to again and again.
As I drove, chatting away with one fictive photographer or another, I found myself highlighting familiar spots along the way.
“This is where I parked last Spring to take a photo of some trees that looked interesting from the road. I didn’t get a good shot of the trees, but I was lucky enough to find a luna moth on the side of the path as if it had been put there just for me to see. It felt like I’d been given a little gift by the forest.”
I realized just how many memories this relatively short piece of rough road has for me. Big memories about the simple getaways and excursions I’ve taken out there over the past few years.
“My friend George and I brought our kids up here to Flatside late one Summer’s night to see the Milky Way. It’s surprising how cool the breeze is up on the ridge at midnight, even when it had been in the upper nineties earlier that day. It was so peaceful and dark. I think George even got in a quiet nap on the cliffside while the kids played on their phones, and I snapped away at the stars.”
I chatted away about the smallest features of the creeks, roads, and forest, like the whorls of a fingerprint that identify this place. The stones, the creeks, the potholes, and the pull-offs.
“Right up the way here, there’s a big toothy rock that juts up from the road, aimed straight at your front axle. It startles me every time when I get to it, even though I always know it’s coming.”
The voice of my dad took over and played out in my head as I answered questions that nobody asked about how the world works here on the larger scale of economies and monied interests.
“All these rows of pines are big business here in Arkansas. Logging companies lease the land from the federal government to harvest and replant pines in big sections through the woods here. Ya know, a lot of people think the Department of Interior manages all this National Forest land. But this is all Department of Agriculture. Ain’t that somethin’?!“
I switch back to my own voice: the collegial voice of a fellow photographer.
“You can really see the division of the forest from a drone. The contrast between the natural forest and the orderly rows of managed pine trees makes for a striking composition. From the ground level, it’s always kind of shocking to drive for miles through old forest and then suddenly come into a big, empty opening of the clear-cut destruction of a pine farm. I always feel like there’s some kind of photo in that harsh contrast of what’s still a forest and what’s just stumps, mud, and brambles. I haven’t been able to make it work so far, though.”
Sometimes the conversation veers excitedly to the fantastic.
“I once saw an Arkansas chocolate tarantula just strolling across the road here. I know! I’d never heard of one either. Had to look it up when I got back into cell service.”
…
“See all those little glints of light shining on the road as we drive? That’s all tiny chunks of quartz crystal. These mountains are covered in it. There are spots where, after a good rain, you can find perfectly clear crystal points as big as your thumb, just laying there on path.”
And then back to a reflective, almost sentimental account of the character of the forest in time.
“This loping section of the road is really dynamic for such a short little stretch. In the Fall, it’s a tunnel of warm color with all the changing leaves. In Spring, it’s dotted with white dogwoods framed in redbuds and yellow jessamine. I’ve seen it dark and moody, covered in Winter fog, and dreamily radiant on a cloudless Summer afternoon.”
I carry on these little imagined dialogs all the time. Usually as I’m driving way out to search for … something in those woods. Sometimes though, it’s conversations on the way to the work in the morning or to the grocery store in the evening.
But on this trip through the Flatside Wilderness, it struck me. All those stories, all those memories — the way a rock sits on the road; how a tree bends off a ridge; the surprise of seeing something wild, even among that wilderness — that was how I knew the place through my photography. It’s how I’ve found meaning in a small, quiet place that rarely gets seen or even thought about. Stories, memories, connections: they blossom up from the trees and the rocks every time I return to that magical forest or wise waterfall, tired old mountaintop or inscrutable swamp. It’s those connections that give a photo meaning and significance for me. And it’s those stories that I’m compelled to share through photos.
That was the big takeaway for me. I’ve been spending at least as much time lately thinking of why a photograph seems to mean something as I have thinking of how to get meaning through composition and editing. I realized on that drive that these conversations in my head are a way for me know my photography and to unravel that thread of meaning a little bit at a time.
A Postscript
I invite you to come to Arkansas*.
If you like this piece, if it inspires you even a little, then please consider it my open invitation to you to come visit. Explore the intimate, stunning beauty of the Ozarks and the Ouachitas. Get to know the Grand Prairie and the Delta, with their tired buildings, deep bayous and wide farmlands. Get your toes wet in our creeks and rivers. Come and see our stories and hear our music. From the fantastic luxury of our world-class state parks to the rugged quiet off the grid, I invite you to find your own meaning and create your own stories here in the Natural State.
And let me know if you’re coming. I can point you to some places that are unlike anything you’ll find in a tour guide. Heck, I might even drive you to some of my favorite spots, if you can stand listening to me go on about the time I saw a softshell turtle the size of a manhole cover or how adept chiggers are at getting past your best defenses.
*Even if you don’t have a smashingly popular YouTube channel. ;)
