Thoughts from a Plane Crash

Accident Scene, a photo by meagan.porter on Flickr.

At the scene of an accident, it's not a good sign when the frenetic pace slows, firefighters begin lifting off their helmets, paramedics draw farther away. The plane, bent in wrong directions like a broken bone, was laying where it had crumpled and came to rest against the side of a storage shed.

I was standing in tall grass between Jeff and a rusted out washing machine when a fireman approached us. "It just dropped out of the sky," he said with a combination of astonishment and exhaustion.

His voice dropped off. "They've passed," he said.

We don't respond to accident calls often. I don't know how to succinctly explain it - other papers like to publish accident photos from time to time, and it always gives me a bad taste in my mouth. It's just not nice.

The plane crash was different. There was no debating whether or not we were going to respond, no looking up addresses while questioning if it was worth our time to drive out there. A plane crash. I sprang up, haphazardly predicting what I needed to bring to the scene like gathering possessions to rescue from my burning home. Jeff was already out the door. Nate the intern trailed behind.

We drove like maniacs across town, and it seemed like everyone with a police scanner was headed in the same direction. I called my dad. "They're trapped," he said, relaying what he heard on the scanner. "They've started CPR."

We parked behind the VFW Hall and a man in a station wagon was telling a guy with a baby stroller that he had seen the whole thing. "Go talk to him!" I yelled to Nate, struggling to keep up with Jeff.

I felt blindly pulled like a magnet toward the accident scene, ignoring fences and driveways. Jeff led us the long way along the road, scolding me for trespassing. "That's private property," he yelled behind him.

As we approached the scene, a sheriff with a white handlebar mustache and brown uniform was pulling police tape across our path. My stomach dropped.

The sheriff looked up and saw us. "Did you get a good picture yet, Jeff?" he asked, lifting the police tape so we could go under. "I know you won't get in the way."

As we approached the scene, the reporter part of my brain started to take over, filing away facts and details, making lists. The red barn and red fire truck standing stark against that clear blue summer sky, calm and still. The plane, looking fake like a movie prop, wrong in the scene before us. Firemen swarming everywhere. The jaws of life.

Jeff, with a surprising knowledge of airplanes, relayed technical details to me as we stood several yards away. "That's an ultralight," he said of the plane in front of us. "You're more secure in a Ferris Wheel." We stood back, trying to decipher what was going on in the scene before us, trying to make sense of all the people and objects that had converged in this ordinary trucking yard. The only thing that was obvious, the thing that later played through my head over and over, was the moment when all of the emergency people gave up, slowed down, and stepped back.

Back at the office, my adrenaline still pumping, I flew into reporter overdrive. I got on the phone and called every person I could think of who would have information, an ultimately useless task as the tragedy was still new. No one knew anything, least of all me, and I had no idea what to do next.

I didn't go to journalism school, but I don't think there's standard procedure for handling a tragedy. I put off writing the front page article until a few days later, forcing myself to talk to those involved, forcing myself to go over the events one more time. As a reporter, I have always felt that my responsibility has been to make things make sense, and more than my grief over the event itself, more than my disbelief, more than the images playing over and over in my head, I think what bothers me more than anything right now is an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. I can't make this make sense. I can give you the facts. I can describe what happened at the scene. I can provide photos. I can find things out. But I can't make them make sense. I just can't.

Additional photos from the scene are linked from my Flickr earlier in this blog. A full write-up of the story will be available in this week's Reedsburg Independent, on newsstands Wednesday and in subscriber mailboxes on Thursday.

Caz

Cazenovia Parade, a photo by meagan.porter on Flickr.

Sunday was the start of an extreme heat wave here in Wisconsin, and John and I ventured from Madison to Cazenovia to catch the annual Caz Celebration parade. It was about an hour and a half drive north that took us through Reedsburg; as John commented, "There's no road that goes straight there." We followed 12 then 33 then 58 from LaValle to Caz, which has to be one of the prettiest roads around, through the bluffs of the driftless area in central Wisconsin.

Caz is a very small town with a very big spirit. Despite the heat, Sunday's parade was no different. With temperatures stretching into the 90s, I was afraid that the parade would be cancelled, but the people of Caz, and John and I, soldiered on. But I've never seen so much candy thrown in a parade and so few kids willing to run for it.

We parked in a field by the American Legion, trooped up to the main street running through town, past the gorgeous Lee Lake (picturesque doesn't even begin to cover it). We met some nice older ladies willing to share a shady bench with us ("As long as you understand that any M&Ms thrown this way are mine," one sternly told us) and the parade commenced.

