Slides (2)

This is the Grand Canyon, in the great State of Arizona. See there, the magnificent blend of all the colours of the rainbow. It is virtually unphotographable at any given point to so vast. The Colorado River trickles through its base like a deeply buried brook. Geologists say that with time and erosion the Pacific Ocean, some 300 miles West, will one day reach the Canyon and flow through there.

I camped here, see? Right there. Oh, what peace I found. The only sounds I heard were the sounds I made. No-no, it is true.

And here beyond, on a remote roadside stand, an Indian boy planted himself arms folded beneath a sign that said “seashells should lead the world”.

This is a hobo, a dying bread. A pity. He claimed that an inheritance fortune awaited him in a bank back East but he couldn’t care less.

There’s more of them. The one with the umbrella claimed to be the real Mr. Bojangles.

Sunset.

Another sunset. I know it looks undistinguishable from the last but I remember the difference.

Vancouver, British Columbia. I spent some time there at a ski lodge. Something so healthy and wholesome about skiers.

Like this one. She always seemed to appear when I took a slip on the slops where I had no business being. But I’d look up and there she’d be. And soon it happen that whenever she’d turned and look up, there I’d be.

The chalet. Inside there, by a warm fire, is where my mind has want to wander now. To the scent of pine and the taste of wine. You’re too young for wine now but make a note of it.

There she is again. We rented those horses for a day. See mine? His name was... Oh what was it now? I forget. Oh yes, it was sugar.

And there’s my friend again. She looks rather sad there. It seems that everyday, well, she always had some special plan for us.

And this, this is a beautiful Indian girl. Look at her! She and her secret mysterious ways. The pride of her people. Our sunshine, the said of her.

This was the road South into Oregon.

This is how logs are transported, long rafts that trail the northwest rivers.

Big Sur, California.

An old Spanish Mission.

Carmel, California. Those trees seemed frozen against the landscape. They remind me of a book I once heard of called The Cypresses Believe in God.

This was near the end of my adventure. The clock in my head told me it was time to leave. So that I was more concerned with seeing what I could first hand rather then rush for the camera. I find that travelling alone is somehow more realistic then with others. You find yourself in a new place all alone and you deal with it as oppose to when you’re with others who are familiar to you and in a sense shelter you from situations you would otherwise meet head on. You know what I mean? Besides, if your loved ones are with you, you have no one to go home to.

[de «Slides», Richard Harris]