Some of you may know the story of Kevin Carter, a young and promising photojournalist who brought us the hunger of Sudan in full force. And when one really thinks about it — when one looks deeply into the lives of the photographers who make a living off the worst facets of human history — we may realize that their mind contains an imprint far beyond the objective realm of film or zeros or ones.

I know because I’ve seen it first-hand, in a National Geographic photographer whose face carries the contours of his journeys in sad, sinking lines.

We may thumb through an old split-second in the spread of Life. We may look at a grainy representation of a misspent war. And that film may even last long – always longer than the life of the man or woman who recorded it. And the photograph lives beyond the photographer. The photograph becomes the photographer until we forget who was behind it. The photograph may tell stories of sadness or triumph. It may give glory to war, or it may embarrass the very notion that we should have a thing called war — it may make war look like an expensive game of bloody chess in the exacting display of a pompous plumage of power.

But most often, unless we are behind the viewfinder at that exact moment in time, we’re just observers looking at silver halide crystals or dot matrix pixels. And even if we are the photographer – active seekers of stories and truth we will always come to the full realization of the inevitability in certain truths.

Such was the case when Marcus Halevi was shooting for the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune and was sent on assignment to nearby Plum Island during a bad storm. A hundred feet away was a lonely woman, drinking and smoking as the wind, waves, and rain pummeled her frail body.

Photo by Marcus Halevi

Halevi saw its truth. So he recorded. What happened next probably still remains vivid in his memory. The sand embankment gave way after a pummeling wave hit – and the wave’s foamy fingers dragged the woman farther from the shore. He took the photos, and could have done nothing more — even if he tried. Fifty feet away is a pinch-length with a camera, but worlds away to make any rescue.

Photo by Marcus Halevi

Did you ever know who took this photo? Maybe not.

Or how about this one? Less likely.

As for the first, it was snapped by Diane Arbus, who committed suicide in July of 1971. The second was George Fiske, who — if it weren’t for his untimely death by suicide by gunshot — would have been the Ansel Adams before Ansel Adams.

And Carter? That young, Pulitzer-winning photographer who showed us our own brutality as humans – our carelessness and disregard towards our own species? Well, he had reached the pinnacle of his career in 1994 by winning a Pulitzer for this gut-wrenching image — an image that became the permanent frame of film in his mind and much of the world consciousness.

After winning his “prize” for showing us reality in 1993, he procured a hose, ran the line to his car, and purposefully — with the sad sunken eyes of a man who has seen too much — took his own life.

“I am haunted by the vivid memories of killings & corpses & anger & pain,” he once said. “Of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners . . . “

On the long road trips I took as a kid, my Father had this habit of pointing out the window at any dilapidated old barn we passed, saying, “Now that’s the house I’m going to buy for you when you’re all grown up.”

These days, I live in a city apartment, and I’m just waiting for my father to hold good on his promise and buy me a nice abandoned shack in some remote valley. I got the shot above in northern Washington, on a road trip of my own up to Vancouver, B.C.

Road Near Nooksack

The woods in northern Washington and the Pacific Northwest coastal region were once home to native American tribes, whose worlds were shaped by the landscape and the local wildlife. Their reverence for the animals is reflected in their art, in stylized drawings of salmon, raven, deer and other creatures.

The towns up there still bear native names, some of them funny to native English speakers – Lake Ketchum, Skagit, Chuckanut. I finally pulled off the road in a place called Nooksack, hoping to get a snapshot of the town’s name and its clunky green bridge.

I never did get that shot. The road wound down and away from the bridge into open fields. What I found instead was a sleepy rural community with the remains of better times – old, rotting hulls of homes with oddities still stuffed inside their sheds – mustard and ketchup bottles, napkins, machinery.

I also discovered empty fields littered with broken trucks and tractors, rusting and melting into the grasses.

Before and after the devastating blaze that destroyed half of Nooksack.

The city of Nooksack had a population of just 851 in the 2000 census. Although it’s named for the Noxwsa7aq tribe that originally lived there, the city itself has only a small portion of Native Americans left. Nooksack experienced growth in the early 1900s, but a fire at one time cut through and left the town devastated. It was never rebuilt, and quickly declined. The post office is no longer operational, and the town now contracts major services from a nearby rival city.

