Marooned
Red and blue strobes punch through the windows of our van. The irony of a dark space flooded with light in this context dawns on me. Is this how the houses feel? Exposed, disturbed, anxiously awaiting some sort of punishment?
Shit.
How fast were you driving?
Like five over!
30 minutes ago
We stand at the crest of a gigantic sand pit to admire the prairie farmhouse one last time. We rarely return to the locations we photograph, so it’s typical to bid a fond farewell to these distant places who become close companions. Over the course of just a few hours, we become fairly intimate.
Penetrating crevices that haven’t been filled in decades, the floors tremble and buckle against the weight of unfamiliar footsteps. Our hushed conversation dances upon deafened silence like sweet nothings—an unintelligible language to a home that hasn’t housed a living soul the last one parted for greener pastures. Our breath warms the desiccated viscera, shriveled by the wind chill. Invaders break through windows and doors—fallen soldiers who no longer stand guard between comfort and misery.
We are uninvited guests, but maybe the light we bring to the party is welcome respite from the lonely darkness. A generous dish of neon-orange Buffalo Chicken Dip for the soul-starved.
What makes this house particularly unique—and, therefore, a must for our photography catalog—is that she sits atop a man-made hill. How she arrived there is not unlike waking up to find that the only reason you’re suddenly tall is because a missile split the earth where you stand.
For those unfamiliar, fracking (short for hydraulic fracturing) is a process where highly-specific, uniformly-sized grains of “frac sand” are combined with water, chemicals and high pressure to literally fracture the impermeable rock below and pave the way for that black gold to gush to the surface for collection. Up to this point, this particular region of the upper midwest (second only to Texas in oil production) relied on imported frac sand from other states. But, lo and behold, some geologists figured out that the locally-sourced sand might do the trick after all. Gotta increase those sweet, sweet profit margins; let the Digathon begin!
So here sits the queen, marooned against a waterless moat. For whatever reason—probably financial—the frac sand miners spared this old pile of regal bones, and carved out a throne so she could survey the damage indefinitely.
A few hours before that
It’s the day after Thanksgiving. After driving for over ten hours straight, we land in Grand Forks, North Dakota, to grab an overpriced hotel room and scarf down our “Cooler Dinner.” (Adjacent to, but not as trendy, as healthy, nor as photogenic as “Girl Dinner.”)
In what felt like moments, we are back out in the black tube of rural roadway heading to our first location on this trip’s agenda. After an hour, we pull up to a lunar landscape—if the moon was coated in vegetation in some alternative reality—and approach the pit. With an unseasonably warm autumn back home, we’re not yet accustomed to the Dakota winds that shave swaths of degrees from the air, dropping the Fahrenheit into single digits. This shoot will have to be quick.
We trek past the smaller mounds of sand and dirt until we reach the old lady, even more majestic than we had imagined. We gear up and hike the entire circumference of the mound to find the upward path of least resistance. From the looks of the crispy plant growth that surrounds the area, the digging stopped awhile back—where “awhile” could’ve been months or years, depending on the drought severity. We determine that there really is no easy way up, so just gotta bite the bullet and climb to the top using our own bare appendages. With high risk comes sweet reward; the view is literally breathtaking. It’s gotta be about twenty degrees colder way up here.
We explore. We note the giant hole in the floor that could’ve been a rare indoor water well. We discuss lighting logistics. Chris slides down the side of the hill to go set up the camera. And from this point on, it’s a combination of:
Katie: lighting up the first and second floors (trying very hard not to fall into the water well)
Chris: waiting the two minutes for each long-exposure shot to “cook” (trying very hard not to get frostbite as he takes an iPhone photo of the Canon photo for Katie)
Katie: waiting for the digital bits make their way from Chris’ phone to hers to survey the results and avoid more arduous “Mount Dakota” climbs than necessary
Both: enduring a frustrating interchange of phone calls and whisper-shouting into the wind to determine the next move (Walkies—second only to our first First Aid Kit—would be a no brainer, eh?).
The text photos prove much too difficult to assess so I end up repeatedly descending and scaling “Mount Dakota” anyway. My quads the next day, folks, I’m telling you.
In a battle of Man Vs. Wind, we’re beat from the beginning. We manage to hold out for about an hour-and-a-half and two different angles before Chris’ fingers called it quits. We agree, we got our shots…
We pack up almost all of our gear*, jump into the van, heat full blast, and head back to the bright lights, big city of Grand Forks.
But lest we forget our little meet-cute with local law enforcement: when 70mph comes to a screeching 55mph halt and Chris is going about 60.
I’ll have you know, Chris hasn’t been pulled over for speeding in about 25 years, so it’s almost like the nervous thrill of a local high school reunion pot luck. You quickly bake up a full batch of “Yes Sirs,” which feel cheesy on your tongue, but perfectly plump as they drift out of your driver’s side window.
Yes, officer sir, we are clearly from waaaay out of town. Our placement at this very odd location on the U.S. map at about midnight makes for interesting banter with our boy in blue. He takes Chris’ license and registration back to the squad car for careful examination. Time stands still and we tally up how many print sales we’d need to make up for the speeding ticket. Hopefully this one fares better than Hotel Hell where we both got trespassing tickets and the image was a big flop.
The officer returns with a sheet of paper, it’s drumroll of a ripple against the wind escalates the drama.
A warning.
Big sighs pair with a copious amount of “sirs” as we thank the officer and crawl back to the interstate at 49.5mph. So now we’ll have to be extra careful on this trip because we’ve clearly been flagged.
*Our fond farewell to the old hill house turned out to be a “later gator.” Upon our return to the overpriced hotel—pulled by the promise of a late-night, Lactose-Free Mild Cheddar snack—Chris discovers he’d left behind his knife, handed down to him from his late father. We return the following morning to locate it amongst the brush. The house begs us for one last climb, so we capture her basking in the warm sun. In the light of day, she's arguably just as magnificent as the night before.
We’ll leave you with a tour of her palace…
If you enjoyed this little adventure of ours, don’t forget to give our heart a squeeze before you go. And maybe exit through the gift shop.
Or, if you’re not ready to go back to work just yet, why not read another one? This one takes you allllllll the way back to our origin story. There weren’t any radioactive spiders, but there was a shitty ex-girlfriend involved. Classic amiright?
Love this. Your dedication to your art is impressive and inspiring. And the results are amazing!