Chapter 5: Attachment Styles

A young family ascends the stairs of a Long Island City, NY subway stop. 12.27.18

The photo in the subway happened faster than I could think, a split second impulse in a life defined by impulsivity. This tendency lends itself well to photography. But in other places it can lead to a negative response. Enough negative feedback over time and you begin to build up a defensive mechanism: avoidance. 

I was always anxious, longing for connection in an alien world. But at first it was an avoidant style of attachment. Mostly I existed as a wallflower, observing others on the periphery of their lives. Get too close to the fire and you might get burned. The anxiety pulls you away from the dancing fire light even as it dazzles and attracts you. 

Municipal police cars burn during a riot in Columbia, SC. 05.30.20

At a photo conference in March 2020, I was showing a set of photographs to a well known photo editor. I remember he remarked that I shot everything at a distance. He said he could tell I was anxious when I made the photos, that I was shooting scared and I needed to find my courage. 

The photographer and cofounder of the legendary Magnum Photos, Robert Capa, is famous for saying “If your pictures aren’t good enough, you aren’t close enough.”  He would later step on a landmine in Vietnam trying to get closer to the French Foreign Legion. 

Syrian refugee children in a rudimentary flat in Reyhanlı, Turkey. 10.02.13

But he’s right, the closer you are the more intimate and emotional the photos. We are intensely emotional creatures craving intimacy and when we struggle with those things it can feel as wounding as Capa’s landmine. Our insecurities make it hard for many of us to navigate the social minefield. Releasing ourselves from the burden of those insecurities and forgiving ourselves for our imperfections brings us out of the danger zone and back to the healing warmth of the fire. 

The photo conference happened to coincide with the opening salvos of the great Covid-19 pandemic. I left with a sense of purpose and motivation to shoot and dive headfirst into the oncoming storm. I began to find my courage to get ironically close during a time of social distancing. I had to. I couldn’t shoot scared anymore. 

Health care workers administer early rounds of covid-19 tests at Riverbank Elementary School in West Columbia, SC. 06.04.20

I began to apply that courage to other areas of my life. As people were forced to pull away for safety I overcorrected and threw myself into the lives of others. I started to make some of the best photos of my life. And the good relationships I had were fortified by the struggle. I learned for the first time how much of our ability to thrive is built on those relationships. 

But as I put myself out there more I fell for people and then fell down. Where my anxiety once manifested as avoidance it now swung wildly the other way into desperate or anxious attachment. I didn’t want to let go.

Much crisis, so collapse. 

“Shoegaze Equinox” 03.28.22

I hadn’t done the work. I was still guided by the anxious pit in my stomach. My photography has connected me to more people and given me more experiences than anything else I’ve ever done, but so much of that is fleeting. It’s an illuminated path to the fire but you still have to do the work to get there and not get so close it burns you. You have to give the fire space to grow and radiate healthy and loving warmth or else it goes out and you are left in the cold and the dark. 

It was cold when I made the photo in the subway that day, but not in my heart. I saw the moment and acted with initiative to capture the critical attachment between mother and child. In that moment I was secure. I felt light, floating up the stairs as I made that frame. I was for once completely present. 

Chapter 3: Deliverance From Ego

“My whole tube-self is on airplane mode right now.” -Funkmaster Suburbs

It’s as if someone took the contrast dial, cranked it to ten and then ripped the whole control module to pieces and set it on fire. Let me tell you we had plans, but Mother Nature and the literal earth beneath your feet can reveal the frailties of the human body and mind. The difference between the first pair of days and the last were as wide as the Pacific Ocean. 

The western approach of the 77 mile long Foothills Trail is as remote and rugged as it is beautiful. We had just spent the previous days crushing miles across some of South Appalachia’s less forgiving terrain from the mighty Chattooga River corridor and the Ellicott Rock Wilderness straight across the high peaks of the Dark Corner of South Carolina and plunging down along the cascades of the Whitewater River, sacrificing bits and pieces of ourselves along the way. We were machines optimized for performance. Calories counted like stock portfolios, distance and time carefully considered to maximize efficient movement with the idea that life’s challenges can be reduced down to simple mathematics. 

