Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

"Three Man Hoop Dance"

"Three Man Hoop Dance: Bodie, California" (c) Shawn Peterson, Scott Martin & Stu Jenks 2011

I didn't know until a day later, I got bit quite so badly by mosquitos the other night. And except for a California State Park Ranger who was apparently very frightened that twenty plus nocturnal photographers would damaged her already ruined gold mining ghost town, I had just the best time with many sweet, smart and good people last Tuesday night.

I did my own little hoop dance early in the evening (see the post below) and got in trouble with the Park Ranger during the sunset Magic Hour, shooting Bodie from a hill outside of where I was supposed to be. (I need to let it go with this Park Ranger, but Christ, Lance paid a fortune for the permit. They really could have been a bit more mellow considering the cash we put in their pocket. OK. Enough about the Ranger.)

Shooting with new freinds and old:

Watching Lance shoot a circular wooden structure ("An homage to you, Stu," he said. I'm honored.)

Tom shooting a lit window with his four by five camera, smiling all the way.

Tim enjoying shooting through old windows at old lightbulbs and at other old things.

Russell's laughter echoing down the dirt streets.

And other folk just having the time of their life.

It was impossible for me not to be taking into the joy of the night.

And the Park Ranger's control issues did add a humourous tension to the shoot ("She's coming?" he loudly whispered to me, as I stood atop a decaying wall, spinning Christmas Lights. I turned them off and waited for her to pass.)

Shawn came up with the idea of the above image, of doing a big stack of digital images to get those star trails (Thanks Dr. Brown for your Stack-A-Matic) and having me just doing a little hoop dancing among the ruins. Scott was on board too, helping Shawn compose the shoot and light-painting the site. Nice job, boys.

Me? I had my Rollei behind all the action, shooting a tighter shot than the above image. But I wasn't so interested in the Rollei. My main job was to walk the high wall, throw down some good hoops and not break my neck. I did my job. (Perhaps the Park Ranger had reason for concern.) We wished we could have exposed this image for another hour or two, but 1 a.m. arrived and our time was up at Bodie, California, the Disneyland of decaying California mining ghost towns.

Shawn did all the post-production work on this image: the toning, the stacking, the cleaning, the cropping. OK, I did crop it a hair more, and darking that back wall a bit, but it's Shawn's thing, with a lot of Scott and a bit of Stu. A three S image. A Shawn/Scott/Stu image. A nocturnal collaboration among three artists. A delightful time for the three of us, except for these ten bug bites that still itch like the devil on my legs and arms.

A small price to pay for sharing good times with good friends. And a good image to show for it all, too.

"Bodie Hoop Dance"

 

"Bodie Hoop Dance, California" (c) 2011 Stu Jenks

Bodie is an odd place, a spot on the planet where violent Capitalism occurred, where gold was carved from them there hills. I know too much to find it quint. The dead Native People. The raped land. The mean streets. The greed in which greed is too small a word.

This hoop dance was taken in front of the ruins of the James Stuart Cain house, The Big Boss' house, a house where one of the California State Park rangers actually lives. It's not really a ghost town for it seems a half dozen rangers live in its ruins year round. Bodie is an strange tourist trap if you ask me. But given the sad spirits that roams its streets, I had a delightful time shooting the place and other places last week, with Lance, Scott, Shawn, Tim, Jill, Andy, Tom, Russell, Janet, Dan, Al, and many others. Good folk all. (It's too bad the ranger who was our guide that night in Bodie was so frightened as to feel a need to control our movement so much, given the large sum of cash she was given at the start of the night to allow the nocturnal photographers to gently roam amongst its ruined streets. But it was what it was.)

Bottom line: I had fun being with new friends and old, and we had fun doing what we love: Shooting photographs at night. If only the mosquitos hadn't eaten me alive. Then again, it just makes me grateful that I live in Tucson where mosquitos are slow and relatively easy to kill.

But I didn't really like Bodie that much, but I'm happy I went. And the Travertine Hot Springs at the end of the night washes away my sins, or at least cleaned a couple of them off.

