Fall

The past few months have put a couple thousand extra miles on the odometer. Luckily, I get almost all my clear thinking done when I'm behind the wheel out in the sticks, so the past weeks have seen my mind running like a well-oiled Chevy big block.



Said engine in a pretty dress, Highway 71.



North of Eden.



Colorado River at Dawn.



The best route to Lubbock from Austin.



Audrey and Bubba out FM 521 from Houston.



Sun sinks low South of Sweetwater.


I hear in some places Autumn is an actual season, not just Summer's slightly less-hot twilight. That's cute.

Summerland

Summer's a long road in an old car. You don't drive fast because you are in a hurry - you drive fast because that air heavy with gulf coast heat only feels good on your skin if it is hitting at 60 miles an hour.



Thunderhead over Highway 71.



This is a boot in a tree.



Typical Andy.



Blue Hole, Wimberley.



Barton Creek Greenbelt.



Mags.



Summer's a long road in an old car. Objects in mirror are fading faster than they appear.

Changes

I have started a new photography brand. Check it out:

canaryranchphotography.com

Divide and conquer.

Internet Famous

Not really, but I was in this video by Rocketboom, and they are kind of internet famous. I sound like a doof. Observe me in my natural habitat. Also, if you looks quickly you can see that the Christmas lights were up well into March.

There and back (part 2)

I was going through pictures and found this one. Sums up miles 0 through 1800 or so.

There and back

I recently drove 3489.6 miles through five states with some friends and did a lot of interesting things (watched a football championship, drove Mulholland drive, walked the Vegas Strip, slept at the Grand Canyon, etc). What topped the list? Ten Cadillacs buried in the ground.


Cadillac Ranch is located just west of Amarillo along Interstate 40 (Old Route 66). Hours earlier, we had risen with the New Mexico sun to set out from Albuquerque on our way back from California. Thousands of miles had been driven. The Truck needed an oil change. Tensions were strained. The last few hundred miles were going to be the hardest of the thousands we had covered.

L.A. was interesting - like a bigger Houston without feeder roads on the highways. There is also an ocean and some mountains.


Vegas was too much. Too many lights, too many drinks, too many ways to spend money. One of our party was unaccounted for between 4 and 6 am. He came back with hundreds of dollars less than he had left with and does not remember much of that particular outing. His credit card statement served a harsh reminder of his whereabouts, but I'll leave that story for him to tell.

I did enjoy Vegas, though. Had I not won a few hundred dollars at blackjack, my thoughts on the town would far less favorable.


The above image kind of sums up Las Vegas - glossy business cards for hookers. They found there way into a gutter. Poetic. And convenient for those looking for the right match.

The Grand Canyon lived up to its name. I wish we had had more than a few hours of daylight to enjoy the place, but time was not on our side.


Like Vegas, the canyon's scale is hard to comprehend. The challenge at a place like that is to take a picture that isn't already on a post card. Before we left, we learned that the canyon suffers from year-round haze courtesy of urban areas west and south. Pretty lame.

So when we finally did make it back to Texas, there was something oddly friendly about Cadillac Ranch. The open Texas panhandle felt inviting; the horizon spread its arms out to welcome us in. Ten Cadillacs buried in the ground was perfect. A rusting Stonehenge with a chameleon-like skin of ever-changing graffiti set against a stark Amarillo sky. Beautifully simple, endlessly debatable, and like most good things in our state, only made better with a cold beer. St. Peter might as well have met us there with a sixer of Lonestar.

New Year

If the engine on your two-ton truck only applies power to half of its wheels, avoid mud, or said truck essentially becomes the biggest paper-weight you've ever owned.


Heading back to Austin from family and Houston on an early Sunday morning, I pulled a 180 degree turn for a photo-op, as I often do on the open stretches of FM's (farm-to-market's) and highways that get me from A to B in Texas. A U-turn is oftentimes nestled between spotting the picture and taking the picture when on the road, as it can take me up to a quarter of a mile to decide whether what I passed was worth the shot. Normally, I'm pretty careful about what I pull my truck into, and the grass on the side of FM 955 to Fayeteville (see below) appeared safe enough.



