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One day you wake up and there’s ice on the windshield, the wind comes howling from the north across Lake Michigan, trying to intimidate you into leaving, but then there’s the colour of the leaves, orange and red amongst the green. Summer is done, fall is here and it’s onto the next thing.


Double Double


The road to nowhere

It’d been a busy couple of weeks leading up to departure, last days of work, picking apples and pressing cider, last day trip up to Washington Island, swims before it snows, all the important things.

Waters End

Swims before it snows


Ferry to Washington Island

Closed for season

Closed for season

After scouring the house I couldn’t find anything else that was technically ‘mine’ but still I felt ill prepared, half packed and like there was still more to be done. I’m like that when leaving for somewhere new, I can see so many things to be done, reasons to stay, excuses not to pull stakes. Last minute additions as the car quickly reached capacity – I pilfered a can of home-made pickles, a jar of apple butter and a few gallons of cider from the basement, a pair of golden spaghetti squash from the garden and we were on the road. It wasn’t until we left Minneapolis and headed west on 212 a few days later, that it felt like the trip really had begun. We’d been that far west already this summer.


Lots of this

Now, six weeks later and we’re done, 5,252 miles added to the clock as we put the car out to pasture on a friends organic farm in Ontario, east of LA. We’re posted up in the San Diego asylum for a week or so, trying to avoid a family thanksgiving, developing films and getting ready to slip over the border and home to Puerto for a few months. The trip’s blurry, glad to have kept a camera in hand and a notebook with me.

San Diego is weird, dry and weird. I like to visit, just visit. There’s no water and the water there is they say you shouldn’t drink, the sun’s always shining and everyone is trying to get somewhere – I counted some sixteen lanes of traffic on the way out to surf blacks this morning. Get a good run and it’s twenty minutes, a bad run’s an hour. The asylum, ha. Elena’s uncle and auntie’s pristine house in Rancho Bernardo, an over fifty-fives part of town with white carpet, a rug of fake grass in the front yard and their king charles spaniel seems to stare at me a lot like I might break or steal something, but I’m happy to have a bed.

If you’re in the San Diego area and looking to develop film, I dropped a dozen black and white off to Dan at Gaslamp on the way back from a surf this morning, he left a voice mail just after lunch saying they were ready. Service.

Stay tuned while we fill in the gaps.

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