Tag: Picture of the Week

Winter Trees Temecula, California

Winter Trees - I picked this photo from our Temecula trip to clearly mark a change from the historic cars and buildings that we've been showing the past few months.
Winter Trees – I picked this photo from our Temecula trip to mark a change from the historic cars and buildings we’ve been showing the past few months.

If you’re a devout idiom believer, March’s weather should be enjoyable. It indeed “came in like a lion.” Here in the Weaver Mountain foothills, snow fell twice this week. With the surrounding mountains covered in white and our rooftops under a blanket of snow, it resembled Colorado around here. You should have seen Queen Anne covering up her plants with wet sheets. I should have taken pictures, but I didn’t want to get my toesies all wet.

As you can see from this week’s picture, we’re taking a break from old cars and buildings this month. Instead, I’ve given you quite the opposite—pure nature. Well, it’s Southern California farmland, and the trees were planted in a neat row. If you look closely, a half-dozen more have been chopped down. I’m not privy to why a farmer planted deciduous trees or the cause of their demise. I stopped the car for this photo because I liked how the dormant trees looked on the sine-wave grassy landscape. It reminds me of the Windows 97 background pictures. I call this photo Winter Trees.

We were driving around the rural Riverside County back roads because we decided to take a break from our hectic schedule of watching I Love Lucy reruns and go on a wine-tasting tour. It’s one of the few road trips we enjoy, and Her Majesty will put down her Kendal and get out of the car.

Decades ago, when I lived in Scottsdale, I had dinner with a restaurateur friend, where he shared a bottle of new wine labeled Calloway. That name should seem familiar because the family makes golf clubs. It was a charming Fumé Blanc. It didn’t come from Napa but from Temecula Valley—a small town north of San Diego. Over the past few years, we’ve tasted some lovely wines from that region and read a few articles praising the area. Since neither of us had visited Temecula, and it was only a four-hour dive, we turned the TV off, hopped in the car, and spent a few days exploring the town.

If you’ve ever driven from Phoenix to LA, you know Mount San Jacinto—the mountain towering over Palm Springs, whose feet begin below sea level, and its peak is 10,834 feet high. A tramway on its east face will take you to the top, and I guarantee you’ll need a jacket once you get up there, even if the temperature is over 100°F below. Temecula is on the other side of that mountain, and to get there, you take US60 to Riverside, then turn south on Interstate 215 and continue on Interstate 15. Even on Wednesday afternoon, you’ll run into traffic—it is California, after all.

I’ve been tasting wines from around the globe since I was wet behind the ears, and Queen Anne and I have continued that journey since she joined me thirty-five years ago. We have witnessed extreme changes in our tasting experiences as the years passed. Some of them have been good, and others have been a disaster.

Queen Anne in Temecula - After visiting a few tasting rooms, this is the look on Queen Anne's face. It means that she needs to be fed before she does a face-plant on the table.
Queen Anne in Temecula – This is the look on Queen Anne’s face after visiting a few tasting rooms. It means that she needs to be fed before she does a faceplant on the table.

When we started so long ago, a vintner’s profit center was selling cases of wine. The tasting bars were a marketing tool used to show off their product. If you liked the wine, you bought a bottle or a case if you were flush. Then the Napa area got uppity and started charging visitors for samples. At first, your charge was applied to a purchase, then you got a glass memento, and finally, you paid to play—period.

Other wine regions eventually followed suit. Today if you want to enjoy the experience of tasting limited-production wines, you can expect to pay from $20 to $30 per flight—per person. Of course, two people can share a taste, but the pours have become stingy. We experienced those prices in Wilcox, Arizona, of all places. Today, a vintner’s profit center has moved to the tasting bar—somebody has to pay for those elegant buildings. It’s discouraging for us poor little winos to have fun anymore.

Do you think that’ll stop us? No way. Life’s too short not to have fun, and during March, we’ll share some of the sights and tastes of Temecula. Maybe we’ll talk about what to look for in fine wines and call out swill for what it is. Meanwhile, clicking here lets you see a larger version of Winter Trees on its Webpage.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

I was pleased with all of last month’s participation. I hope you’ll join in on the conversations if this month’s topic interests you.

