The owner-editor of Nebraska Life Magazine called me the other night. It’s been years since we’ve chatted, and I can’t remember how long ago he moved his family from Nebraska.
His publishing company produces slick travel magazines featuring local people, places, and things to do, accompanied by superb photography. So, the magazines are not tossed at the end of the tourist season but are held from one year to the next.
A quick catch-up brought me up to speed, sharing that Flagship Publishing quickly grew from covering Nebraska to Colorado and Utah, and Maui.
The editor came to the point right away. “Would you be willing to shoot a few pictures for an upcoming article in the Nebraska Life Magazine?”
“Ah.” I stumbled, surprised by his request. “Sure, but I no longer have a standard camera. My DSLR was long replaced by my phone.” He probably wants a referral photographer. I doubted he wanted my images. “Do you want me to find another photographer in this area?”
“That won’t be necessary. I like your work. I’ll send you the article.” He said.
Later that evening, the story arrived in my email box.
Pleasant enough. I may already have some pictures to support the story.
It’s a slice-of-life story about an older couple driving from Iowa to Northwest Nebraska via the old highway. Their destination is prompted by the passenger, Dennis, whose ashes they’ve had in their home for over 12 years. Dennis wants his ashes spread at his favorite hunting spot in the Panhandle of Nebraska, along the Pine Ridge National Forest.
Here are my stomping grounds, where I roam with my phone camera, shooting images of wildlife and surrounding land.
Yes, I can do this, I tell myself. I know where to go for the light and shadows, for the emotions of letting go, for setting free the spirit of Dennis along perfect hunting grounds.
Early this morning, I hiked off with my camera in hand. My dogs quickly ran off to chase rabbits nibbling along the edge of wheat fields. Their nests are plentiful, scattered between hay stacks and abandoned tractor equipment. The tall blades of grass were already losing the gloss of last night’s light rain. It will be hot soon. But now, the moment is perfect.
“Dennis,” I say aloud to the land. “If you are listening, let me know where you want me to shoot. Hmmm. Let’s see, maybe give me a sign.”
I listened to the breeze increase further up the canyon. I watched as it passed between thousands of glossy cottonwood leaves. Their gentle rustle turned my gaze toward the lower branches and the winding Indian Creek below. Beneath the shadows of the massive trees stood a doe. Motionless, she stared at me, watching my every movement.
Without thinking, I quickly opened my phone and looked back at her. She was gone.
“Phaat. Phaat. Phaat.” I heard in the far distance. The white flash of her tail flagged through the tall, dark-green grass and wild hemp. Her alarm call sounded out to the others hidden beneath the shadows. They scattered.
Dennis had given me a sign—a perfect place to take pictures.
Maybe this was the spot where he had hunted with his friend.