But by the third morning we were faced with diminishing returns. Feet, knees, and other human infrastructure were failing on us and the psychology of thru-hiking when the autumnal light makes every daylight hour feel like dinner time pulverized our plan to bits.  Our feral trio found itself huddled around a life-giving campfire just east of the tallest waterfall this side of the Rocky Mountains with a decision forced upon us: barrel forward in the foolish pursuit of metrics and status or stop and simply exist in the splendor of creation. 

We chose the latter and opted for a journey of the mind instead, where a one mile walk to a scenic overlook became an intolerable assault of euphoria. Each step, more oppressive than the next. I was dissociating higher and higher into the tree canopy leaving my lead-heavy feet behind before I was compelled to release all of the pressure of the past months and years in a single spasm of bile and earth out of the front end of a fleshy tube designed for consumption. 

I collected what was left of myself and from there we simply existed joyfully as humans have since humans first became a thing. We were, for a time, a trio of apes cackling in the woods over the oppressive nature of tube-based life: a state of being predicated on the mindless consumption, processing, and ejection of nutrient. 

Delicate wisps of clouds flirted with the light as the sun moved low in the autumnal sky. The deciduous forest after “peak color” offers special surprises with the late turning red maples and yellow beech delivering splashes of color against the grays and browns of oncoming winter. 

At the careening end of my 30s I’m finding myself tired of the constant journey. The never ending path. The unrelenting assault of metrics and performance. I don’t want to stop for good, there’s still too much to see and experience, but an emotional homestead is necessary. All who wander are not lost, but some are and it’s ok to stake out shelter with a close companion against the unrelenting cold. Humans succeeded in this world together, not alone. 

Ultimately we managed 36-ish miles of the 77 mile long Foothills Trail after the fall equinox when light and warmth are scarce commodities. Personally, I have attempted the whole course four times now and only succeeded crossing the finish line once.  This trail has become king metaphor for me for concepts like harmony, humility, compassion, and just simply learning to slow down and be fully present in the world. Hubris and ego are mind and body killers. 

The trail will always be here as long as there are humans to walk the path. We’ll get to the end before too long, but maybe at a slower pace. 

Chapter 2: Fly Fishing the Black Mountains of Western North Carolina

Don Bishop and Zach Northern fish a creek in the Black Mountains of western North Carolina.

As the mid-afternoon sun began to warm the waters draining off of Mitchell summit, I stumbled down its east flank trying to keep up with a pair of mad anglers. The toes on my left foot that got jammed up on a chunk of slick Precambian gneiss were bruised but not broken, and I felt like I twisted nearly every joint in my body the closer we got to the highest place east of the Mississippi River. I gave thanks for the cool waters at that elevation, cool enough to numb the pain and get me back down into the valley below us where we left the trucks. 

There are numerous maintained trails that climb and cross the rugged peaks of the Black Mountains north of Asheville, NC. There’s even a paved road to the summit with ADA compliant facilities for all to enjoy. But the fly casting duo that met just after sunrise that day weren’t going to find what they were looking for along the well-trodden path. It was the end of July, and to get at the browns, brooks, and rainbows that inhabit the creek near where it feeds into the South Toe River, they’d have to get off trail and climb the creek itself to the top of Appalachia.

The creek just below the summit of Mount Mitchell, the highest point east of the Mississippi River.

I met Zach Northern a year ago up on that same summit when an old high school buddy invited me out for a boys backpacking weekend in the Black Mountains. His pack was huge and he had a guitar strapped to it. I immediately recalled my first painful backpacking trips in the scouts when I thought having the biggest pack was the point. 

I wasn’t sure what to make of the dude, but his Appalachian dialect and specific knowledge of the plants and animals of the mountains made me think of my grandmother Callie who passed away a few weeks earlier. She spent 96 years living and growing in the shadow of those same mountains. A year’s worth of persistent facebook messages about trout fishing and we were finally headed back to the Black Mountains where it all started. Patience and persistence are important qualities for aspiring anglers.

Zach Northern

By 6:30 am, Don Bishop was waiting for us in the national forest parking area when we rolled up ragged from a long drive out of the relative flatlants of the Carolina sandhills. Zach and Don first got connected by way of online fly fishing forums. This would be their inaugural expedition together. Neither had fished this creek before. 

Trout prefer bodies of water that regularly stay below 70 degrees, so the hot, dry summers of the southeast send them up stream to the higher elevations or into larger bodies of water that are deep enough to resist solar heating. The creek offers cool oxygen-rich waters, but insect activity is limited compared to the lower elevations. Less food means less fish. 

