Michael Lister - Double Exposure

From then until now, her investment of time, talent, and true concern is so enormous it brings tears to my eyes. Her involvement in my writing, as in my life, has made me better. Far better. For profound and enduring literary influence: Ernest Hemingway, Graham Greene, John Updike, Cormac McCarthy, James Lee Burke, and Ron Hansen. In particular, Mr. For my creative birthright: Judi Lister. For river experiences and knowledge: Sam Paul and John Guffy. For river experiences and knowledge: Sam Paul and John Guffy.

Thanks for being such great tour guides. For being a man of the land and giving me rich and rewarding experiences with our amazing home: Mike Lister. For bringing us to this land: H.C. Lister. For invaluable information: Sam Paul, Shane Semmes, and the great books of Pineapple Press and the University of Florida Press. To the colorful and fascinating people of North Florida in general and of Gulf County in particular, never a dull moment.

Neighbors all. For working to preserve the treasure that is the river and its flood plain: Marilyn Blackwell, Elam Stoltzfus, The Nature Conservancy, and Apalachicola Riverkeeper. For feedback and invaluable editorial input: Pam Lister, Lynn Wallace, Richard Henshaw, Benjamin LeRoy, and Alison Janssen. Thanks for the enormous investment in me and my work. To my brother, Ben LeRoy, for friendship and loving this land like a local. For support and encouragement beyond description: Pam Lister, Micah Lister, Meleah Lister, Karen Turner, Mike and Judi Lister, Lynn Wallace, Bette Powell, Michael Connelly, Margaret Coel, Cricket Freeman, Rich Henshaw, and Jim Pascoe.
E vening. Fall. Fall.

North Florida. Bruised sky above rusted rim of earth. Black forest backlit by plum-colored clouds. Receding glow. Expanding dark. D eep in the cold woods of the Apalachicola River Basin, Remington James slowly makes his way beneath a canopy of pine and oak and cypress trees along a forest floor of fallen pine straw, wishing hed worn a better jacket, his Chippewa snake boots slipping occasionally, unable to find footing on the slick surface.

Above him, a brisk breeze whistles through the branches, swaying the treetops in an ancient dance, raining down dead leaves and pine needles. Its his favorite time of day in his favorite time of year, his familys hunting lease his favorite place to hide from the claustrophobia of small-town life increasingly closing in on him. S creams. He hears what sounds like human screams from a great distance away, but cant imagine anyone else is out here and decides it must be an animal or the type of aural illusion that occurs so often when hes alone this deep in the disorienting woods. Still, it unnerves him. Especially when There it is again.

Doesnt sound like any animal hes ever heard, and he finds it far more disquieting than any sound hes ever encountered out here. Its not a person, he tells himself. Its not. Cant be. But even if it were, youd never be able to find anyone out here. The sound stops and he continues.

U se your senses. All of them. See. Really see. Imagine. See not what is, but what might be.

Attempting to brush aside all thoughts of someone screaming in pain, he wills himself to focus his full attention on the reason hes here. New camera still carefully stowed away in the Tamrac sling pack strapped to his back, he has no thought of withdrawing it until he can see the images he wants to capture in his mind. Photography, at least the kind hes attempting to practice, is not about snapping a lot of pictures, but what hes able to visualize before he ever picks up his camera. Recently returning to this art form, hes been slow to adopt digital technology, and the temptation is to click away in the name of testing his new equipment, but hes determined to be disciplined. Anyone can press a button and snap a picture. His ambition is to be an artist.

In his youth, he had experimented with a variety of art formsat differing times, he was going to be Kerouac, Hemingway, Goddard, Picassobut was continually drawn back to the immediacy of photography. Wildlife photographer, photojournalist, war correspondent, paparazzi, even portraitist, but life laughs at the plans we make, and the dreams and ambitions of youth quickly morph into the embarrassing memories of adulthood. R ealistic. Practical. College. Career.

Commitments. Marriage. Mortgage. It wasnt until his father died and he had to rush home to run the small-town gun and pawn and care for his mother, that he picked up a camera againa dust-covered, ancient, fully-automatic Nikon hocked years earlier, languishing on the shelf as power tools and small appliances had come and gone. Rekindled. Renewed.

The small, abused camera felt like Heather in his hands, and an old dream crept out of his consciousness and into corporal reality once again. O ne good shot. Even closing the shop earlysomething his dad never did, particularly during hunting seasonhe has only the narrowest of margins, like the small strip of light from a slightly open door, in which there will be enough illumination for exposure. The drive out to the edge of his familys land; the ATV ride into the river swamp; the walk through acres of browning, but still thick, foliageall close the door even more, but all he wants is to check his camera traps and get one good shot with his new camera. Hell trudge as far as he can, search as long as he cancapturing the image at the last possible moment, stumbling back in full dark if he has to. L oss. Emptiness. Numbness. Numbness.

His dad dying so young has filled the facade of Remingtons life with tiny fissures, a fine spiders web of hairline fractures threatening collapse and crumble. Facade or foundation? Maybe its not just the surface of his life, but the core thats cracking. He isnt sure and he doesnt want to think about it, though part of him believes he comes alone to the woods so hell be forced to do just that. Hes wanted to be an adventure photographer for over a decade, but pulling the trigger now, making the investment, obsessively spending every free moment in its pursuit, in the wake of his dads death, the wake that still rocks the little lifeboat of his existence, is a fearful mans frenzied attempt at mitigating mortalityand he knows it. He just doesnt know what else to do. H eather. H eather.