Confessions of a Weekend Warrior: National Park Stories

Rick Barry
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forum.pickupartist.ro/Sources/torrance/3760-ligar-chicas.php I have spent perhaps the most beautiful days of my life exploring the area around Lyngseidet, in the north of Norway. I had never been in the Arctic, and I was expecting merciless cold and thick darkness. Found neither: the full moon reflecting on the snow and the sun teasing from below the horizon gave enough light to take good photographs, and the clothes I got were so warm that the cold and the wind were soon forgotten.

I had already heard locals talking about their lands, and got very curious by the fact that in their stories the mountain was a vivid presence.

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Like a person, something alive. A sort of spirit. For centuries people here have lived and died at the foot of the mountain, depending on the weather, adjusting their daily life according to the elements. If you want to survive, you will have to adjust to the world, not the other way around. There is no escape, there is no mercy. And yes, the mountain does call you, to show you how magic nature can be.

Confessions of a Weekend Warrior

It shows you the slow relentless passage of time through the rocks split by the ice. It shows you its silent strength through the cracks over the icy surface of the sea, broken by the tide.

WEEKEND WARRIOR, (THE STORY) G VERSION OF WHAT HAPPENED

It shows you all the shades of pink through the clouds in the sky. It shows you its rage, by smacking the ground with the sharp wind. It shows you the spirit of the ancient gods, evoked by the northern lights. So when I had a walk at the daily market during my Christmas holidays in south of Italy, I felt a bit like a tourist. I had forgotten about all the different colours, noises and perfumes.

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The genuine feeling of buying fresh fish, still alive. The farmers offering you a taste of fruit. The smell of the cheese stalls. The sacks of local almonds. The boys yelling. How much per kilo. Counting your coins. I returned back home with plenty of photos and a bag full of mussels and clams. What a great meal we had.

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We had a stroll among the remains of the glorious Danish air force, stepping cautiously on broken glasses and rotten beams. I took some photos to show you how time has turned the site into a powerful image of vandalism. I spent some beautiful days in Milan last week. This is what Milan gave me. I wanted to improve my street photography skills, and show things as I was experiencing them.

Here you can see some photos I took with my invisible compact camera. In the warm south of Europe the dominant colour is yellow. The colour of sun and wheat. It looks like a soft sponge that you can squeeze. In some other areas, like in Sicily, the most common rock is yellow marble.

When we think about wedding photographs our mind goes to the main events of the day: the ceremony, the cake, the portraits. Between these big moments though, there are small elements that are as relevant, and there is one thing that a good wedding photographer should never overlook: the details. Shooting weddings is stressful, there is so much going on in one day.

But months and months of planning go into that single day, and capturing all the aspects of it becomes crucial. Yes, even the place cards at the table. Many wedding photographers for example take lots of photos of the bride's dress, and then they neglect the shoes.

If we try so see things from the bride's point of view, we'll soon understand the importance of details: she has carefully chosen her shoes among many, because of their fabric, colour, whatever. She wants to remember them. And yes of course she will have hundreds of photos with her shoes on, but a photo of the shoes before she even wears them will preserve their memory forever: it will be like the first time she saw them. I went there last weekend to take photos of the Renaissance Festival, where the castle gets crowded by knights, merchants, blacksmiths and jesters.

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It was a cold rainy day, the kind of cold rainy day you can experience in Northern Europe in mid October. So at the end of the day I went home shaking and with a bad cold. Someone says traveling is that thing that leaves you speechless and then turns you into a storyteller. Has anything changed in your life? Am I right? Confessor: You have to quit the porn. I want to stop. Can you walk away from situations where you see it? Ask Mary for help? Do you know the prayer to St. Michael the Archangel? Look up the prayer to St. Michael the Archangel and pray it. Meditate upon it.

Now make a good act of contrition. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin. Confessor: Go in peace. Narrator: This is only one example of confession. This penitent is looking for spiritual direction, especially if he always goes to the same priest, who know s him well. Second Scene. It has been one week since my last confession. When I get mad she stays away. You have no control over the situation.

Prayer is really your only recourse. Pray for yourself. Pray that you can think clearly and influence her wisely.

Pray for her that she will see what she is doing and step away from it. Pray for help, for intervention.

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Perhaps in prayer, you will think of someone or some way to help her. I will pray for you two, too. For a thousand years or more the phenomenon has been known, but it was just in that scientists announced the definitive explanation for the odd phenomenon. The sound is generated by sheer stress—collisions between grains of sand that causes the motions of the individual grains to become synchronized and ultimately lead to the dune resonating like the cone of an audio speaker.

One late spring morning, I left my house at about 3 a. My chosen excuse for visiting Kelso Dunes that morning was photography.

Full moon rising over the Granite Mountains, The light during the hour of the pearl is what usually drives my photography. As an added bonus, once in a while I might even get the perfect photograph out of it. But the photograph was just an excuse; it was the experience that actually counted most. After exiting Highway 40 and heading north on Kelbaker Road, I saw the full moon rising to the east over the Granite Mountains and quickly pulled over on the side of the road.

Fumbling in the dark to attach my camera to the bulky tripod and adjust the settings to compensate for the extremely low light, I found time to make several quick exposures of the moon before the light and the mood changed.

This very brief session resulted in one spectacular photograph that summed up why I go to the wilderness. I had come to the desert for one specific purpose—to photograph the dunes during morning twilight—and had already stumbled upon an unexpected surprise that made the entire trip worthwhile. At this point I could have turned around and returned home right then and there and been completely satisfied. I pushed on towards Kelso Dunes. I wanted more. Hiking through sand dunes is an arduous task. You use muscles not meant to be used for a task as simple as walking.

Working my way out to the northeast, I already knew that my two or three hours in the dunes would leave my calves sore for many days. But it was well worth it. As I wandered my way through the magnificent dune system, generally heading towards the high point but not following any particular path—because there were no actual paths—I focused my camera on a variety of scenes which together captured the essence of the dunes, from close-up shots of wind-sculpted ripples where individual grains were visible, to wide-open shots where the graceful curves of the dunes illustrated the grand scale of this other-worldly landscape.