Trout are also smart and have great eyesight, so we headed upstream to stay at their backs since they tend to face into the current. The photographer’s instinct is to photograph faces, but I was immediately advised to be mindful of a trout’s line of sight when I tried to get ahead. It was for the best because I tend to shoot better under difficult conditions. It forces you to be creative when things don’t work out how you expected. 

Before we set out, Zach and Don took some time by the trucks to discuss strategy and prepare their flies. Is it best to fish this creek with dry flies or nymphs? We’d soon find out. So we journeyed up towards the roof of Appalachia; trout stalking insects, anglers stalking trout, and photographer stalking anglers. The creek level was down some, making solar heating more efficient. There was little time to waste. Whatever trout were up there that day would likely be sheltering under submerged rocks to stay out of the sun.

Zach prepares a fly before setting out for the creek.

By mid-afternoon, we made it about as far up the mountain as we could before the boulders we had to climb became cliff sides. It took six and a half hours for our party to cover a little over two miles to the top. By the time it was over, we had been on the creek for ten hours. I’ve pushed myself as a backpacker to be able to cover two miles of rugged trail with a full pack in under an hour. I thought I knew what a hard hike was, but even the toughest trail up struggle mountain is still a trail purpose built to make backcountry travel a little easier.

I also failed to anticipate how active this style of fishing is. It’s hard for an outsider not to visualize plenty of time for naps on a fishing trip. But we were nearly always on the move, only stopping briefly if a pool wasn’t biting. And they mostly weren’t biting. As we made it deeper into the backcountry, the fishing party began to have more success. A brown here, a brook there, and even a magnificent 12-inch rainbow trout near the top of our ascent.

A 12-inch Rainbow Trout found lurking in the upper reaches of the creek near the summit of Mount Mitchell.

Every fish was released after capture to be able to live and make more fish so that there can be more fishing weekends. I keep wondering what it is that pushes humans to these sorts of pursuits. Considering how much of human history has been varying levels of hardship, why would those of us living in the now choose to do the things that are hard when we could simply stay in our comfortable homes blasting our eyeballs with comfortable content and eating comfort food. Everything is so easy now, right? What are we looking for? What is the point? 

I come away from these experiences physically weary and sometimes mildly broken, but I’m never happier. For me the comfortable world can be alienating and often quite lonely, even in a crowd. Visualizing our place as being but one component of nature rather than above or removed from it is the only thing that ever came close to making sense to me. If there is a purpose to any of this madness, it seems to be to learn and experience as much as you possibly can. And if possible, try to leave it better than you found it. 

View of the east flank of the Black Mountain Range from Maple Camp Bald where the creek and other tributaries drain into the South Toe River.

So should you walk the long path up struggle mountain for a fish that might not be there? Absolutely yes, but be mindful to take your time and step carefully. Some of the rocks are wet.

Stay tuned…

Chapter 1: On Failure

The Attempt

It was an exercise in foolishness and hubris. I dove into the backcountry trying to prove something only to find myself caught between madness and reason. Slow and steady wins the race. Be the tortoise, not the hare.

The Foothills Trail snakes some 77 miles across some of South Carolina’s best wilderness. Easily overlooked, the trail offers a masterclass in backcountry hiking/camping that humbles and thrills even seasoned Appalachian Trail thru-hikers. I don’t think I’ve ever done more than 15 miles of the AT, but the FHT haunts me like Ahab’s White Whale since I first hiked a section of it one winter break in college. I can say I have hiked every stinking mile of it in sections, but never thru. A reasonable itinerary gets you from point to point in 5-7 days. So when a high pressure system settled over the Southern Appalachians - bringing clear skies and higher temperatures - I said, “I’ll do it in 4!”

The first 15 miles were magnificent. The Chattooga Corridor is as stunning as it is wild. It was one of the best and most affirming walks I’ve ever been on. 15 miles from Oconee State Park to Burrells Ford is respectable. But it was barely afternoon and I had to keep walking if I was going to make my arbitrary Wednesday finish at Table Rock, about 60 miles east-northeast of my position. I was high on a false sense of confidence. The backcountry has a way of reminding men of their fragility. I wondered if this is what James Dickey was getting on about as I walked the long path.

