• Bio
  • Blog
  • Film
  • Home
  • Photography
  • Publications
    • Editorial

J.W. Eberle

J.W. Eberle

Category Archives: Photography

Photographing a Very Nearly Almost Total Eclipse

24 Thursday Aug 2017

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

amwriting, camera, camera settings eclipse, eclipse, eclipse photography, humility, life, partial solar eclipse, photography, solar eclipse, Tacoma, total eclipse of the sun, Universe, Washington, Writing Life

Eclipse high in the sky. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.Even 200 miles from the path of totality, the solar eclipse was all anyone could talk about this week in Washington. In the mad scramble for special viewing glasses and the endless debates over whether it was worth it to brave the slog of traffic heading south, I found myself in my office’s parking lot at 10:00am on the auspicious date of August 21, 2017.

For the first time since 1918, a total solar eclipse would be visible across the entire lower 48. In Tacoma, it was calculated that we would see 94% of a total eclipse. The moment had arrived.

I’m not the kind of person who can not take a photo of a major celestial event, so I had my trusty Canon with me. Even with 6% of the Sun visible behind the disk of the Moon, pointing a camera straight into the sky for any length of time is a sure way to melt your sensor. Sunlight carries a lot of energy and camera lenses are designed to focus light into a tiny area — exactly the way a magnifying glass cooks ants. I wasn’t taking any chances.

Eclipse camera setup. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle. A few weeks before the event, I ordered a 4-inch-by-4-inch sheet of mylar solar viewing film and built a homemade lens adapter using the ring from a mason jar lid (my wife’s brilliant idea) and cardboard from the envelope the film came in. We were also lucky to snag a few pairs of what felt like the last remaining eclipse glasses on earth.

That morning, as I stepped outside, nothing felt abnormal, although a quick peek through my glasses showed that the Moon was already starting to cross in front of the Sun. I my tripod setup. Unfortunately but not surprisingly, autofocus doesn’t work on an object 93 million miles away, so I had to focus manually. I couldn’t look through the viewfinder at the Sun, even with the filter on the front of the lens, so instead I set my focus on some wispy clouds on the horizon — as close to infinity as I could get without burning my retinas.

I found some base exposure settings online and started from there, bracketing a bit (but not enough, in hindsight) for more exposed and less exposed shots as the eclipse progressed:

First Contact:

  • ISO 100, f/4, 1/1,000-1/4,000 second
  • ISO 200, f/5.6, 1/1,000-1/4,000 second
  • ISO 400, f/8, 1/1,000-1/4,000 second

Thin Crescent:

  • 1/500-1/2,000 second

Eclipse in black and white. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

Then, it was just a matter of aiming the camera up and clicking the shutter. At this point, my coworkers started filtering out to see the spectacle. We chatted and passed around a handful of glasses so everyone could see the Sun disappearing behind the Moon and watched the leaves cast tiny crescents onto the pavement.

Eclipse through the leaves. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.As the Sun was consumed, the light changed. The sky took on an early shade of grey-blue, like the color just before dawn. The temperature dropped by at least five degrees. A steady breeze picked up, as if a storm were approaching — but without a cloud in the sky.

I looked up through my viewing glasses. At maximum, the partial eclipse so so close to totality that I almost lost the sun in the vast, inky blackness above me. In a moment, the massive star at the center of our solar system was nearly invisible. An optical illusion left nothing behind except a thin, blood red sliver. I felt so small in that moment. For two minutes and forty seconds, I was a microscopic being on a tiny rock orbiting a small star in an unremarkable corner of an average galaxy in a sea of galaxies. Our triumphs and failures, our progress, our regress, our wars; they’re fleeting and inconsequential in that vastness. The size and scope of the universe hit me harder than I had expected and it was stupendous.

Scarlet crescent. Partial solar eclipse at maximum. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

Somehow, in all of that, I managed to keep clicking the shutter button. Gradually, the sun returned. The shadows softened, the sky went back to blue, and I felt warm light on my skin again. One by one, my coworkers went back inside. I lingered. For a while, I didn’t even take any pictures. I just looked up and watched the slow, predictable movement of the Sun and Moon above and tried to grasp the intensely surreal feeling of standing under an (almost) total eclipse of the sun for as long as I could.

