Early morning. January. Pre-dawn grey. Intermittent showers.

I drive past a nice pond up by Victor Point so I pull off and park in the gravel on the wide shoulder of the road. I grab my camera, my tripod, and my 105mm lens. It's a muddy hike through a muddy field and I'm not one hundred feet before my feet are muddy. A quarter mile to the pond through the mucky mud.

When I find my vantage, I curse myself. My lens is too long, won't give me the shot I need. I need my 50mm lens. Maybe even a wide-angle lens. I should have brought a zoom. I was being lazy. I'm always lazy. I've missed the shot.

I hike back to the car, tromping through the mud once more. My shoes are caked in it. I could walk back to the pond with all of my gear now, but my mood has soured. And I'm lazy. And sunrise is coming. To the east, the clouds look as if they might be breaking. I need to find a vista.

I drive up to Victor Point itself. Green hills. Grey sky, heavy and laden with the promise of continued rain. The clouds are drifting slowly westward.

Again I pull to the side of the road, get out my equipment. There are two woods to the east -- one oak, one fir -- and a there's a shot here someplace if I'm quick enough. I can feel it. A patch of clear sky appears on the eastern horizon. Is it on the ecliptic?

I throw up the tripod. Frame with the 50mm -- nothing. Frame with the 20mm -- nothing. I check my watch. Sunrise in two minutes. Frame with the 105mm -- bingo! The sun rises. Light pours through the cloudbreak. The long rays of light frame the mist, make it seem almost solid. The trees cast long finger-like shadows across the field, reaching toward me. The ground takes on texture. The whole scene has depth and character. It's a keeper. I scan the horizon through the viewfinder. Attempt to frame a shot. It's a race against time, and I know it. It's a race I lose.

The rain returns. A drizzle coats my lens, the cloudbreak folds itself over the sun. All that remains is greyness. And greenness. I've missed another opportunity.

Cursing myself, I drive higher into the hills.

I ought to know by now never to trust the weather reports. I ought to know that January in Oregon means rain. It was dry and clear in Portland, it's true, but here in the Cascade foothills it's sodden. Wet. I have neither umbrella nor plastic to protect my equipment. I cannot shoot in the rain.

The drizzle eases. The sky is taunting me.

Above Victor Point I spy a gravel road stretching down into a dell and then up into the hills. Again with the tripod, the camera, the lenses. I frame the shot from the road. Nothing there. I walk a hundred yards down the gravel lane. Frame the shot. Potential, but nothing there.

I scan my surroundings. Nobody in sight. Only a broad landscape of trees and fields. A white farmhouse up the road. I chance it, trespass into the green field: grass or some kind of grain perhaps. Winter wheat. I find a relatively firm patch of earth, set up the tripod, frame a shot. Nice. The gravel lane dips and rises across the frame leading the eye through the repeating rows of grass or grain. Nice. Good graphics.

I'm threading a warming filter onto the front of the lends when a brown pickup turns into the gravel lane, pulls even with me. Stops. Dirty old brown Toyaota. Canopy. Rifle mounted on a gun rack. Headlights on, but the one on the right is out.

Cursing, I leave my equipment and trudge over to the truck. A man gets out: an unusually tall, heavy-set Mexican. He lights a cigarette.

"Hey," he says. "You shoulda been here yesterday. Was something like fifty elks out here yesterday."

He takes a long drag on his cigarette. Holds it. Exhales.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask first," I say. "I didn't know who to ask. Didn't want to wake anyone."

"Shit," he says. "I don't care. No problema."

Drag. Exhale.

"Name's Diego," he says. I give him my name. We shake hands.

Drag. Exhale.

"You shoulda been here yesterday. Fifty elks. Probably more."

This is getting me nowhere. I excuse myself. Thank him. And as I step away, the rain begins to fall. It's not a drizzle. It's rain. In earnest. Cursing, I race down the lane, through the field to my equipment. Rip the camera off the tripod. Tuck it inside my jacket. Zip the jacket. Hope the camera is okay. Why no umbrella today? I'm an idiot. Should never trust the weather forecast. I pick up the other equipment, march back to the lane.