The recent rain that had come with a cold front escaped my memory just long enough for me to become very much stuck on the shoulder. I gave the gas one good punch trying to get out, knowing the more I tried the deeper I'd get. Not only was I stuck, the friction of the tires against the grass caused some of the vegetation to start smoldering, which required some frantic foot stomping. Now what?

On a desolate Texas highway early Sunday morning, it took all of 90 seconds for someone to first offer assistance. A kind old man in a truck rusting at the seams offered to pull Betts (yes of course that's my truck's name) and I out. We chained the two vehicles together and I was released from my muddy bonds. For a few minutes we sat and talked and he told me about the acres he owned and the money he'd made of an oil well that helped put his kids through college. I thanked him and we went our separate ways.

The whole operation took no more than 10 minutes, and during that time we had 3 more offers for help.

In a brief story that seems ripe with symbolism and allegory, I laugh at one absolute truth: no matter how big your truck is, around here there will always be a bigger one.

First Name Basis

'First Name Basis is an ongoing project to document the dignity and humanity of Austin's homeless through photography. Pictures and music by Lawrence Lander.'



'We are either all statistics, or none of us are.'

Watch it in wonderful HD here.

The Bend

Recently, I got in the truck and went out to West Texas to work on a project for school. I've been going out that way for years, but this was my first time into the 10,000 square miles of Brewster and Presidio counties alone. This worked out pretty well because a road trip with me entails a whole lot of pulling over for photos.

The following are just a few images out of the tons I took. The project I alluded to is for a black and white film class and focuses on Marfa, Texas. I'll post more on that when it is done.

Windmill, 16 second exposure taken at 9:30 PM, Highway 67, Brewster County

I got in pretty late but managed to squeeze some shooting in. The above shot was taken on a tripod with the last glow of available sunlight.

A few days earlier I had made reservations at the Motel Bien Venido in Alpine. For 36 bucks a night, I didn't really know what to expect. Other than a light odor of body lotion and no remote for the TV, the place turned out to be pretty great. I got up the next day with no real plan except to take pictures.

Motel Bien Venido, Alpine, Texas

Cemetery, Shafter, Texas

The sky is bigger out there. I don't think there is any sort of science to it - the sky is simply larger. It's a hell of a backdrop.

Mountains, Farm Road 170

The above image is actually 9 or so images hastily stitched together. If the pictures seamlessly flowed together I don't think any sense of scale would really be conveyed.

Farm Road 170

18 second exposure at 9:50 PM, Study Butte, Texas

The only time I really felt alone out in those 10,000 square miles was at night on the road. There was no moon during my stay, and when there isn't anything around you for 30 or 40 miles exept dark desert, it's an eerie feeling. I took the above picture before starting the hour and a half drive from Study Butte/Terlingua back to Alpine. Just over halfway into my journey, a Javelina ran in front of my truck. Without thinking, I gave the brakes some pressure and moved into the opposite lane's shoulder, careful not to over-steer. I caught the poor guy with my right-front tire, and my truck scored her first real kill.

My last night out there, I was pulled over by the Highway Patrol in my hurry to get back to Alpine from Marfa. The officer was professional and polite (as most Texas Highway Patrolmen I've met have been), and after I explained I was out taking pictures, he confessed that I hadn't really been speeding that much. That close to the border, with all the drug trafficking going on, law enforcement is suspicious of lone drivers at night (I had already talked with the Border Patrol a few times in the past few days). He asked where I was staying, and I told him the Hotel Bien Venido. He chuckled and asked 'really?'. All I could offer in response was a nervous laugh and a 'yeah'. I probably don't want to know what he knew. He gave me a warning for my speeding and wished me a good night.

Train, Highway 67, Presidio County

If you still don't believe me about how big that sky is, get out there. I know a good place you can stay.

Postcards

All my postcard talk last weeks got me thinking about a Lander family saying. Enjoy.