I’m still a little sad I didn’t pick up and head to Oregon to view totality, but I’m grateful I had the chance to view it at all (the weather in the Pacific Northwest, the cloudiest place in the United States, was perfect). A partial eclipse is amazing, but from what I’ve heard and seen online, totality is on a completely different level. Photographic the moment was a fun challenge, too, and something I’d like to try again.

So, I find myself addicted to eclipses and researching where the next ones will pop up and wondering if I might be there to experience them. July 2, 2019 in Argentina? December 4, 2021 amidst the penguins in Antarctica? April 8, 2024 in Pennsylvania? Who knows?

Sun disappearing behind the Moon. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle. — 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker in Tacoma, WA and a bit of an eclipse junkie. He usually forgets to bracket and ends up with a whole bunch of identically exposed photos as a result. Remember to bracket, kids.

Follow him on Twitter or subscribe to the monthly email newsletter to receive exclusive content and zero spam.

Advertisements

Hell on Earth: Dachau

11 Friday Aug 2017

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Travel, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

concentration camp, Dachau, Europe, Germany, history, Holocaust, KZ Dachau, travel, travel photography, travelogue, WWII

Barbed wire fence at Dachau Concentration Camp. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

When I was in high school, we read Night by Elie Wiesel, a semi-autobiographical account of the Wiesel’s experience in a Nazi concentration camp during World War II. In one scene, a child is hanged and someone asks where God is amid the horror. Someone else responds, “Where He is? This is where–hanging here from this gallows…” I remember putting the book down for a few minutes before continuing. In that moment, I thought I understood the Holocaust.

But I did not truly understand the scale of the genocide that was committed by the Nazis until I visited Dachau.

The first thing you notice when you arrive at the concentration camp at Dachau is how close it is to everything. Less than half an hour away from the center of Munich’s bustling metropolis by train, the infamous Nazi concentration camp sits on the edge of the small town of Dachau. I had expected a site of mass incarceration and slaughter to be somewhere remote, not in the heart of an idyllic Bavarian village. This thought — of how easy it is for atrocities to be committed when people are willing to look the other way — felt like a weight on my shoulders as the bus navigated the winding residential streets to the entrance of KZ Dachau.

Stepping through the infamous wrought iron gate emblazoned with the words Arbeit Macht Frei (Work makes you free), the crowd of tourists dispersed. In a moment, we were virtually alone on the camp’s roll call grounds, where prisoners were made to stand for hours on end each day in every kind of weather.

Arbeit Macht Frei Gate at Dachau. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

Dachau was built in 1933 to house 6,000 political prisoners. Over time, more and more prisoners were crammed in — including Jews, Roma and LGBTQ prisoners. By 1945, it held 31,000 people in inhuman conditions. Tens of thousands were killed here, as evidenced by accounts from survivors as well as the cold, meticulous records kept by the Nazis. Here, at Dachau, systematic dehumanization and mass murder was perfected and exported to camps across the Third Reich.

For a few years in school, it seemed that every book that was assigned in English class was about the Holocaust. I remember thinking it was excessive to keep forcing us to read about a tragedy that unfolded decades before I was born. What was the point of rehashing the past?

Concentration Camp Sink. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

Years later, as I stood in a reconstructed barrack and looked at two sinks that were once shared by 2,000 malnourished, I felt, tangibly, the humanity of the people who suffered here and understood why we must never forget what happened here, why we have to keep learning about it and why we have to remain vigilant to prevent such an atrocity from happening again in our lifetime.

Near the entrance of the camp, there is a large monument affirming — along with the Christian and Jewish sites dedicated to the memory of those who died — a commitment to learn the lessons of the Holocaust and pass them on. Like a modern-day Rosetta Stone, it’s written in four languages (French, English, German, and Russian) and reads: “May the example of those who were exterminated here between 1933-1945 because they resisted Nazism help to unite the living for the defense of peace and freedom and in respect for their fellow men.” It’s a reminder that is as important today as it was the day this camp was liberated and I hope it will always serve as a potent reminder of the dangers of demonizing those who are different than us.