Greyhound Lowell Arizona

Greyhound - An old Scenicruiser waits for passengers outside of the bus terminal.
Greyhound – An old Scenicruiser waits for passengers outside of the bus terminal. Note the prehistoric air conditioning in the window above the dog’s head.

I have ridden my share of buses in my life. I rode in school buses, metro buses, tour buses, trams, and trolleys, but the only time I was a passenger in a Greyhound Scenicruiser—like the one seen in this week’s image (titled Greyhound)—wasn’t one of my most pleasant memories.

That ride happened in 1967. Two other recent graduates and I were in the Army and on our way for a 13-month Korea tour. We flew commercially from Fort Holabird in Baltimore to Seattle on the first part of our journey. The sun was going down as we took off, so it was late in the evening when we landed at SeaTac. As we got off the plane, a military representative greeted us. He looked at our orders and directed us to the buses waiting outside. After retrieving our duffel bags, we headed out into the damp and chilly night.

We looked around and saw a line of Greyhound Scenicruisers. To keep the engines and interior warm, they sat idling at the curb and spewed plumes of white vapor from their exhaust. They looked like steam engines at a railroad depot. As we reached the lead bus, someone ordered, “Stow your duffels in the cargo bay and get on board.” Like good PFCs, we obeyed unquestioningly. Once seated, we waited and waited, and waited for something to happen.

In case you don’t remember, in 1967, the U.S. was in the midst of the Vietnam War. The military was going through boys like Lucy and Ethel at the chocolate factory. The Army drafted kids off the street, trained them, sent them to Fort Lewis, and put them on the next plane crossing the Pacific. The Army ran an efficient system at SeaTac. They grabbed anyone coming off an airliner in uniform and stuck them on the bus.

We sat in that dark Greyhound for hours before it filled. The door closed, and—around midnight—it started on the short drive to Fort Lewis. I don’t sleep well in moving vehicles, so I was looking forward to a warm cot and sleeping till noon. Silly me; I forgot that I was in the Army. When we got to the base, we had to be processed, which meant we stood in line filling out forms until they handed us a pillow and assigned us a bunk.

I was in a deep sleep and busy sawing my way through a pine log when someone rousted me at 03:30 (I can still remember the military time). “Get up and get dressed. You’re on KP duty this morning,” a strange voice barked in the dark. After donning my last set of clean fatigues, I fell in with a group on their way to the mess hall. I guess someone has to peel enough potatoes to feed hash browns tor a hungry Army base. That morning was the only time I had to do KP in my military career.

We finished up our kitchen duty at lunch. I was dog tired and just wanted to flop on my bunk and recover, but when I got back to the barracks, I was told to change and pack my bag again. I was moving out in an hour. This time, there was no fancy civilian bus waiting. Instead, they loaded us in the back of a duce and a half for the ride to a military air base. As the sun went down again, the Army loaded us on a Northwest 707 that the soldiers affectionately dubbed the Big Red Tail. We knew and counted the days until we’d board the Red Tail to come home—some of us walked on, but Honor Guards loaded too many in the plane’s cargo bay.

The Scenicruiser in this week’s shot was designed and built by General Motors and was supposed to imitate the luxury stainless steel passenger train cars of the time. GM only manufactured them between 1954 and 1956, but Greyhound used them into the 70s. The buses were supposed to offer a luxury parlor experience and had an onboard toilet (RVs from the past). The early ones were delivered with whitewall tires. Their Achilles heels were that they were too long and too tall to be driven in some states. After Greyhound retired them, they started using ordinary buses that fit within the size restrictions and had enough cargo space for 50 passengers.

Click here to see a larger version of Greyhound on its web page. Next week we’ll finish our stroll down Erie Street and the memories it evokes. Be sure to join us then for another tale from Lowell, Arizona.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Last week, I threw out a challenge for my Gearhead friends who know 1957 Chevrolet trivia. Interestingly, all the commenters who had the correct answer (including myself) are older than dirt. Kids these days don’t have the passion.

Bel Air at the Gulf Station Lowell, Arizona

Bel Air at the Gulf Station - a 1957 four door Chevy Bel Air waits for gas at the Gulf Station in Lowell, Arizona.
Bel Air at the Gulf Station – 1957 four door Chevy Bel Air waits for gas at the Gulf Station in Lowell, Arizona.