Ike, II

A few days ago, I went to the coast for the second time in the four months since Hurricane Ike came ashore. Unlike my first trip, there were no police checkpoints or military personnel to greet me. My entrance this time was a bit more unassuming; just another pick-up truck in the few hundred square miles of Chamber's and Galveston counties.


My path went east around Trinity and Galveston Bays through Chambers County. Eventually, I found my way into Galveston County and met up with Highway 87. Following the coast, I went the length of the Bolivar Peninsula, through Crystal Beach and the worst storm damage, all the way to the ferry that crosses the channel to Galveston Island.

The biggest change I noticed was a shift from clean-up to repair. Debris sat roadside in piles placed at regular intervals while tarps hung from structures like giant, blue band-aids. The irregular percussion of hammers and nail guns mixed with indistinct Spanish chatter and followed my slow, deliberate steps around downtown Anahuac.


I couldn't help but feel a little like a gawking tourist as I idled through these storm-wrecked towns. On my last trip to the coast, right after the storm, Galveston Island was under pseudo-martial law and I was sharing the entire island with only law enforcement and government contractors. Now I was surrounded by people who called these places home.

What really separates a 'professional' photographer from a visiting tourist? The 20 miles of FM 1985 between Double Bayou and FM 124 gave me plenty of time to find my answer; not a lot.

These days the line between consumer and professional equipment is blurred beyond recognition, so that's no indicator. Those who claim photography as their profession often think quite highly of themselves and their skills, but I've met some tourists who are equally proud of their postcard return addresses, so that won't work either.

The biggest difference I could find is the mindset. For me , it revolves around trust. Trust is not a switch that can be turned on or off. It's a commodity, and from the moment someone see's me walking up with a camera over my shoulder, I've got to try and earn as much as I can. If a tourist is trying to snap their own postcard, whose trust do they need to earn?

Maybe I'm wrong to think their is a difference at all. Maybe as soon as we walk out the front-door, we are all tourists, everyone looking for the perfect way to say 'wish you were here'.


Maybe not.

Damage got more dramatic as I approached the coast. I hit FM 124 and had to leave the mellow-dramatic 'what is a photographer?' bullshit for some other stretch of asphalt. I took a right turn into a low-hanging, January sun and headed towards High Island and the ocean. The above image was taken along Highway 87 looking south-west. Without the added words I think that picture is one of my eerier shots, like something out of a Cormac McCarthy novel.


In between the clusters of houses being rebuilt, all that seemed to remain was what the wind could not carry. Rusted vehicles and concrete slabs were partially buried by four months of drifting sand. It looked to me like roughly half of the houses were completely gone, but that is just my estimate. I've heard stories that make my guess-work seem a bit conservative.


I never got my barrings right while I was on Bolivar Peninsula. I couldn't find any of the recognizable structures and landmarks that I associated with my many trips down over the last two decades. Some where gone, others obscured by the debris and clean-up. I looked for the old World War II embankments I climbed on as a kid and for the Court House I went to for my 'Minor in Possession of an Alcoholic Beverage' ticket. I didn't know my exact location until I reached the very end of the peninsula, waiting for the ferry to take me closer to home.

Next time I come back, whether it's in months or in years, I'll find those spots that are waiting patiently in the recesses of my head. And if I can't find them, I'll just work on some new memories. Maybe another ticket from the Galveston County Sheriff.

And perhaps someday I'll go to a beach that fits a more stereotypical image of ivory sands and sapphire water, but I'm not planning on finding one anytime soon. If I ever do make it out that way, I'll be sure to send you a postcard.

Noriega

The Texas Journalist, published every semester by the University of Texas' School of Journalism, has run a slide show of pictures I took following State Representative Rick Noriega's campaign for United States Senate. Here is a link to the website, and below is the slide show.

Lubbock

Note: The following photos of University of Texas Football are copyright Texas Student Media. Even though I took them.