Dachau Memorial. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

  • Where: Dachau Concentration Camp
  • How to Get There: 25 minutes by S-Bahn from Munich, then about 10 minutes by bus from the train station to the entrance of the camp.
  • What To See: The museum housed in the camp’s maintenance building, the reconstructed barracks, and the Jewish and Christian memorials. Give yourself plenty of time.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer, and global traveler based in Tacoma, WA. This is the third in a three-part travel series about a recent trip he and his wife took to Europe. Previously: Munich and the Isle of Iona.

Follow him on Twitter or subscribe to the monthly email newsletter to receive exclusive content, reading suggestions, and zero spam.

The Old/New City: Munich

08 Saturday Jul 2017

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Travel, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

2017, Englischer Garten, Europe, Germany, history, ice cream, Munich, Nymphenburg, Olympiapark, photography, Rathaus, travel, travel photography, travel tips, travelogue, weekend in Munich, world travelers, writing, Writing Life

Munich 2017

There’s nothing like summer in Munich — somewhat due to the heat and partly to humidity, but mostly to the Bavarian charm of one of Europe’s great cities and the rest to the laid back, almost Mediterranean atmosphere that has led some to jokingly dub it Italy’s northernmost city. Personally, I think it’s the ice cream and bicycles.

We arrived in Germany for a whirlwind weekend at the beginning of June. Having just arrived from Scotland, we were not dressed for the sweltering weather. Luckily, Germans don’t mess around when it comes to ice cream. Ice cream is to Munich what Starbucks is to Seattle.

Munich 2017My wife had a German exchange student in high school who now lives in the city and he was able to score us a guestroom at a university dormitory located in the central Maxvorstadt district. He and his girlfriend were also kind enough to show us around the city and get us (a little bit) off the beaten path.

In many ways, Munich is two cities occupying the same place. It is a city firmly rooted in its past, first as a 12th century monastery and village and later as the capital of the Kingdom of Bavaria. It is also a city moving unrelentingly toward the future as a center of arts and industry in Europe (Munich is the home of BMW, a plethora of universities, and several world-class museums).

Indeed, Munich has a long history of reinventing itself with the times. Apud Munichen (literally “near the monks”) was originally founded by Henry the Lion as a way to take advantage of the lucrative medieval salt trade. In the early-19th century, it restyled itself as an imperial showcase and embarked on a massive construction boom. After WWI, Munich became a hotbed for communism and provided the backdrop for the growth of the nascent Nazi Party. Following heavy bombing in WWII, Munich rebuilt the historic city center and became a destination for refugees and immigrants in post-war Europe.

Munich 2017

Today, 38% of the population is foreign-born, making Munich a cosmopolitan crossroads of cultures from around the world. We were able to find pretty good Korean food in addition to Bavarian classics like Schweinshaxe (pork knuckle) and Klos (potato dumplings). We even found an American store in Rotkreuzplatz (which, as expected, sold primarily barbecue sauce and scented candles). True to their city’s international identity, the residents of Munich are generally bilingual (or trilingual or quadrilingual), which made practicing our German difficult, as even a second’s hesitation signals to everyone that they should seamlessly switch to speaking English.

Nymphenburg Palace in Munich. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

Our tour of Munich took us to Nymphenburg, one of the continent’s largest royal residences, which features both a stunning baroque palace and 490-acres of forests and lakes which are now open to the public. We also spent a warm afternoon wandering through the Englischer Garten, Munich’s version of Central Park (albeit larger), where we enjoyed the truly bizarre sight of people surfing a river in the middle of a city park.

Surfers ride a standing wave on the Eisbach in Munich's Englischer Garten. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle.

We finished our trip to Munich with a walk around the site of the 1972 Summer Olympics, where we enjoyed part of a free outdoor concert and then watched the sun set over the Olympic Stadium. In total, we were in Munich for just two-and-a-half days. We will certainly be back for more ice cream in this wonderful city of contradictions.

The glass canopy of the Olympic Stadium in Munich was designed to evoke the Alps, located just south of the city. Copyright 2017 Jonny Eberle..