Working for the paper, my role now is more documenting the parade than chasing after candy, and you never know what kind of images you're going to wind up with. It's impossible to set up something you know will look good. You can anticipate what you think might be in the parade, and there are a few default shots you know you can count on just in case something goes wrong. I generally have no game plan, and that's both exhilarating and terrifying. What if I don't get a good shot? What if I've spent all this time and I wind up with nothing? I guess you could have those anxieties about any photo you take, but I feel like with parades (and similar events) the stakes are higher - it takes nearly the whole day and there are no do-overs. And with my job, I know a photo from the day will go into the paper that week. Better make it a good one.

Pretty much the only variable you can control is where you stand, and I typically run up and down the street the whole time. I get anxious and have trouble staying in one place, but most of all I want to make sure that I'm not in anyone's way. On Sunday, I lost myself and forgot about everything except taking photos, which was nice to be immersed and focused, but not so nice if you are running back and forth in the middle of an intersection in 90+ degree heat with your back to the sun. The parade lasted about a half hour or 45 minutes, and at the end, I was beat.

At one point, I did snap out of it long enough to realize that someone had thrown a bag of M&Ms at my feet. I promptly delivered it to John's benchmate, who was tickled pink. "Life is good!" she exclaimed, and I agreed.

Wisconsin parades are pretty much the only parades I've ever known, except for the ones I've seen on TV, and I still get excited for them. How many parades feature all of the fire trucks and tractors in town? The Caz parade wasn't as long as the Butterfest parade, but they are still the same kind of deal - floats, people walking, tractors and vehicles, candy and Super Soakers. It's an amazing thing that from a city as big as Reedsburg to a village as small as Caz, the parade serves as a showcase to the many groups and businesses that call that town home and the community coming together to recognize them. It was a celebration in the true sense of the word.

In the photo above, I was trying to get a creative photo of the Caz firetrucks; we typically don't put the parade firetrucks in the paper because it's hard to get something other than an angle shot of the whole truck. And while I knew I took a close-up photo of the driver, I didn't realize how perfectly the shot was set up until later. The photo above captures that day exactly - you've got the fire truck at the right with the gold "Cazenovia Fire Department" lettering, driver with a handlebar mustache and pink fuzzy dice in the window. Behind him you can see an Old Style sign from one of the many bars that line the main street of Caz. As your eye travels to the left, I love the bright flags popping out against that hot blue sky, the tractors continuing the parade into the distance. Far off in the distance you can see one of the gorgeous bluffs I was talking about earlier. I would love to take credit for this image, but I think in this case, it was just pure luck.

Reflected

Reedsburg's Veterans Memorial, a photo by meagan.porter on Flickr.

Maybe I'm getting a little sentimental in my old age, but I'll admit to tearing up a bit last Monday at the dedication of the new Veterans Memorial in Reedsburg.

It really seems like not so long ago that Jeff and I went to the groundbreaking. It was one of only a handful of events we've ever covered together, and I was only an intern at the time. The speakers then focused on a grand vision for that tiny corner of Nishan Park, and I had a hard time picturing it. As they stood there with their ceremonial shovels, posing for photos, the completion seemed so far off in the future, still a someday, still a dream. Three years later on July 4, the Memorial was finished.

I've visited my future in-laws in Washington D.C. a few times now and have hit up most of the touristy monument stops in the area. But I have never been moved the way I was last Monday, viewing the Reedsburg Memorial in its finished state for the first time. The glossy black granite panels display scenes from the US's past and current conflicts and fittingly, they also reflect the viewer. I went back early on Tuesday morning to get some shots of just the Memorial, including the photo above that I put on the front page later that day. Sitting on the warm cement in the exact center of the site, the environment was calm, quiet, meditative, the Memorial and flagpoles looming above me, stretching into the sky.

I grew up in Reedsburg, and I constantly marvel at how working for the Indy gives me a totally different perspective on my humble hometown. In the last three years, we've covered every fundraising effort for this Memorial, every Vet Fest, every raffle, every donation, and the Packer Tailgate that came to town last year just to name a few (of many) off the top of my head. Had I been just a citizen, I might have been too wrapped up in my own life to notice what was going on in that corner of Nishan Park, and how the citizens of Reedsburg were tirelessly working to make that dream a reality.