Cotton, oil and football. Boiling an entire state down to two commodities and a sport may seem a bit unfair, maybe even lazy. But when you are driving through the first two on your way to the third via a seven-hour, nine-highway, 400-mile trek, it’s tough to remember just what else matters in Texas.

This past weekend, our Texas Longhorns visited Lubbock to play Tech’s potent Red Raider football team. I secured a press pass using my UT credentials and dug up an old state atlas, a resource I hadn’t used in a number of years. This would be my first trip to ‘The Hub’, and after I had a good friend from Lubbock recite to me his favorite route from Austin, I realized that I’d be spending game day somewhere between Abilene and San Angelo without the aid of a decent map.

A motley collection of state highways, interstates and farm-to-market roads (71, 87, 83, 158, 2111, 153, 70, 20 and 84) got me to Lubbock in about a tank and a half of gas. I had to frequently resist the urge to stop and take photos, keeping in mind that not everyone in the car shares my passion for standing alongside roads taking pictures of nothing. This is a route I will have to travel again soon so that I can get it on film.

The sun set as we drove through cotton fields, oil fields and wind farms. The glow of Lubbock got brighter and brighter until we found ourselves just outside the city limits, the last place to purchase liquor. We stocked up and headed into town. I got to my friend’s house and we passed the 20 hours until kick-off in what appeared to be the same fashion as the locals: drinking and talking football.


Offensive tackle Tray Allen takes a few seconds for himself in the North end zone minutes before kickoff.

On paper, Jones AT&T Stadium (also known simply as 'The Jones') holds 53,000 people. That night, a record 56,333 found their way in to watch what many were predicting to be the biggest football game ever played in Lubbock.

This game wasn't just one university playing against another. This was the entire population of Lubbock against the dreaded Longhorns from ass-backwards Austin. In terms of community support and excitement, this game fell somewhere between the biggest high school football game of all time and a religious holiday.


Defensive tackle Roy Miller puts some serious pressure on Tech quarterback Graham Harrell. Harrell put on a clinic that night, converting what felt like every third down he met. Our defense played as hard as I've seen them all season, but between an officiating crew that seemed hell-bent on ignoring every instance of holding and a Texas offense that couldn't manage to stay on the field too long, their grit couldn't stop the Red Raiders from moving up and down the field.

The reasons for our offense's inability to get in their regular groove that night could be debated endlessly. But standing on that field, I can safely say that the roar of those Tech fans sounded something like a cross between an F-18 at full afterburner and a Rolling Stones concert. As level-headed as Colt and our offense undoubtedly are, I don't think they had been in hostile territory like that all season.


Defensive end Brian Orakpo is helped off the field after suffering a knee injury in the third quarter.


Miller gets ready to head back out on the field. Roy has proven to be pretty photogenic for me this season.


Head coach Mack Brown watches as Tech's offense moves towards the end zone with less than a minute remaining. Despite an impressive second-half comeback, the Longhorns would not be able to secure the win.


As the clock wound down, Tech fans stormed the field. I camped out behind a small barrier to avoid getting knocked down. I got a few shots before climbing off the field level and finding my way back into the brisk Lubbock night.

We drank and talked football again until sunrise. What went wrong? Where was the officiating? What would happen next? We found no answers, but determined that it's better to lick your wounds in good company and with some alright whiskey.


As we made our way down 84, 20, 70, 153, 2111, 158, 83, 87 and 71 towards Austin, I had plenty of time to think about my first trip to Lubbock. This loss hurt. Really bad. But at the same time, that twisting and turning we felt in our chests that Saturday night reaffirmed just how much we care about our football team. Those are our peers, and an upset in the panhandle is nowhere near enough to keep us from coming out next week.

And as for Lubbock, I didn't mind it too much. Beats the hell out of Dallas.

Ike

America loves a good disaster. It is not perfectly clear whether we are obsessed with heartbreak and destruction or if network news is obsessed for us. Whatever the reasons are, we love to shed a quick tear, maybe say a prayer, and move on to the next calamity.

Anderson Cooper and his team of make-up artists may have hit the road, but the real work is just getting started. This is when citizens roll up their sleeves and take back their homes and businesses. This is where the real story is.