  • Where: Munich, Germany
  • How to Get There: Easily accessible by S-Bahn from Franz Josef Strauss International Airport in about 40 minutes. Germany’s public transportation system is so good, it’s practically science fiction.
  • Where to Get an Offbeat Scoop: Der Verrückte Eismacher (the Crazy Ice Maker)
  • What to Drink: Skip the masses of tourists at the Hofbräuhaus and head to the Wirtshaus Görreshof for an Augustiner Helles or Hefeweizen
  • Where to See Urban River Surfing: Englischer Garten

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Tacoma, WA. This is the second in a three-part travel series about a recent trip he and his wife took to Europe. Next up: Dachau. Previously: The Isle of Iona

Follow him on Twitter or subscribe to the monthly email newsletter to receive exclusive content, reading suggestions, and zero spam.

In the Footsteps of St. Columba: The Isle of Iona

26 Monday Jun 2017

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Travel, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

2017, Highland cows, Inner Hebrides, Iona, Iona Abbey, Isle of Iona, life, photography, Scotland, St Columba, thin place, travel, travel photography, travelogue, world travelers, writing, Writing Life

img_3366_zpszowqqpvj

You have to really want to get to the Isle of Iona. A speck of land 3 miles long by 1.5 miles wide off the western coast of Scotland, Iona is remote. To get there from Glasgow requires traveling three-hours by train, one hour by ferry, one hour by bus, and fifteen minutes by ferry (yes, two ferries). But once you’re there, you can feel that the roots of the island run deep.

Iona was settled in the 6th century by St. Columba, who sailed there from his native Ireland with his followers to found a new monastic community. For centuries, the community flourished far from the authority of Rome, where it blended Christian and Celtic belief.

Today, the island has a little over a hundred permanent inhabitants, not counting sheep and shaggy Highland cows.

img_3110_zpssrazne5p

But there is more here than meets the eye. On Iona, the ancientness emanates from every stone. The island has long been a magnet for pilgrims. It has a reputation as a “thin place” where the veil between the physical and the ethereal is especially thin. You can feel it in the 13th century abbey church, where ferns grow in cracks between medieval stones. You can feel it on the hike along the ancient pilgrimage route from the abbey to the rocky shores of St. Columba’s Bay. You can feel it while walking on the windswept beaches or at the foot of a cross with enigmatic carving eroded away by rain and salt.

img_3284_zpsonwgfbuc

Iona’s status as a sacred isle is well-deserved. There is something here. Like most ancient sites I’ve visited, I felt a sense of the many layers of stories that have played out on this small Hebridean isle. It’s evident when looking at the Gaelic place names, which translate into intriguing snippets of lore — places with names like Height of the Storm, Port of the False Man, and Fort of the Ruins. Each one a folk tale in miniature.

Beyond the history and the natural beauty, Iona is a place that encourages weary pilgrims to rest and re-center. Whether it’s a solitary walk down one of the island’s two roads or enjoying a local scotch with friends at Martyr’s Bay, it’s one of the few unspoiled places just beyond the reach of the world and all its turmoil.

img_3140_zpsrebeiw5b

There is peace here. There is room for reflection. And there is comfort in its stability. Iona has survived the rise and fall of empires for one-and-half thousand years. Iona reminds me that our lives are fleeting and our individual mark upon the world is small and quickly forgotten, but there are places — distant specks of land in the sea — where time moves slowly. Such places will be there long after we are gone; our triumphs and mistakes nothing more than dust. That is a good thing to remember when we get caught up in the crises of the moment.

Iona is a remarkable island, not just for its history and beauty, but also for its ability to cling to you. As the small passenger ferry steamed away from the dock and headed back to the Isle of Mull, I couldn’t help but feel as if a small voice was whispering to me, telling me that someday, I would return.

img_3203_zpsvciksx4h

  • Where: Isle of Iona, Inner Hebrides, Scotland
  • How to Get There: Train from Glasgow to Oban, ferry to Craignure, bus to Fionnphort, ferry to Iona
  • Where to Stay: St. Columba Hotel
  • What to Drink: Jura Superstition Single Malt Scotch
  • What to Beware Of: Sheep droppings, bogs, the bull

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Tacoma, WA. This is the first in a three-part travel series about a recent trip he and his wife took to Europe. Next up: Munich and Dachau.

