By Richard Duval It was a trip way overdue on my list of places to photograph. The seasides of the Olympic Peninsula are well-noted for sheer beauty and spectacle; and I had to capture a slice of this grandeur for my portfolio. With only a short two days for which to work within, I settled on the beaches by LaPush and set off for my first visit to Second Beach. It’s a fairly easy walk from parking lot to the beach – green trees abound and the sound of the surf beckons as I make my way down the somewhat steep path, burdened as I always am with camera bag and tripod. I burst from the woods onto a graveyard of driftwood to the accompaniment of a pounding tide and a truly stunning seaside vista. This is what I came to capture! By Richard Duval After wandering up and down the shoreline for a bit, I select my spot and start to mentally compose the image I hope to capture. After I set up the tripod, I realize that while I like my spot, I have nothing in the foreground to give scale and definition. Now, behind me is a ton of driftwood typical of the beaches on the Olympic Pen. The sun is setting quickly though, so I frantically scramble for a piece of wood that will work in the foreground. After throwing my back out on several cleverly hidden-in-deep-sand-and-muck timbers, I find one that I can manage and start to drag it back to where I set up. With sudden alarm, I note the incoming tide taking dead aim at the camera, bag and tripod. There is no time to drag the bloody thing; I balance said log on shoulder and lumber at top speed toward camera, arriving in scant seconds to hoist bag and tripod up and out of the approaching tide. There I stand like a poor man’s Atlas shouldering a camera bag, a tripod and about 50 pounds of deadwood, sinking steadily into the sand while the sun sets magnificently in front of me. The tide recedes and I figure I've got just a few minutes to compose this photograph. Doing my best Al Oerter impression, I heave the limb out front as hard a throw as I can. It lands in a most unimpressive fashion about ten yards away and completely out of the frame. I sprint to the cursed log and drag it back into the frame. While I’m so engaged, the tide returns and heads straight for the not-so-near gear. I run back to my stuff and hoist it out of the way of the advancing swirls. Luck is with me and against me; the tide misses the gear but smacks the driftwood a mighty blow that sends it a couple dozen feet out of the frame. I race (well, stumble) to the log and drag it back, hustle (well, stagger) back to the camera, compose and shoot. I’ve got one eye on the tide, one eye on the log and nothing left for the image. My First At Second by Richard Duval This surreal ballet continues for nigh unto 10 minutes, as I jete' from log to camera and back again with all the zeal, if not the skill, of Baryshnikov, augmented by the regular fuete to avoid the tide from upsetting the tripod. The logical and somewhat simpler solution of simply moving me to where the tide has placed the log is ignored. “This is my image,” I mutters to myself, “No log, tide, or cold will defeat me.” A rather sudden temperature drop proves a delightful accompaniment to this choreography of agony. The sun drops like a sack of wet cement, and I snap furiously in between tidal assaults and a log that simply won't stay put. The sun show ends and as a final disdainful back-of-the-hand gesture, the tide falls back, the log cements itself and all is still . . . and near pitch black. I’ve lost about 10 pounds in water weight, the sweat now effectively chilling my overheated body. Like Walter Mitty, I stand bloody but unbowed; but not at all sure I photographed anything of value. I drag myself back to the trailhead, barely identifiable in the ever-thicker darkness. In fact, I can no longer see the trail in front of me. It’s only a half-mile or less to the car but it's an elevation upward; every muscle already aching from my log dance. ‘Tis a tortuous trudge made all the worse by the near complete lack of light. My photo buddy Big View Bill would have made it in ten minutes, even in the dark. It took me the better part of an hour, slowed by the intimate introduction I made with several trees that I swear were not on the trail when I came down. Staggering and falling into the parking lot (literally; I tripped over a root), the camera bag spills open and out falls the flashlight I keep in the bag for the occasions when I need illumination. I crush it with the blood-covered rock that cushioned my head when I fell. As I lay there, taking inventory of my limbs and feeling the beginnings of what will certainly be deadly leg cramps, I remember that photography is a means of creative expression that helps me unwind from life's pitfalls. May your next shoot be as peaceful but just in case, remember your waders and flashlights. Richard Duval www.duvalimages.com