Diego is still there. He's on a second cigarette. The first is on the ground. Still smoking.

"Whatcha got there?" he says, points at the bulge in my jacket. I show him the camera. "That's a nice one, eh, vato?" he says. I nod.

"Nice camera. Cost a lot of money?" He asks. Something in the tone of his voice makes me edgy. I look to my own car, a hundred yards up the road.

"Cost a lot of money?" he asks again. "You a professional?"

"No," I say. "Yeah. I'm a professional. No, this camera didn't cost much. Are you crazy? Why would I bring a nice camera out in this rain?" I laugh it off. Why did I bring my nice camera out in this rain? Why didn't I bring my umbrella, my plastic sheeting? It's January. In Oregon. I know better. Weather forecasts mean nothing, especially this time of year. Count on rain. Always count on rain.

The guy is looking at me, looking at the camera beneath my jacket.

Finally he says, "Drive up to the next gravel road and head back. There's a canyon back there. Great view. You can see the arroyo, the river, the back side of the park."

He means Silver Creek Falls State Park.

"Great view," he says again. He throws his cigarette to the ground beside the first one. Climbs in his pickup, rolls down the window.

"Adios," he says. "Good luck." He starts the engine, tips his cap, drives down the gravel lane into the dell, up the other side, into the hills.

I'm wet. I'm standing in the rain. Miserable. Two hours, not a single photograph. Not a single image. This is no way to make a living.

I drive up to the next gravel road and head back. The road is narrow, an elevated ridge cutting through the green fields. It twists and turns for half a mile. Comes to a dead end at a Christmas tree field.

I get out. Look around. The rain eases. On one side is the same green field I was standing in before -- I'm at the other end. On the other are two stands of trees: the Christmas tree patch and an older forest. The forest looks like it's just Christmas trees neglected for twenty, thirty years. Probably so. There's an excavator in the midst of the trees, rusting, trees growing up around it. Been there for years. Decades. It's trapped. It'd take an act of god to get it out of its woody prison.

Between the Christmas tree field and the taller trees I find a path, an old dirt road, long unused. I walk down a ways. It cuts down along the contour of the ridge. I see no canyon, but I hear rushing water. There's some sort of animal shit on the ground. This is the road I want.

The rain has stopped.

Back at the car. I'm gathering my equipment -- including all of my lenses -- when I hear an approaching vehicle. Then I see it. A black Chevy Suburban, coming fast. The driver speeds down the lane, brakes hard to skid to a stop only a few feet from my vehicle. Jackass.

A man jumps out. Blue jeans, Oregon Ducks sweatshirt, cowboy hat. His tobacco's chewed, not smoked. He strides up briskly, chest out, spits at my feet.

"Can I help you?" he says, but it's a challenge, not a question.

I've been a professional photographer for twenty-three years. I may forget my umbrella now and then, but I don't forget past altercations. I know how to diffuse trouble. Or try to.

I'm contrite. Spread my arms wide, expansive, open. Play innocent, apologetic. I explain that some guy in a brown pickup told me to come back here, said I should take photos. Said there was a canyon or something.

"Well, shit," the man says. "That guy in the brown pickup, he don't own my land, now, does he?"

I grant this to be true.

He spits at the ground again. Not at my feet.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm a photographer. Just looking for something nice to shoot. I'll go."

He holds up a hand to stop me. "Derek Tallman," he says, shakes my hand. "This is my land. You can take all the pictures you want" -- he says it "pitchers" -- "Just ask first. That's all."

"I'm sorry," I say. "I appreciate it. I get anything good, I'll mail you a copy."

This seems to please him. His attitude eases. He tells me I should follow the old road, hike back into the canyon, take some photos back there.

"The old homestead place is back there. And the mill. About a mile down the trail. You oughtta get pitchers of that."

He pauses, thinks for a moment.

"You wanna be careful of bear," he says. "A sow and her three cubs passed through here end of last summer. Cats, too. Cougars and the like. I ain't seen no cougar lately, but they're around. And coyotes."

Permission to photograph the canyon doesn't seem like much of a gift anymore. I grew up around here, know about bears and cats and coyotes, but have no first-hand experience with them. Don't know what I'd do if I found myself face-to-face with one.