Follow him on Twitter or subscribe to the monthly email newsletter to receive exclusive content and zero spam.

24 Hours in Astoria

06 Monday Jun 2016

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Travel, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

24 hours in Astoria, am writing, Astoria, Astoria Column, beach, bridge, Civil War, Columbia River, Fort George Brewery, Fort Stevens, Goonies, Lewis and Clark, Oregon, oregon trail, Pacific Ocean, Peter Iredale, photography, PNW, roadtrip, shipwreck, sushi, travel, travelogue, weekend trip, writing, WWII

img_2671_zpsefer4pwp

The Astoria-Megler Bridge spends most of its 4-mile span connecting Oregon and Washington close to the water before rising 196 feet into the sky like a roller coaster from hell. Heading up the slope, we were either going to die or end up in Astoria, Oregon.

Over Memorial Day weekend, my wife, sister-in-law, and a friend roadtripped down Highway 101 to this quaint town in northwest Oregon. Where the Columbia River meets the Pacific Ocean sits the oldest permanent American settlement on the West Coast. In all that time, it hasn’t grown much, but it has developed a very quirky and endearing personality to go along with its fascinating history. This is the story of how we spent 24 hours in Astoria and didn’t even go to the Goonies house.

I firmly believe that a town’s heart and soul is in its food, so we wasted no time in heading to the highest rated spot in town: Fort George Brewery. It was everything a Northwest brewpub should be. It was in a two-story converted warehouse in downtown Astoria, most of the staff had lumberjack beards, and they had subtle twists on all the PNW staples (include tuna fish and chips and a Filthy Burger worthy of the name).

We then trekked across another bridge out to Fort Stevens State Park. Despite misting rain and a stiff onshore wind, we braved the sandy beach to behold the wreck of the Peter Iredale. The Peter Iredale ran aground in a storm in 1906 and has been rusting away ever since.

img_2321_zpsv0iz4tob

With the tide in, we couldn’t get very close to the wreck, so we had to settle for taking a few hundred photos (Above: The only one of mine that really turned out. Thanks to Bethany for pointing out the spot where I could capture the reflection in the beach).

After wandering around in the dunes and discovering a neat lean-to made out of driftwood, we wandered inland to Fort Stevens itself. Originally constructed by the Union Army during the Civil War to defend the Columbia River from a Confederate attack from the Pacific, the fort stood guard over the Oregon coast from 1863-1947. To this day, it is the only military fort in the continental United States to be fired on by an enemy during wartime since 1812 — it was shelled in the summer of 1942 by a Japanese submarine.

img_2566_zpsca53hygv

The fort itself is a maze of concrete bunkers and battery placements that you can explore. It has a haunted quality about it (and a family of very irritated birds that were nesting in the tunnels) that made it a photographer’s dream come true. We spent a couple of hours wandering the storerooms and machine gun nests where nervous young men used to watch the sea for approaching enemy ships.

We also found some outbuildings in the woods, tangled in blackberry bushes and ferns, with some excellent light for portraits. If you’ve never had your photo taken at a decommissioned military base, you’re missing out.

We capped off our day with some of the best sushi I have had the pleasure to eat in my entire life. Who would’ve thought that such fine food was hiding in Astoria, but Tora Sushi delivered.

The next morning, we ventured out to Astoria’s Sunday farmer’s market. When it comes to markets, Astoria doesn’t pull any punches. Four city blocks were cordoned off and two large parking lots were pressed into service to accommodate the sheer number of booths. There was a mind boggling array of goat milk products, produce, knick-knacks, food trucks, and exactly one goat on a leash. Based on the crowd, I can only assume that every single human being in Astoria was in attendance.

img_2660_zpsjmzrpag9

Our final stop was an awe-inspiring, but supremely weird local landmark — the Astoria Column. This 125-foot tower sits on a hill overlooking the city and the surrounding countryside. It was build in 1926 (I assume on a dare) in homage to the Trajan Column in Rome and dedicated to John Jacob Astor, who never actually went to the town that bares his name, but whose fur trading business founded the settlement.