Hurricane Ike made American landfall September 13, 2008 at 2:10 in the morning at Galveston, Texas.

The following is a selection of images and stories I recorded during a brief, 2-day trip to the coast, nine days after the storm passed over the Texas coast. I’ve put up a map that shows where I was for the readers who are not familiar with the area:



DAY ONE:


This image and the one at the beginning of this post were taken along Nasa Road 1. Dozens of marinas line the coast on the south side of the road, and almost every boat that had been at dock during the storm came loose.


Kory and Jeremy Wynegar had ridden the storm out with friends further inland. When they returned to their house in Taylor Lake Village, they found a foot of water in every room. They began to remove the ruined sections of drywall, pictured here, until a representative from their insurance company stopped by. They were informed that their house had lifted off the slab it was built on and had to be completely demolished. The Wynegars plan on building a new house on the same spot. "This is our home and our community," Kory said.


Pandy Surber waits outside her apartment on Todville Road, near Seabrook. She hasn't heard back from her insurance company and was told four days earlier that FEMA should arrive soon. The apartment is built on stilts over eight feet tall. The high water mark in her unit was about four feet above that.


The Seabrook Sailing Club, built in 1962.


Mike Scanlan and Peter O'Conner, both members of the Seabrook Sailing Club, survey damage to the structure.


The stilts are all that remain from a number of older homes on Todville Road.




Damage along Nasa Road 1.


Damage along FM 146, near Kemah.

Day one ended with a u-turn. I made it all the way to the police checkpoint at the entrance to Galveston Island and was turned back for lack of proper credentials.

DAY TWO:

I approached the same checkpoint 14 hours later and got myself on the island. For the time being, I am not disclosing my method of gaining access.


Island side of the bridge. Earth movers had cleared the roads a few days earlier, creating banks of debris and boats.


A private marine salvage company works to save a 40-ft sail boat that could be repaired and made sea-worthy again.


Damage along Seawall Blvd.


Cleaning, downtown Galveston.


Gary Jones and Mike Ragsdale sort through the debris in their store, separating what can be saved from what can not.


Downtown Galveston.


Cleaning, downtown Galveston.


Papers had not been delivered to the island since before the storm.


Damage, West-end, Galveston.


A Navy CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter over the West-end. The Sea Stallion is the biggest Helicopter the United States Armed Forces. The thing was loud.


I went to the airport, Scholes Field, hoping to see the Sea Stallion a little closer. The airport got hit hard, and there were no fences or barriers, so I walked right up to the tarmac as a CH-53 was loading 30 personnel. A police officer came up behind me, and I was expecting my cover to finally be blown, or that I had overstepped my boundaries. He said nothing, stood right next to me, and got out his own camera. I asked him when Galveston Police Department was getting one, motioning to the helicopter, which had to get on the runway and build up speed like an airplane. He chuckled, and I stepped away quickly.


Robert Thurber and Raymond Warren ignored the mandatory evacuation and stayed in their homes for the storm. Thurber's home received some water damage, but he did not seem too upset as he and his neighbor enjoyed lunch on the house's front porch. "My house is built at the highest point on the damn island. I flushed the toilet so that this son-a-bitch could take a bath!" Warren said, pointing at Thurber. As Warren pointed, I saw that his social security number was still written on the palm of his hand. The Galveston Police Department told anyone who stayed on the island to do this, to assist in the identification of corpses. When I asked why they didn't leave, Warren answered quite frankly. "I'm an ex-marine, and Bobby here is ex-Navy. He landed my sorry ass on Iwo Jima when I was 18. I went from a Private to a Sergeant in two weeks because we were losing so many men." Warren said he saw a lot on that island, and that it would take more than a little weather to get him off this one.

"When you write your story, tell 'em you found a couple Civil War veterans that stuck it out," Thurber called as I was leaving. We all shared a laugh and I said I would. The smile left Warren's face as he offered up one last quote: "All this, the storm and everything, it's life. It's just life."