The appeal of the backcountry diversion is in its power to essentialize and focus your mental and physical resources. You bring only what you need. All of your decision making is focused on the pursuit of a single destination. 

As you walk you repeat certain self-affirming mantras:

You’re a champion. 

You’re a champion. 

You’re a champion.

The roots and rocks along the riverside path are hardly (hardy?) barriers to your own self-realization. 

It’s when all the rugged mountain ridges begin to look the same and menace you with their sameness that you begin to question yourself, your skills, and your senses as you stumble through the last eight miles uphill to the campsite at Sloan Bridge. Every squirrel becomes a bear. Every root, a snake. Now there’s an unexplained pain in your elbow. 

I stubbornly dragged myself into East Fork Camp just below Sloan Bridge/SC-107 with an hour of light to spare. The Foothills Trail dances with highway 107 on its way north from Oconee State Park to the iconic Whitewater Falls (FACT CHECK: it’s actually SC-130 that takes you to the iconic Whitewater Falls). The sound of beefy V8 engines dragging those mountain roads is eternal. 

Much to my relief there was already a camp resident waiting for me, a man named Phil. He’s really Jeff, but he mistakenly called me Phil and I had to ask him to remind me of his name as well. So now we are both “Phil”. The two Phils traded hiking stories for an hour or two before retreating to their respective shelters. Phil was thankful for the brief companionship of Phil while Phil tended to Phil’s wounded ego. 

When the tincture finally begins to hit during the night much of the worry and regret melts away for a time. You become obsessed by the cocoon of synthetic and natural layers you’ve been perfecting through the cold night. Your mind begins to consider the likelihood of waking up in a state of metamorphosis. What will your final physical form look like? You pray for something as well insulated as a bear. 

My natural state tends towards the solitary mode. It’s easy to convince yourself that it’s better to go it alone rather than make the necessary compromises to walk the long path with another. And a night alone in the woods can send the mind to both troubling and interesting places. I like to believe there are answers in the backcountry. Maybe one is that a warm and comfy bed is one of mankind’s greatest achievements. There may be less virtue to my commitment to sleeping on the hard ground than I tell myself. And maybe stubbornly going it alone so often will only get me so far before I have to stop and ask “why?” Maybe one day I will find a committed adventure buddy to share the journey with. Maybe it will be my cat.

Buried in your barely-adequate-for-the-weather-you-misjudged synthetic cocoon, you begin to notice the morning bird songs. Light must be peaking over the horizon. 

Relief. 

Extraction

Text via GPS to dad:  “Chilly night there towards the end. lol”

I swallowed my pride with a big gulp and requested an early pickup at the National Forest Service parking lot at Whitewater Falls, only 47.9 miles short of my goal. It was five(ish) miles to get from East Fork Camp to a burger and a comfy climate controlled ride back to the family compound in northern Greenville County.

“Phil” was up and out not long after the sun began cresting the nearby ridge line. Exchanging friendly farewells returned the two Phils to their previous forms: Jeff and Thomas. I struggled to stay focused as I became better acquainted with the limitations of a GPS signal in the deep gorges of the Chattooga/Jocassee backcountry. Coordinating texts to dad found their way to the satellite about as fast as my weary body and mind could get camp broken down. No matter, he was in the car and I’d get there eventually.

Whitewater Falls tumbles down from one of the highest points along the trail. No surprise it’s said to be the tallest waterfall east of the Rocky Mountains. To get there though, I had to climb higher to get around the appropriately named Round Mountain looming over the falls.

A week or so earlier, forest service crews initiated a burn operation in that part of the national forest to mitigate the build up of combustable materials that could trigger a much bigger conflagration. The tortured silhouettes of charred mountain laurel stood like ghostly apparitions. The silence was deafening. Of course, the seared landscape is merely a superficial concern to the native flora and fauna. Fire is as important to the health of a forest civilization as water, sunlight, and air.

Rounding the roundest of mountains I found my salvation, the sound of heavy trucks engine breaking down SC-130’s exhilaratingly steep grade. Another turn brought into view the incredible engineering of the Bad Creek Reservoir tucked away in a high ravine above Lake Jocassee. Only a couple more switchbacks. First sight of the highway and I audibly yelp. One final corner around blackened boulders reveals a third generation Toyota Highlander with leather seats and dual zone climate controls. Zion.

Stay tuned…