Of course, it’s not enough to just look at the column. If you’re going to pay $5 to get in, you have to take a moment to admire the history of the American West and climb the 164-step spiral staircase of death to get to the top. Between the bridge and this column, I was starting to think that Astorians are all adrenaline junkies with a penchant for heights. The spiral staircase made me simultaneously dizzy and claustrophobic and there were way too many people packed onto the observation deck for comfort, but the view was phenomenal. From the top, you can see the little Victorian houses of the city set against the backdrop of the bridge and the river to the north and west, and the patchwork farms along the Lewis and Clark River to the south.

Standing there, looking out over the lush land of the Pacific Northwest, it was easy to see why so many people uprooted their families and risked their lives to get here and stake out a claim in the Oregon Territory. I felt the pull of this place — despite the dreary weather, barking sea lions and the sand in my shoes — and felt the allure that has drawn adventurers to this port outpost for over two hundred years.

img_2650_zps94z7bbuw

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer and traveler based in Tacoma, WA. When he isn’t going to exotic locales or dreaming about exotic locales, you can find him on Twitter. For exclusive content and non-spam, you can also join the mailing list.

Sleeping Giant

28 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Travel, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

am writing, birth, blast zone, creation, cycles, death, destruction, explosion, hummocks, Johnston Ridge Observatory, lava, life, Mount St. Helens, mountain, Mt. St. Helens, photography, road trip, time, travel, volcano, Washington, writing, Writing Life

Today, the ridge overlooking the snow-covered northern face of Mount St. Helens is dotted with small brush, lichen and wild grass. Chipmunks dart between the rocks. Tourists take photos to post later on their Facebook profiles. But 34 years ago, the place where I stand was buried by a boiling mudslide, smothered by pumice and superheated rock and cloaked in a cloud of choking ash. As striking as the barren foothills of the mountain are, I’m more surprised by the recovery here — by the small trees and bushes that have a foothold in the wasteland.

I feel small as I peer up into the clouds that hide the jagged mouth of the crater. The top third of the volcano was blasted off by the force of the explosion. Boulders flew miles. An entire forest was leveled in a matter of seconds, their strong trunks snapped like balsa wood. If I was standing here when the bomb went off, I would be vaporized. The giant is sleeping now, but I know that deep in the heart of the mountain, ancient forces are building up. Magma is rising from the depths of the Earth, building a dome in the caldera. Someday, it will rain fire here again.

Trees cut low. Photo by Jonny Eberle.

The devastation is difficult to put into words. And yet there is something beautiful about the destruction that stretches for miles around. There is more to be seen here than the Northwest’s youngest and most famous volcano. The landscape reminds us that humanity is not the most powerful force in the world. We only exist at the mercy of a planet that could bury us in lava with little warning. However, Mount St. Helens is not only a place of death. It is a cradle for new life. Hardy saplings are taking root in the blast zone. The volcano that burned and sterilized a centuries old forest provides nutrient-rich soil to feed the new forest.

Mount St. Helens impresses on me the cyclical nature of time and events. Long before we descended from the trees, geologic forces of creation and destruction were in motion. Long after we’re gone, it will continue. Volcanoes, fires and earthquakes will erase old life to make way for new life. Mount St. Helens will awaken and when it does, I hope that I’m far, far away.

This tree was probably snapped from its roots and thrown into this hillside. Photo by Jonny Eberle.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA. He has spent much of his life tempting fate by living in close proximity to volcanoes, from the San Francisco Peaks to Mount Rainier. You can comment below or follow him on Twitter.

The Rain In Washington Falls Mainly On the Tulips

29 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Travel, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

adventure, am writing, April showers, flowers, life, Mount Vernon, mud, patience, personal reflection, photography, rain, rainy day, road trip, RoozenGaarde, Skagit Valley, Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, storm, the rain in washington, travel, tulip, Washington, water, writing, Writing Life

Washington is a beautiful state. It is lush and green; brimming with life. And there’s a reason for it. Washington is the rainiest place I have ever lived (recall that before this, I was in the high desert of Northern Arizona). There is a price for beauty — months of drizzle interspersed with torrential downpours.

