"In the summer of 1999, I was fortunate to spend two weeks in the Dassler Cabin, on a peninsula across from Scoville Point. I learned how to prime the pump every day, work the radio and Coleman lantern, and switch propane tanks. I filled the galvanized steel tub with lake water, so it could warm up in the sun during the day for a bath in the evening. Luckily, I had done a lot of camping with my family in northern Idaho, so I felt right at home.
The trip from New York City was long—flight to Minneapolis, then to Houghton-Hancock, to bed at 2:00 a.m. and then up at 6:00 the next morning to get groceries before taking the boat to Rock Harbor—so by the time I got settled in at the cabin, I was exhausted. But then, when the moon appeared that night, big and round and orange, just to the left of Scoville Point, I was revived—I knew how rare an opportunity this was. The sky was absolutely clear. Weren’t these the exact conditions I had been hoping for? I love to shoot by moonlight. It was very warm and so beautiful on the Point, looking out over Lake Superior. Finally got to bed by 3:00 a.m. Another night, I woke at 3:00 a.m. and went out to photograph on Scoville Point and didn’t get to bed until 6:00 a.m. My time was my own, and totally unstructured.
My time at Isle Royale reminded this “city slicker” of the country girl she used to be. How can anyone see all that beauty, surrounded by nature that’s completely untouched, and not have it change them in some way? I remember one sunset over Tobin Harbor: the sky above was light blue with darker clouds, and just above the tree line on the far shore it was ablaze with a vibrant, dusty rose, infused with light orange. At 1:00 a.m. I went out to look at the sky—the gorgeous dark dome of the heavens, with stars visible in all directions. I didn’t know when I had last seen it like that, without the moon’s light and with no ambient light from cities to interfere. One planet was so bright that there was a path of light on the surface of the water under it.
Isle Royale Red Fox
NPS/Amie Heeter
I saw soooo many animals, birds, and plants during my stay—a bald eagle, common Loons, two kinds of woodpecker, American black ducks, a snowshoe hare, Canada geese, a great blue heron, double-crested cormorants, common mergansers, and I learned to recognize the distinctive call of the white-throated sparrow. One afternoon, I was sitting outside, when suddenly a red fox trotted up and poked its face around a bush, within three feet of me; our eyes met, and it turned and loped away, along the side of the cabin. How could anyone fail to be affected by that?
On a hike one day, there was a young moose, not more than ten feet away, between the trail and the harbor. The mother was on the other side of her calf, at the water’s edge. They were very quiet; I could have walked by without even seeing them. I went back down the path to a spot where I could watch them. First the young one came out of the trees into the water and turned toward me, lifting its head to sniff my scent. Then the cow came through the trees toward me and I backed off to give them room. What a gift to see them like that.
There were lots of wildflowers. Berries were everywhere in July—there were some wild strawberries, thimbleberries were just starting to ripen, and I found lots of blueberries—delicious with morning pancakes! I especially loved photographing the pink-purple rocks, the golden grasses behind them, the lichens, the harebells, and the goldenrod. The Sierra Club Guides to the National Parks says, “One of the most colorful of all plants is the lichen, and nowhere else in America do lichens grow so luxuriantly. This is due to the purity of the island’s moist air. More than 200 species have been collected….” I discovered a marvelous, rocky shoreline right below Connollys’ cabin, with vivid orange, crustose rock lichen and gorgeous geometric slabs of rock, some of it ochre and some slate-grey.
One evening, as the sun was about to disappear, I got set up on Scoville Point and it started to rain. I got pretty wet and so did my field camera, but after a while, the rain stopped. Although the juniper’s color was intensified by the rain, the grasses were beaten down and the rocks had lost their pink color. Then an enormous rainbow appeared. With the first shot, I spent at least a minute trying to wipe off the lens—the only dry thing I could find was the T-shirt under my left arm! But it was incredible light for color photographs, and I even managed to include a goose in the shot.
Another time, I was in the cabin and suddenly I looked up and Scoville Point was ablaze with sunset glow against dark clouds. Got the camera set up facing the Point, when suddenly I saw the “spotlight” on two small islands to the left. It was quite dramatic, and it resulted in one of my best shots—lovely purple clouds above a soft pink sky behind the sunlit islands, while the shoreline in the foreground, below my feet, was in shadow.
My artist’s residency gave me the time for reflection and contemplation that is necessary for sensibilities to become attuned and sharpened. I hiked to many different places, finding things that “spoke” to me, returning to them at various times of day and during weather conditions that brought out the qualities of those places and forms that expressed what I wanted to say. The importance of a residency like this one is timelessness and solitude, what psychologists call “creative silence.” Walking down a trail, or just sitting in front of the wood fire in the cabin, listening to the waves on the shore after a day’s hiking and shooting—it was perfect."