"You've been warned," says Tallman. "Good luck." He climbs back in the Suburban. Drives off more quietly than he came.

The clouds have begun to part. The sun is obscured by the taller trees, but I can feel its warmth melting away the cold. My feet are still muddy and wet, though, and I'm uncomfortable. And I'm worried about bears and cats and coyotes.

I consider calling it a day, driving home. I haven't snapped a single image, though, and this homestead place sounds promising. I start down the old road, carrying all of my equipment. It's heavy, especially for a couple mile hike.

The road is overgrown with weeds. It's rocky and rough. The hillside rises to my left and falls away to my right, though my view of the canyon is blocked by a forest of fir. The sound of rushing water is all around.

Again I come upon animal spoor. Bear? Cougar? Coyotes? Maybe it's only elk. I don't know. Why don't I know? I've lived my entire life within twenty-five miles of this spot and I can't tell bear shit from deer shit? Coyote tracks from cougar tracks? I can name the plants, but don't know a thing about the animals. Or the birds.

It's more than a mile. Or seems to be. The road goes on and on, falling into a wooded canyon valley. The hillside to the left is grassy, with an occasional scrub pine, but otherwise surprisingly treeless. The hillside to the right slopes away more gently and is covered with fir of every sort -- Noble, Douglas, Fraser, Grand -- and an occasional pine or deciduous tree. I've seen no other animal signs. Heard only birdcalls. Birds are everywhere. The clouds have gone. The morning is quite warm now. The birds chirp and twitter and call to each other. Flit from tree to tree.

The road bottoms out, begins to rise. As it does, I find myself above the tops of the trees on the hillside. Soon I have a view to the other side of the canyon. I reach a broad, flat grassy clearing. The hillside falls away more steeply here, and fewer trees grow on its side. I can see the entire canyon.

Opposite from me, maybe a mile away, rises another hill, painted with an unbroken wall of evergreens. Below, a narrow river -- a stream, really -- courses across the valley. The mill is there. And there is a house: the homestead. An old bridge spans the stream. It's a lovely vista. Not breathtaking, perhaps, but there ought to be a photograph to be made here.

I drop my bag. Set up the tripod. Mount the camera. Mount the lens -- a zoom this time, for versatility. I scan the scene. Searching. The trees opposite provide a pleasing pattern: sharp green edges, shadowy highlights. No center of interest. And the mill is too far from me. It does not fill the frame.

I hear a noise behind me, a crack or a snap. I whirl. There's nothing there. I'm edgy, and I know it, but knowing does not calm me. The sun is climbing and soon the good morning light will be gone. I should head back to the car. Drive home. Call it a day. But I haven't made a single image. That's no way to make a living.

Again with the noise. And a cough this time. A human cough.

"Hey!" a voice calls. It echoes in the valley below: "Hey! Hey! Hey!"

I look up. It's Diego, the man from the brown Toyota. He waves to me with his left hand, which is holding a cigarette. He's holding a rifle in his right.

"Buena vista," he says. He doesn't shout. He doesn't need to shout. He's standing a hundred feet above me, cliffside, at the edge of the Christmas tree field.

"You found it," he says. "Didja take any pictures."

"Not yet," I say, looking at the rifle in his hand. I'm edgy.

"Nice day," he says. "Rain's gone away."

"You seen any bear?" he asks. "There's bear around here. You should carry a gun. To be safe."

Somehow I feel less safe with Diego carrying a gun.

"Stay there," he says. "I come to you." He puts the cigarette in his mouth, disappears from view.

I don't know what to do, but I am not staying here.

I do not pause to think.

I grab my stuff, not even bothering to unmount the camera from the tripod. I slap on the lens cap and call it good enough. I start back down the road. Almost immediately I notice a path of sorts, running off the road and down into the valley. I look over my shoulder. No Diego. It's a whim of dubious merit, but I choose the path into the valley.

I scramble down the slope. It's steep. Steeper than I had anticipated. I lose my footing on the wet grass and suddenly I am on my ass, sliding down the slope. I don't know how far I slide -- maybe a few feet, maybe a hundred. It seems like a hundred.

