By Scott Shephard
You may have noticed that most of the photos I share here are totally devoid of people. My photography is not a gregarious pursuit. I have said more than once that when I am properly engaged in the act of making a photo, even “I” disappear. But for three days in a row this week “I” will focus on me. After all, in a phrase that drives my wife crazy, “I deserve it.”
Well, maybe not. But nevertheless, here I am — a much younger man smiling another big smile like yesterday’s smile. And still needing a haircut.
Where am I? Deadwood, South Dakota. When? Probably the summer of ‘73. Around that time, my best friend Scott P and I started what became a more or less annual camping trip to the Black Hills. We would normally camp at Timon Campground, which is a few miles up the road from Roughlock Falls in Spearfish Canyon. (After 50 years the campground is still there and largely unchanged). On at least one night we would head over to Deadwood for an evening that inevitably became epic. I’ll leave out the specifics but I will remind you that it was totally legal for 18/19 year olds to drink beer in SD back then.
Also back then Deadwood hadn’t “gone Hollywood” as Peterson and I would describe it. Gambling hadn’t glitzed up the town. When you walked into a bar like the Buffalo Saloon all you would hear were the sounds of loud and happy voices, of beer and shot glasses being placed on the wooden bar and maybe even of the of the random pinging of a pinball machine in the back room. No noise of slot machines or roulette tables ruined the Old West ambiance of the Deadwood bars. (Please hold your opinion on whether pinball machines are “old west.”)
Years later, after careers, children and mortgages had set a more serious and directed path for Peterson and me, we would still make our annual trip to the Black Hills. But by then we had a family cabin near Keystone and so camping in Spearfish Canyon was only a memory. A couple of times, we headed to Deadwood, thinking we could revive our happy past but there was no “epic” there. Too much had changed — both in us and in the town. One morning following an uneventful attempt to revive our youthful experiences the night before, we decided that we had to quit living in the past.
For the most part, we have succeeded. We still talk about our past exploits from time to time, but they now have a kind of fogged, soft focus to them. The memories have been Photoshopped and made much more glamorous (and funny) than they really were.
More often we find a quiet place on a overlook or by a stream and sip our beers in the awesome splendor of the Black Hills. Now that we are in our 60s, sometimes we don’t even leave the cabin. This past summer we sat in the matching recliners by the picture window and watched the deer and wild turkeys that came into our yard. We talked politics, sports and even a little religion. Often there were long, comfortable silences that only old friends can appreciate.
I can’t speak for my dear friend Scott P, but I’m OK with getting older. I have much less hair and a much higher percentage of body fat than I used to. My Levis’ waistline has gone from 30” to 30-something-else. But I’m OK with that, too.
Honeywell Pentax SP500 Kodak Tri-X Pan
*Murry Head - “One Night in Bangkok” (Which is about chess, believe it or not) (Check in out on Spotify)