I've had very few profound moments in life, where everything seems to move slowly, where time stops, as though the world is in a vacuum and centers on that one moment. The last time was the June 2008 flood, walking away from Pineview Elementary, clutching my flood clean-up kit. This time the experience was positive. On Monday, a few hundred people came together to welcome this Memorial into the community, listening to speakers, exploring the grounds, celebrating the hard work and dedication of so many people. On Tuesday, I was fortunate to be able to spend some time with the Memorial, taking it in, observing and photographing and experiencing the stillness of the place. It was a privilege to cover this story over the past three years and to see the Memorial come to fruition.

More photos on my Flickr.

Disbelief

Sunset, a photo by meagan.porter on Flickr.

When the news of what happened to the geese hit me tonight, I didn’t feel it at first. This was the end, the conclusion to a long-expected outcome. Like the bereaved planning a funeral, I methodically set about taking the next steps: writing a statement and passing it along to the people who needed to know, our supporters and the media. I had a focus, at least for a little while.

I have always been the kind of person who does not dwell on what is happening now but rather is always asking what is next. This fight has been no different. We’re at point A -- what’s point B? Where do we go from here? What is the next step? What do we do now? I have always been a person of action, which I think is why this stillness feels so strange to me; now that everyone has been notified, the information is starting to percolate out, I am sitting alone in my empty apartment thinking, how could this have happened?

As children, we’re taught that we can do anything, at least I was. I was told that I could achieve anything I set my mind to, and for the most part, I have with few exceptions. Bit by bit, things unravel, and those “truths” of childhood resonate in my mind: You can do anything you set your mind to. Right will always win. Your representatives will listen to you. Adulthood complicates things that shouldn’t be complicated, clouds things that should be clear. Can I, really? Will they, really?

There were many times in this fight that I threw my hands up and said, I don’t have time for this. I don’t want to deal with this. Why is this happening again? I don’t want to do this. A friend of mine finally asked me, “Then why are you doing it?”

I have to. And if not now, when? This isn’t something that can be added to a to-do list. No one wakes up in the morning and thinks to themselves, maybe now I’ll work on that goose problem. It is never going to be convenient to stand up for what’s right. And if I don’t, who will?

The city of Madison has fufilled its end of the promise to use “any means necessary -- including killing” to curb its goose problem. Two days ago, hundreds of geese were rounded up and executed. Sitting here tonight in stunned silence, I may not know what the next step will be. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that this is far from over.

The photo above was taken last year at Warner Park with one of the Indy cameras, which is why the shot came out so grainy. It was the end of April, and at the time we were all talking about the Warner Park flock's proximity to the airport. I used a telephoto to snap a few photos of the birds just as the sun was setting.

Beneath a Hayfield

Intern Nate, a photo by meagan.porter on Flickr.

I know I love my job but once in awhile, I have the opportunity to cover a story that reminds me exactly why. Last week was one of those opportunities. The photo above isn't me, by the way. It's a candid of the Reedsburg Independent's intern, Nate, who had the distinction of being the last person to stand in this hole before it and the equipment inside were sealed for two years. But more on that later.

Leon's enthusiasm was infectious the first time he called to tell me about the EarthScope project, an ambitious endeavor to bury seismometers every 60 kilometers across the United States in order to create a 3-D model of the Earth's mantle. They had just poured concrete beneath his hayfield outside Loganville, Wisconsin, and they were set to bury the equipment in four weeks or so. Leon called again last week and said, weather permitting, they were all set to finish the project.

I could go on and on about the project itself, but I did that at length in my article for the Indy this week. What I aim to document on this blog is the experience of takin' pictures, what I did, how it felt, what I learned and what I can do better. The behind-the-scenes kind of stuff, which is why I chose the photo above. In it, Nate looks how I felt that day - absorbed in a project, on the scene and in the moment.

Despite having done a few hours research, looking at charts and mission statements, I had no idea what to expect that day when we headed out there. I had little clue how to prepare myself or my intern for it; as we drove out to the farm on hilly and windy country roads, all I was able to tell him was, "This is going to be so cool. No, really, this is so cool."

The weather was gorgeous that afternoon on the Statz's farm, a bit overcast, the bluffs sprawling as far as the eye could see. Everything was green and growing, reaching toward a blue sky and early summer sunlight. The EarthScope equipment was alien in the middle of that hayfield, a deep hole with tools strewn within arms reach of the man standing inside. Adjacent to that was a solar panel, metal and glass but like the scenery around it, also stretching toward the sky.