"Navajo Power Plant"

"Navajo Power Plant, Page, Arizona" (c) 2011 Stu Jenks

"Chapel Ruins, Eagle Creek, Arizona"

"Chapel Ruins, Eagle Creek, Arizona"
(c) 2008 Stu Jenks

"The Color" (c) 2007

“The Color: The Mines of Copper Creek, Pinal County, Arizona” © 2007 Stu Jenks

       The 4 x 4 travel book says some guy named Frank Sibley came here, from Minnesota, around the turn of the century. Started the Copper Creek Mining Company, here in the Galiuro Mountains. Got 50,000 pounds of copper out of the ground, with only 90 men in 1905, they say. Build a mansion, brought in a post office, had a general store. Sibley even carried in a narrow gauge railroad locomotive, on the backs of a mule train. Ran the ore out on some skinny tracks for a while, until the Color got played out in 1915.
       Only ten years of mining did this to these hills. Sweet Jesus Christ. Well, there were some attempts at silver mining in Copper Creek in the 1860’s but the Apache scared off the white folk they say. (Can see it now. Apache men having lunch atop one of these hills. See some Whites on horseback. Pick up their rifles, they shoot at them. White men run away. Apache men go back to eating lunch.) And there was some other prospecting throughout the years but nothing like the years of Sibley.

“The Earth has been hurt,” I say quietly aloud, from atop of what I think is the Bluebird mine (or is it the Old Reliable, or the General Lee or the Glory Hole Mine? The map is a bit vague on these details.) The top of this hill has been taken clear off, leaving the bare bones of the mountain exposed. Bright oranges and reds blaze from the boulders, colors that were never meant to see the light of day. Topsoil’s been gone for a hundred years. Nothing's growing on these empty terraces. Some blue finches play here and there, but their chirps echo unnaturally loud off the rocks.
       I drink some more water, take a few pics and begin to think about heading back down to the creek bed. Wasn’t going to take any shots from up here anyways, for try as I may, I can't find an angle of beauty or even just some interesting composition. Finally, I think 'Fuck it. Just take some shots for the blog, so that others can see the Hurt.'
       Sliding a bit in my Vasque boots as I head down now. Soles are wearing out on these shoes. (I hike a lot.) Need more grip than I have right now. And even though I’m walking on the remains of an old wagon road that took raw ore downhill, it’s still steep and slick and as much talus as dirt. And I'm a bit dehydrated to boot.

           Bottom of the hill now. Tall slope of boulders and other crap pushed or dynamited from above. I see some Copper Oxide rocks to my left, little ones. The turquoise blue color leaps out at me, out of the grayness and death. I walk over and pick up a piece, then another, then a third. Looking at them, I put a few in my Levi's watch pocket. Stow a few more pieces in my camera bag. Make nice gifts I suppose. A bit of beauty out of the death of this place. Part of The Color, the rich ore that comes out of the ground, that brought White Men out here in the first place, to the West, hurting the land as they go, to get something of great value for their hands but not their hearts. Doesn't matter if it’s the Gold of Deadwood, South Dakota, or the Copper of Copper Creek, Arizona. Same, same.

      I take out my D30 and pop an image of The Color in my hand. I sigh. Time to head back to the truck, I suppose. Not to get too Woo Woo, but I haven't felt this kind of Hurt On Land ever in my life. Feels spooky too, like more than men died here.
       Well, got a couple miles to go, to get back to the truck and then 10 miles of teeth-rattling track before I hit pavement again in Mammoth. Best get going for I'm running out of water, too. Must be over 100 if it's a degree.
       I look to the eastern ridge and see the two bright white company trucks I spied earlier. They haven’t moved but I've heard their voices. I noticed some capped and locked core sample pipes as I walked in too. Guess that's what they are. I don't know. Hear Copper prices are up. Bet they are thinking of mining again. Shame. Land's been hurt bad enough.
       Funny. I’ve seen terraced mines before. Never felt this kind of sadness before, looking at the mines, whether it's the slag heeps of Green Valley or the big hole of the Lavender Pit in Bisbee. Then again, I’ve never walked on the dead carcass of the land like I have today, always just seen the Earth’s bones from a distance. Funny how that is. Distance, I mean. From far way, it's just a mine. From close up, it's a hurt friend.
       A little water in the creek but not much. Enough to let cottonwood trees and grass grow and give the cattle something to drink. Not far now to the truck. Just around that bend and up. 
      Suddenly, I hear a forceful sound, like wind being forced out what? A nose? A nose. I turn and see the Brahma bull. He's close but a bunch of creek flotsam separates us.
       "Hey buddy. How are you?" I say as I get my camera out of my bag.
       He moves just a little, shifting on his feet. I pop a half dozen shots. He doesn't know what to think.
       "Thanks, buddy," I say.
       I holster my Canon and walk down the old mine road. I sure could use that bottle of Coke Zero I have in the cooler in the truck. I look back. Brahma still there. I smile.
       I almost can taste the Coke.