My lifelong love affair with cars runs so deep I’m sure I was born wearing aviator sunglasses and a pair of black Italian leather driving gloves—the kind with knuckle holes. My earliest memories are of toy cars from my parents, the countless scale model kits I built in my room, and the peddle car I had when we lived on the steepest hill in Pittsburg. At age five, I learned to drive it with my feet off the peddles so it could go faster. I held on for dear life and eventually got around the corner at the bottom without lifting (for the uninitiated, that means not scuffing your shoes along the sidewalk). Of course, even then, I complained about the dreaded push back up the hill.

My dad and Uncle Bunny (Yeah, that’s right. His real name was Charles, but everyone called him Bunny) came home one Saturday when I was thirteen with a beater 51 Ford sedan. It was less than ten years old but already considered junk. Dad proclaimed, “If you can fix it, you can have it.” He handed me a pair of pliers and a flathead screwdriver. I had no mechanical training and no idea what to do. After unsuccessfully trying to remove one of the head bolts from the old flathead V8, I gave up. The coupe sat silently in our garage for years.

I did find a use for it eventually. One day I was walking in our alley from school when I spotted a trash can overflowing with Playboy magazines. I don’t know who threw them out, but it was a gold mine for a 13-year-old. I scooped up as many as I could carry and stashed them in the back seat of my Ford when I got home. My little friends and I spent countless hours pouring over those articles until we wore out the magazine staples. I suppose that’s when my dirty old-man training began.

I guess that’s why I’m so delighted to find a place like Lowell and its open air museum showcasing things from my past. For example, when I look at this week’s picture—called Bel Air at the Gulf Station—I see the 57 Chevy and remember cruising through Bob’s Big Boy in a 58 Ford my cousin drove that dad bought us. Clydie would pull a couple of plug wires off, so it had a loping idle. It didn’t bother him that the car reeked of unburned fuel or that the guys with real hot rods were wise to his scam. It was Clydie’s moment in the sun. There are so many stories about that 58 and my cousin Clydie it would fill a whole chapter in my autobiography.

We never had Gulf or Sunoco gas stations on the west coast. Our premium gas was Chevron Supreme. I became a fan-boy when Gulf sponsored the winning Fords and Porches at Le Mans. If there were a Gulf station within a hundred miles of my house, I would have gone out of my way to fill my tank. Unfortunately, Gulf Oil merged with Standard oil in 1986, and their stations are now Chevron and don’t sponsor racecars. Maybe that’s why there is a Chevron sign on the orange building, which otherwise seems out of place.

I feel there are a couple of errors in this presentation. The first is that Chevrolet is a four-door, and no self respecting greaser would own a four-door. Even our friend Fred once owned a 2-door (maybe he’ll share a photo with us). However, 57 Chevy’s are the pinnacle year for collectors, and they have cherry-picked them off the market. I doubt that there are any more hiding in barns somewhere in America.

The other error is a Pepsi and 7Up machine, but not a Coca Cola box. Unless you lived in Utah, no one drank anything other than Coke. Long before In-N-Out, Bob’s had a gorilla menu, and you could order a Coke with a shot of vanilla or cherry flavor. I knew all of that hip stuff.

You can see a larger version of Bel Air at the Gulf Station on its Webpage by clicking here. There’s more to see along Erie Street, so don’t forget to come back next week for another story.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

There is a gold star waiting for the foreheads of anyone —except for Fred—who can tell where the gas went into a 1957 Chevrolet.

Lowell Theater Lowell, Arizona

Lowell Theater - A Chevy flatbed truck parked at the Lowell Theater in southern Arizona.
Lowell Theater – A Chevy flatbed truck is parked outside the Lowell Theater in southern Arizona.

It was already well past lunch as we drove up Highway 80. Queen Anne’s all too familiar whining had begun, “I only had one meal today.” We were heading to Bisbee’s Copper Queen Hotel, where we could satiate our hunger. As we approached the Lavender Pit, I noticed an old Shell gas station in my peripheral vision. When I looked in the mirror, I saw that—not only was it real, but an old car was parked outside. That was enough catnip for me to slow the Buick and make a U-turn across four lanes of traffic. Lunch could wait.