This weekend, I was lucky to visit the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, an annual celebration of Western Washington’s tulip farms, which are some of the largest outside of the Netherlands. Four of us trekked north, beyond Seattle to the pastoral lands of the Skagit Valley. Tractor dealerships and sleepy towns were nestled on the banks of winding rivers. We finally arrived in the fields outside of Mount Vernon at the famous RoozenGaarde gardens. Acres and acres of pastel flowers lay before us, so of course, the valley welcomed us with a cloudburst. The flowers were nice, but it was clear that the season was drawing to a close and much of the former glory had dimmed. Much of the land around of was fallow. Many rows of tulips had already been cut down. And it was pouring on us. We quickly snapped our photos.

We retreated from the muddy, slippery rows of tulips into the safety of my car. All seemed lost. But if there’s a secret to living in Washington, it’s patience. We were just about to leave in search of a better spot to admire the flowers when the raindrops on the windshield slowed. A few rays of sunshine poked through the mass of black thunderclouds. The storm had passed. Before the next one arrived, we decided to see what the other side of the road held, behind its tall hedge.

What we found was an intricate garden of tulips, planted in swirls and labyrinths. Tulips of every color and variety (and the varieties have super interesting names, like Flaming Parrot, Sensual Touch and Moneymaker). It was perfect. We wandered through the gardens and windmills for another hour before we meandered on to a vineyard for a quick wine tasting and a through street fair in the town of Mount Vernon before heading home. Sure, we got a little muddy. I still haven’t dried out, but I think it’s sometimes necessary to forgo comfort in pursuit of adventure.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a slightly sodden writer and adventurer in Tacoma, WA. You can follow his written work in a steady stream from the Twitter hose. Thanks for reading!

City of Destiny

11 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Flash Fiction, Photography, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

21st Street Bridge, am writing, city, City of Destiny, Commencement Bay, destiny, downtown Tacoma, flash fiction, life, night photography, observation, Old Town Dock, personal reflection, photography, Seattle, skyline, Tacoma, Tacoma Narrows Bridge, underdog, urban, Washington, writing, Writing Life

Tacoma Narrows. Photo by Jonny Eberle.

They call it the City of Destiny or the Gritty City. It is a city of contradictions, loved and despised, where 19th century steeples share the skyline with 20th century smokestacks. A blue collar city choked in paper mill chemicals and cleansed by saltwater breezes. A city of potholes and community gardens.

Commencement Bay. Photo by Jonny Eberle.

The second city, overlooked by glistening Seattle to the north, Tacoma is the dark horse. The people drawn here, the people like me, prefer it that way — we fight for the underdog. And yet, in spite of its reputation, I see it throwing off the shackles of its industrial past. I see it reclaiming the abandoned waterfront warehouses; nurturing a fledgling arts community like a flickering flame. I see container ships on the bay waiting their turn to unload the cargo from foreign lands.

Years ago, it lost the railroad and with it a chance to stand on the stage of the world. For a hundred years, it shed its sweat in obscurity, but now, it calls those of us downtrodden and searching for a second chance. Now, it rises and claims its identity, not as the lesser of two great metropolises but as the place that destiny remembered.

Downtown Tacoma. Photo by Jonny Eberle.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer and underdog supporter living in Tacoma, WA. You can follow his gritty Twitter feed @jonnyeberle or leave a comment below. Thanks for reading!

The River and the Office Building

13 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Flash Fiction, Photography, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

am writing, blackberry, capitalism, description, flash fiction, flooding river, Green River, insignificance, inspiration, life, lunch break, man vs. nature, observation, rain, rising river, river, scene, setting, short story, spring, story, trees, Washington, writing, Writing Life

Here, at the bend in the Green River, the picnic tables sit inches above the rising waterline. The river is gorged with rain, hungrily bursting its banks. Trees that once clung to the fresh earth now seem planted in the swift current. Swallows flit in and out of a thicket of blackberry bushes, building a nest for the heirs to their island realm. It is theirs to claim as it seems humanity has all but deserted this stretch of the riverside. No one has come to collect the garbage; the can only holds a pair of tan jeans anyway.