My rear is soaked now, too, not just my pants and my feet. My camera and tripod and bag of lenses have been bumped and jarred but taken no serious blows. I'm vexed. I'm worried about my equipment, but am more worried about myself. I'm edgy. And wet. I get up, continue down the slope. More carefully now. Twice I pass animal shit, but I do not stop to examine it. I'm too excited, too edgy to worry about animals. I don't want to deal with Diego and his gun.

My scramble ends. I am at the bottom of the slope, at the edge of the grassy field. The rushing water is louder here. The stream is a quarter-mile away. I look back up the slope and my heart sinks. It's so steep. It was easy to descend, but I don't know if I can climb back up.

I check my equipment. Everything seems fine. The zoom lens mounted to the camera is scuffed green from grass, but the optics seem fine. It seems fine. I'd need to make an image with the lens to be sure, but images have not been forthcoming this morning.

I weigh my options. Climb back up the slope -- impossible. Follow the river upstream to a point at which I might find my way back to the car -- possible. Go to the river, cross it, photograph the homestead or the mill, perhaps try to find my way up into the park -- why not?

I track through the long wet grass toward the river. Toward the mill. My pants and shoes are soaking. I hate it when my feet are wet. Now my entire lower body is wet. I am miserable. I'm edgy.

The bridge does nothing to inspire my confidence. It comprises several old rotting planks held together, but tenuously, with rusting nails. It's older than it is strong. When I put a foot on it, it sways ominously from side to side. What have I to lose? I'm cold and wet. I haven't a single image for my troubles. I scramble across.

The mill is a wooden thing. Similar construction and state as the bridge. I feel that if I touched it, it might collapse. It's large and looming, and the sunlight is still nearly horizontal. Horizontal enough to cast nice shadows, to create definition. I walk around the mill, skirting the edge of the stream, searching for my spot. I find it. Here, at the corner of the mill, with a wide-angle lens, with side-lighting, with the richly textured hillside of trees in the background, with a hint of blue sky in the corner of the frame. Here. Here is the shot I've been seeking.

I set up the tripod. I mount the camera, mount the 20mm lens. I consider my options. Do I need a filter? A polarizer? A warming filter? What about fill flash?

Then Diego is by my side. He is big and wet and steaming. His big body is steaming. He is angry.

"Where did you go, vato? What are you doing here?" he asks, gesturing toward the mill with the rifle, which he is still holding in his right hand. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to photograph the mill," I say. I'm tired of this whole thing. I'm edgy and cold and wet.

"You shouldn't be here," he says.

"Muy peligroso," he says. "It's dangerous."

Yes, it's dangerous, I think. Very dangerous.

"I'll be careful," I say. I turn to my camera. I bend over. Look through the viewfinder. Frame the shot. It's perfect. I press the shutter. Make the photograph.

The shutter clicks, and as it does Diego says, "Hey!" I look up at him and panic. He has raised his gun, has pointed it toward me, is staring down the barrel of the rifle.

I dive to the ground, roll away from the tripod, begin crawling for the mill. I'm terrified. I stand to run.

Diego fires a shot. I hear the crack, almost feel it. I fall to the ground again, terrified. But I am not shot. I am not shot. I hear a crash and then a thrashing in the long grass. I look up. The rifle is by Diego's side. He's not looking at me. He's looking past me, past the camera. There's something there, in the grass. Alive. Dying.

He strides over, grabs my hand. Pulls me up. He points to a mass of black fur writhing in the grass. "El oso," he says. "Bear. A little one. We're lucky for that. Small, but hungry. Dangerous."

"You should be more careful," he says. He pulls out a cigarette. Lights it.

My heart is racing. I'm edgy. My instincts tell me to run, but I try to remain calm. Calm.

I gather my equipment.

"I'm lost," I say.

"I know," says Diego. "I'll sow you the way out."

He leads me back across the bridge. Along the edge of the valley. Up a well-used trail through the tall trees. To the old road. Back to my car.

"Thanks," I say.

"De nada," he says. "You should be more careful."

I should be more careful.

My entire morning gone and all I have for it is a single image.