When I turned onto Erie Street, I was surprised to see an entire block of old buildings with vehicles of the same period parked out front. Was I on a movie set, or had I died and gone to some photographer’s idea of heaven? I decided it had to be the former because I still heard Anne’s food grumbling in my ear. I was further confused by a wall sign saying, “Welcome to Lowell, Arizona.” I turned to Anne and announced, “We’re not in Bisbee anymore.”

Lowell is to Bisbee as Tempe is to Phoenix—a cling-on. Bisbee and Lowell were founded in the late 1800s as mining claims—Bisbee in the 1870s and Lowell in 1899. As the mines grew, they needed men to work them. Like every other mining town, the population lived first in tents, shacks, and finally, proper homes. Unlike the Tombstone mine, the ore at the Copper Queen Mine and Lowell Mine was so abundant that it supported the towns for over fifty years. That’s why these southern Arizona towns have masonry buildings instead of the rickety shanties of most ghost towns. Bisbee reminds me of the coal-mine towns in Pennsylvania or West Virginia.

As time passed, the Copper Queen (and Phelps Dodge) took over the operation of the Lowell Company. Underground mines are inherently dangerous, and there was so much copper ore still buried there that during the World Wars, it became economically feasible to build giant machines to scrape away mountains and dig big pits to extract the copper. Bisbee’s renowned scab in the ground is called the Lavender Pit—named for Harrison Horton Lavender (the mine superintendent). As the abyss grew, it took parts of Lowell with it. All that remains of Lowell today is Erie Street which runs from the traffic circle in the south and the pit’s edge on the north side.

Lavender Pit - The famous Lavender Pit mine where tons of copper ore was dug from the ground. The pit is so vast I couldn't fit it all in the frame, even with my wide angle lens.
Lavender Pit – The famous Lavender Pit mine where Phelps-Dodge dug tons of copper ore from the ground. The pit is so vast I couldn’t fit it all in the frame, even with my wide-angle lens.

A group of volunteers banded together and formed the Lowell Americana Project. They worked hard to restore and enhance the quarter-mile street and transform it into an open-air museum. Their hard work got them international attention for their cultural preservation. They have turned Erie street into one of the most photographed streets in the West. Like me, you’ve probably seen some of those pictures in magazines and films without knowing the location.

We’ll explore Lowell’s Erie Street in February, hopefully, to delight my car friends. I consider this week’s photo the foundation shot. It was taken at the north-end parking lot where I left Anne to starve while I skipped up and down the street taking pictures. In this shot, I wanted to show the theater marquee, the Gulf, and the Lowell welcome sign. As an additional no-extra-cost bonus, the town thru in a Chevrolet flatbed truck. I don’t know what year it is, so perhaps one of you gearheads can tell us. I also have no idea about the flying saucers. I didn’t find a reference to any abductions in the area, although more aliens visit Arizona than any other place. They like the weather here—especially at Bisbee’s mile-high altitude. Maybe the spaceships are a warning that you’re about to enter The Twilight Zone.

You can see a larger version of Lowell Theater on its Webpage by clicking here. We’ll begin our walk down Erie Street next week to see what we can find. Be sure to come back then.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

No Queen Annes were harmed in the making of this article. She finally got her lunch and a glass of wine before she fell asleep as we drove back to the motel.

Spurs The Town Too Tough to Die

Spurs - Silver spurs on display in the window of a Tombstone boot shop.
Spurs – Silver spurs on display in the window of a Tombstone boot shop.

“I got spurs that jingle jangle jingle, n’ I get so embarrassed at the movin’ picture show.”—John Wayne impersonation by Rich Little (I think).

Today is our final article about our Tombstone visit, and in the fine Disney tradition, we’ll exit through the gift shop. After all, that was the point of driving four hours to visit—overpriced beer, expensive burgers, tacky T-shirts, and a memento trinket that was most likely made in China.

Like most tourist towns, Tombstone has a variety of gift shops where you can buy anything your little heart desires—as long as your heart is lusting for cowboy stuff. Much like our hometown of Wickenburg, Tombstone is a one-trick pony. It’s all cowboy, all the time. It’s a formula that works for them. After all, they draw visitors from across the globe. Some fans regularly return for the OK Corral Shootout anniversaries—like Bob Boze Bell, noted Arizona illustrator and editor of True West Magazine. They go there to study the gunfight in painstaking detail for minute details that determine the outcome. So, why change a good thing? Me, I’m not that fascinated by gunfights.