Above the river, paying no mind to the river, office buildings stand high and immovable, blocking the view. The river rises slowly day by day. It may swallow the buildings when they’re not looking. No one will think to look for them in the churning water under the thorns of the blackberry bush.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a writer in Tacoma, WA who ponders the motivations of rivers. He also tweets a fair bit.

In Search of Monkeyshine

05 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by Jonny Eberle in Photography, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

12th Man, 2014, adventure, am writing, art, Chinese New Year, glass art, hunt, life, Miss Monkey, Monkeyshine, monkeyshiner, personal reflection, Puget Park, scavenger hunt, search, Tacoma, Washington, writing, Writing Life, Year of the Horse

I’d never heard of Monkeyshine before that day. I don’t even think I knew that the Chinese New Year had dawned. But a text message from my girlfriend’s father got me interested. “Look up Monkeyshine Tacoma,” he said. Within 15 minutes I was out the door; on a modern day hunt for buried treasure.

Monkeyshines is a peculiar event in Tacoma. It started in 2003 and is headed by the mysterious Miss Monkey. Hundreds of handcrafted glass floats and medallions are strategically hidden throughout the city on the eve of the Lunar New Year for residents to find. Each unique piece is stamped with an emblem displaying the Zodiac animal symbol of the coming year. People hit the streets as early as 4 a.m. and comb through trees, bushes and local landmarks in search of the elusive Monkeyshines — because if you find one, you get to keep it. The game was afoot.

A newbie Shiner, I started five hours later than the hardcore adventurers, but I was determined. Online buzz suggested that the Proctor District, University of Puget Sound and the median strip along the center of Union Avenue were all emptied of glass prizes.

I needed a win. I was frustrated at work and feeling a cold coming on. It was a terrible week and part of me wanted to just stay in bed. But something else had stirred deep within me. A hunter’s instinct, a pulse of raw adrenaline. I knew that the whole week could be redeemed by a few ounces of glass.

So, I headed away from the popular areas. Instead, I struck north, to nondescript Jane Clark Park. I was not alone. Another Monkeyshiner was prowling the perimeter. After a few tense seconds, she headed one direction and I took the opposite, splitting the park in twain. My canvas shoes were quickly soaked in the dew that clung to the grass. I came up empty handed.

I headed east, making for Puget Park. It was a small urban playground nestled between a bridge and a wooded traihead. If there was any Monkeyshine hidden there, it was long gone. At that point I had been at it for almost an hour. I began to worry that I had started too late. A small team of fellow glass-seekers arrived soon after me, armed with walkie-talkies, a search plan and military precision.

I retreated into the nearby business district — little more than a barbershop, a bar and a garden supply store. The sidewalks were lined with planters. If I couldn’t find something shiny there, I was ready to call it quits and head home. I had articles to write and bills to pay.

I was headed back to my car, defeated, when a glint of light caught my eye. Something gleamed in the shadow under a potted shrub. I pushed back a branch and there it was, a beautiful glass medallion four inches across, embedded with swirling tendrils of vibrant orange and red. A horse was stamped on its face.

For the first time all week, I felt alive. I’d found a one-of-a-kind piece of local art. It was incredible. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d stumbled acrossed the Holy Grail itself. I was connected to the artist and to the city of Tacoma in a real, tangible way and all of the stress of the week dissolved away as I safely tucked my Monkeyshine into the pocket of my damp pea coat.

That’s the power of art. It binds us together and serves as a lens through which we can see the world in a radical new way. Next year, I’ll be out early, flashlight in hand, to find another treasure. Once you’ve found Monkeyshine, you’re addicted. As long as there are artists to make and hide these beautiful keepsakes, I’ll be hunting for them.

— 30 —

Jonny Eberle is a first-time Monkeyshiner, newly-minted Tacoman and writer of many words. Special thanks to Exit133, Post Defiance and Roxanne Cooke for providing background on the event. You can follow my quest for meaning and shiny things on Twitter. Thanks for reading!

← Older posts

Blog at WordPress.com.

Cancel