Video slideshow of a March walk in Nooksack, courtesy ostosp

Today, Nooksack’s only attractions are a couple gas stations, churches, a drive-in, and a graveyard near the edge of the city. I found an abandoned home sagging into the mud beside a field of old machinery, overgrown with vines, mosses, and lichen. A rusting barrel collected rain droplets, and I regretted that I couldn’t capture the patter and plop of the rain with my camera.

Rust and lichen

Living in Oakland, California, I’ve seen decay and age, but they happen differently here. I’m accustomed to dirty houses with mold slowly creeping around their foundations. I often bike by boarded-up storefronts with aging signs and wonder about the stories of each. But in these cities, it’s often wind and vandalism that wear away the abandoned facades. With so many storefronts plopped side by side, and the roads still vibrantly rumbling with cars, nature doesn’t stand too much chance to grow right through the abandoned structures.

In the countryside, there’s more room for objects to sit just out of sight, forgotten and left to decay. Plants, fungi, and insects play with and overtake them — letting them melt into the landscape and transform. In Nooksack, I spent somewhere between an hour and three, walking around and snapping pictures, and I didn’t see another person. It seemed possible that no one had set foot in those fields for years.

At the time, I was shooting with a little 2.5mp point and shoot I’d bought in late 2002. It was just a snapshot camera, to record memories of vacations. Eventually as the air misted, and rain began falling again in earnest around me, its brave little screen finally fizzed and went dead. Back in my car, I opened up the camera, pulled everything out, and left the parts out to dry.

Since the camera was dead, I didn’t get any pictures from Canada that day. But I don’t regret visiting Nooksack – it was more surprising and rewarding than any urban trip led by a AAA Guidebook. In fact, this became one of my motivations to finally get a dSLR and learn the art of manual photography. I haven’t gone on a long trip since then, but I’ve spent a lot of time exploring the Bay Area and capturing local treasures of growth and decay.

My story from that rural town isn’t complete yet. One of these days I plan to return to Washington state, Canon 30D in hand, hop out into its muddy thoroughfare, and get the snapshot of the sign that says “Nooksack.”

Standing tall above the fence and the vintage cars in the background, this Route 66 icon waits day after day for travelers to venture off the nearby freeway and have their picture taken.

In the golden days of Route 66, the Jackrabbit Trading Post was a popular stop. Located conveniently between the Grand Canyon and Petrified Forest/Painted Desert National Park, it was a perfect place to stop and get a refreshing drink, let the kids stretch their legs, and peruse the turquoise jewelry and wool rugs for sale from the nearby Navajo Reservation.

Today, the original Jackrabbit still stands tall, the store is still stocked with Native American jewelry and art, and ice cold cherry cider is ready to cool down weary travelers, but instead of stopping in droves, travelers whiz by on the “new” Interstate that replaced the two-lane Main Street of America.

For those willing to take the road less traveled, a charming, if worn, surprise awaits. As soon as you leave the interstate, and turn on to what is now known as Jackrabbit Road, you are traveling on Old Route 66.

After traveling about a half mile down the original Mother Road, experiencing what it must have felt like to travel through the empty and desolate desert, a large billboard rises into view, featuring the Jackrabbit logo and the trading post’s famous “Here It Is” slogan.

The giant Jackrabbit and trading post on the south side of the road show signs of their age, but are charming and inviting nonetheless. It’s easy to slip back in time in your mind to the time when roadside attractions were the rage, and unique outposts like this were an integral part of a vacation and not just another quick stop in the rush to reach your destination.

Rabbit designs are tucked everywhere. Look for little wooden rabbits on the fence posts, wrought iron rabbits near the ice machine, and even a giant rabbit covering the entire far end of the building. Inside, if you look carefully, you might even find a fabled “Jackalope,” a mythical creature that resembles a Jackrabbit with the horns of an antelope.

After leaving Jackrabbit Trading Post, travelers can venture down vestiges of the original Route 66 from the store to Joseph City, which is about 10 miles to the east. The road is still maintained, and in good enough condition for travel by car or even motor home. Simply turn east (or left) from the parking lot of Jackrabbit Trading Post, and follow the road. It will lead you right back to Interstate 40 at Joseph City, where, after stepping back in time for a short while you can rejoin your fellow travelers on the fast-paced modern freeway.