Like most Arizonians, our first visit was enough. It’s not like we sit at home and suddenly drive four hours to discover what’s new in Tombstone. It’s always the same mediocre hamburgers in the same dives. The same good guys fight the same bad guys at the OK Corral, and the same people die. The same pink-rose patterned dishes are always collecting dust on antique store shelves. That’s why—for Queen Anne and me—a Tombstone trip is reserved for our out-of-town company or a lunch stop on the way to somewhere further along the road.

When we visit, however, we walk the boardwalks and window shop. On this most recent visit, I saw something unique. It was a display of silver spurs in the window of the boot shop. Since it was the week after Christmas, the store’s fully decorated tree was in the background. I thought, “What a perfect gift to give your favorite bull-rider.” Never before in my 75 years have I thought, “I wonder where I can buy a pair of spurs for my topsiders?” Now I know—in a Tombstone boot store.

I called this shot Spurs for apparent reasons. The actual display was much more comprehensive, but I had to move in close to cut the reflected window glare. This image is also a self-portrait—sort of. That’s me casting shade on the display. I might have gotten more spurs in the shot if I were a few pounds heavier.

You can see a larger version of Spurs on its Webpage by clicking here. Next week, we start a new project that’s thirty miles further on Old US 80. I’ll bet you it’s not the place you think it is. Come back next week and prove me wrong.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Most importantly, Queen Anne is fine and recovering well. The emergency room doctor cleared the blockage with a can of Shasta Cola. I’m relieved that she’ll be around for a few more episodes.

White Pickets and Red Bricks The Town Too Tough to Die

White Pickets and Red Bricks - A break in the cloudy sky let sun light the face of a Tombstone Apartment.
White Pickets and Red Bricks – A break in the cloudy sky let the sun light up the face of a Tombstone Apartment.

You may have noticed that history is one of my frequent photo themes, whether it’s human history, historical buildings, or the geologic origins of a mountain. I don’t know where this passion came from because I was a terrible history student in school—I could never keep my dates straight. Maybe it’s an old-person thing. Ironically, we geezers try to cram useless facts into every unused nook and cranny in our brains, only to drop dead before using any of it.

Whenever Queen Anne and I visit a place like Tombstone, we like to see all the hot spots that every tourist goes to. The gunfighters, the courthouse, the palatial bars, and we even rummage through the gift shops (ya gotta have new T-shirts). When I get home and write about my photos, digging up the background on the above subjects is relatively easy. But, as is the case with the building featured in this week’s picture, not every historical building has a bronze plaque.

When I shot the Tombstone County Courthouse featured a couple of weeks ago, I started across the street and circled the building. I snapped images as I went, but I was looking for something different—an angle no one had seen. The shot I presented was taken from the alley out back, and the wall, tower, and clouds gave me what I wanted.

When I finished my loop, I was back at the starting point—in front of a red-brick home across the street from the courthouse. This century-old home doesn’t have a written story—well, not online, it doesn’t—but I want to know more. Who was it built for? Why was it converted into apartments? Where did they get all of those bricks?

I’m a sucker for picket fences. I would never own one because they’re a pain in the ass to maintain, but I can’t pass one without getting out my camera. I took two versions of this photo; the first was when I started my courthouse walk. In that one, the sky was overcast, and the building was entirely in its shadow. When I finished my lap, the clouds had partially opened, allowing the sun to shine light onto the apartments. This pattern of light and shadow is my favorite light. Here’s why: if you combine the way the building is lit and the broken clouds in the sky, this scene will never happen exactly again. That means I captured a specific moment that can never be reproduced. If you think about it, it’s a moment of history.

I called this shot White Pickets and Red Bricks because those are the essential elements that make up this image. You can see its larger version on its Webpage by clicking here. I hope you’ll join us next week when we come back with our final Tombstone image.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

I want to note this week’s passing of David Crosby, a founding member of two bands that were part of my formative years; the Byrds and Crosby, Stills, and Nash (and subsequent derivatives). They pioneered the transformation of folk music to folk rock. Several of David’s albums in my collection get regular rotation in my listening room. Peace-out David.