We absorbed the scene, all of us - friends, family, and neighbors of the Statzs, my intern and I. Nate and I circled around, taking pictures, taking notes. We were there about two hours and on the way back, we agreed that there was no way it could have been that long. Four kids were running around, peering into the hole, asking dozens of questions. I envied them; I have always been intimidated talking to expert-y people, afraid I'm going to annoy them with my ordinary, non-genius person questions. But those kids held nothing back, making my job infinitely easier.

It is rare and exciting to meet people so engaged in their work. The two field engineers who showed up that day spend two months on the road, almost every day in a different place, two weeks at home or what counts for home, then back on the road. Bob told us that he had maintained that routine for most of his life. But you could tell that, standing in a hole in the middle of a hayfield in Wisconsin, there was nowhere else he'd rather be. I felt the same way.

It's been over a week since we were on site. I finished my article and edited photos that same day, accidently losing track of time and staying late to get it done. It was easy then to report back on the story, but I am still finding it difficult to put into words what I felt that day. Maybe no words suffice, but it was one of my favorite experiences I've had as a reporter, and I feel privileged to have been asked to cover it.

Head to my Flickr for more photos from this story.

I Do

I Do, a photo by meagan.porter on Flickr.

Wedding Stationary Photoshoot, attempt number one.

I'm bound and determined to make my own wedding stationary for our upcoming nuptials. It's not because I'm cheap, although that part is pretty persuasive ($800 for 100 invites? I don't think so). I'm embarking on this project for two reasons: first, it will give me a chance to experiment with new techniques and figuring out how to do lighting and secondly, I honestly don't think that anyone can carryout my vision as well as I can.

Let's start with the latter. After spending the last six or seven months receiving wedding magazines, wedding junk mail, wedding spam, and other litter courtesy of the wedding industrial complex, I really feel like, more than anything else, mass produced invites are impersonal. Sure, you can get super fancy ones but they also have a super fancy price. I would rather personally carry out my vision than try to communicate it to someone else and run the risk of being disappointed. This way, the only person I can be upset with is myself if something doesn't go as planned. And not to brag, but I'm typically a genius at making things work.

My Christmas Card Photo Shoot was a dry run for what I wanted our invites to look like. Simple, meaningful, gorgeous lighting. John and I met because of our mutual love of Scrabble, so I knew that our wedding stationary had to incorporate that in some way. I've uploaded three other decent photos to Flickr that may or may not be used in save the dates, invites, wedding programs, etc.

As far as the former goal with this project (learning new techniques and lighting), I have to say that I failed miserably on my first attempt. I did the shoot in about an hour (actually while John and I were waiting for Obama to tell us why he was interrupting Celebrity Apprentice) with similar lighting to the set up I used for my Engagement Ring Photo Shoot. I was basically just dinking around, to be perfectly honest. I have no formal training; I read half an article on the Internet about lighting, thought it sounded like it would work, and set to it. I used a few lamps I had laying around the apartment and some tracing paper, again, not interested in investing any money into making this work. I also used the ambient light in our apartment, which comes from hanging track lighting bouncing off brick walls, giving it an orangey color. With little idea as to what I was doing, I pretty much stood there for an hour rearranging lights, watching how light hit what I was trying to capture, swatting away the occasional cat, rinse and repeat.

I say that I failed in my first goal because the only photos I ended up liking were taken with the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone. This accomplishes goal number two in that it achieves the look I want, but it fails at goal number one as I feel like the Hipstamatic is doing all the work in this situation, not me. Anyone can use a cool app or do a cool effect in Photoshop. How do I achieve the look I want in the field with my dSLR? That's what I need to be working toward and hopefully in accomplishing that goal, I can further refine the look that I want.

More to come. For now, check out the rest of the set.

Talking it Over

Talking it Over, a photo by meagan.porter on Flickr.

These ducks were seriously hesitant about whether or not to jump in Monona Bay. John and I walked through Brittingham Park this evening on our way to dinner on Park Street. Even though we've lived in this neighborhood for nearly a year, we hadn't yet visited the beautiful park only a block from our house. It was cool and breezy, more April weather than June, a far cry from the over 90 degrees it was yesterday. We walked along the bike path and came across this rickety dock holding its own against the choppy waves. I think there were six ducks relaxing on it when we walked up; two jumped in right away and four seriously thought it over before plunging into the cold water.

I love the photo above because it looks like the duck all the way on the left is trying to convince the other three, "Hey guys, come on. It's not going to be that bad." And the Hipstamatic makes everything look epic.