Crystal Palace The Town Too Tough to Die

Crystal Palace - When we travel to Tombstone, we make a point of stopping in the Crystal Palace and admire its back bar.
Crystal Palace – When we travel to Tombstone, we make a point of stopping in the Crystal Palace to admire its back bar.

How adventurous are you? Do you try new things or stick with the tried and true when you return to a location? I’d say that Queen Anne and I are 25/75 split. We always seem to return to the joints we’ve enjoyed but try to see what else is out there. I’m unsure if that’s adventurous or what other people usually do.

That holds for Tombstone as well. It may not be a surprise that when we get to town, one of our first stops is a bar—not just any bar, but we specifically make a beeline to the Crystal Palace. We don’t go there because the beer is cold or the wine is vintage; let’s face it, beer is beer, and bar wine is—ugh. When we are belly-up to the bar, the alcohol is only a vessel for a toast to a great piece of furniture—the Crystal Palace back bar.

The Palace is on the south end of town on Allen Street. During winter, they keep the front doors closed, but you can bust your way through a pair of a traditional cowboy swinging doors during summer. As you look around the cavernous room, you’ll see a bigger-than-life roulette wheel hung as wall art. The ceilings are two stories high and covered in stamped tin tiles. There’s a stage along the back wall where rows of cancan girls danced. On the room’s left is a massive mahogany back bar dwarfing the bartenders. The room smells of stale beer, French fries, and hamburgers smeared on a leather saddle.

The cabinet that is the source of our admiration reaches about three-quarters of the way to the ceiling. It has three arches supported by Corinthian columns with mirror inserts. I wonder how often those mirrors were targets of bullets or flying cowboys. It looks like one piece, but I’ll bet there’s a seam hidden beneath the center trim and festoon. On each of its flanks are matching liquor hutches. If you don’t have time to drive to Tombstone, you can see its twin sister in one of Prescott’s Whiskey Row bars (I don’t recall exactly which bar it was because I spent too much of my life doing research for this article).

We don’t grow mahogany in Arizona or any other hardwood that would be nice enough for cabinets like this. This one was ordered from furniture makers in New England and then shipped around South America’s treacherous Cape Horn (no Virginia, the canal wasn’t yet built). Once the sailboat reached the Sea of Cortez, the bar was unloaded and carried overland by wagon.

If you’re hungry, you can order food. It’s not the worst place in town, but it’s still bar food. They prepare onion rings in-house, notably better than those awful versions at Jack’s or The King. If the tour busses are in town, the place will be packed, and the crowd can overwhelm the staff. Then you’ll have to be patient with your food and bill. But it’s not any better at the other restaurants.

There is one more thing about the Crystal Palace that I should warn you about—especially in spring. For some reason, enough couples are getting hitched in Tombstone; the town provides them with sideshows. On one of our visits, we noticed a table full of guys having a bachelor’s party. They had a great time drinking beer and being loud when suddenly an attractive woman dressed in a bright red dance costume burst through the swinging doors. She was followed by three men with handlebar mustaches wearing long black dusters and deputy badges. The young woman walked over to the groom-to-be and pointed her finger at him. She shouted for the entire world to hear, “That’s him! That’s the slime ball. Last night he promised to love me forever, and today he’s running off with another woman.”

Then the deputies grabbed the scoundrel under his arms and dragged him through the side door to the hanging tree out back. The crowd emptied the bar and filled the streets. Once there, the posse strung him up but stopped until someone fetched the bride.

Once she arrived (accompanied by her entourage), the lawmen presented their case. After hearing what they had to say, she promised that after their wedding, she’d set him straight, and he would never do it again. The sheriff polled the crowd, “Do you believe her?”

Most of the mob said yes, so he removed the noose, and we all went back into the bar and ordered another beer—on the groom.

I called this week’s picture Crystal Palace, and it’s of the cabinets described in my story. I was happy that my shot was sharp in such a dark room without using a flash or a tripod. I lightened the wood in post-production to show off its luster and grain. To get a clean shot, I had to wait for the bartenders to go to the kitchen window. Sometimes it pays to be patient.

You can see a larger version of Crystal Palace on its Webpage by clicking here. I hope you’ll join us next week when we come back with another Tombstone story.

Till next time
jw

BTW:

Are you ready for flowers? With the frequent rain this winter, we will have a bumper crop of wildflowers. Now is the time for you to come up with some strategery on where to go to photograph them.