Double Exposure (2 page)

He pictures her in the small gallery just down from the Rollins College campus in Winter Park, the sounds of the Amtrak train clacking down the track in the background, the desultory sounds of lazy evening traffic easing by her open door, and it reminds him just how far away she is.

—I’m sure you think that’s some kind of metaphor.

—You don’t?

—I don’t think like you. Never have.

—Never said you should.

—You’re okay?

—I’m fine. Just here to check my traps and try out my new camera.

—Well, be careful.

—Always am.

—Good.

—Got one of your feelings?

—I’m not sure.

—Either you do or you don’t.

—Not always. Sometimes they have to … how can I put this … develop.

—Funny.

—Just trying to speak a language you understand.

He needs to go, but doesn’t want to.

—Be extra careful, she says, and I’ll call you if anything develops.

—I won’t have signal.

—’Til when?

—’Til I get back. Hour or so after dark.

—Maybe you shouldn’t go.

—You tell me.
I don’t have a feeling one way or the other.

—I’m so glad you’re lensing again. Don’t want to stop you.

She had always been encouraging of his photography, including letting him take nudes of her starting when they met in college and continuing into their lives together. Even when he wasn’t taking pictures of anything else, he was taking pictures of her.

They are silent a moment, and he misses her so much, the day grows even colder, the vast expanse of river swamp lonelier.

—We gonna make it? she asks, her voice small, airy, tentative.

—You don’t have a feeling about
that?

—I’m not ready to let go. I can’t.

—Then don’t.

—But …

—What?

—I don’t know. We’re not gonna figure it out right now, and you’re losing light. Call me when you get home.

As is her custom, she hangs up without saying goodbye.

He smiles. Glad. Grateful. Goodbye is something he never wants to hear from her. Back when they first started dating, he’d asked her why she never said it. Because, she’d explained, we’re in the midst of one long, ongoing conversation. I don’t want that to end.

She didn’t say amen after her prayers either.

M
ore screams.

Or what sounds like screams. Surely they’re not. Surely they’re just—

Unbidden, unwelcome, he hears Heather screaming in his mind. Screaming in pain. Screaming for him. It’s something he never wants to hear, something he didn’t think he could bear.

Is there anything worse in the world than hearing the woman you love screaming in pain and being unable to do anything about it?

C
losing the shutter on such thoughts, he refocuses his attention on his surroundings, on the task at hand.

Moving.

The forest grows thicker—tiny, barren branches buffeting his upper body, scratching his hands and face, as dead leaves, limbs, fallen trees, and bushes hinder him from below.

The temperature is sinking with the sun. A wet North Florida cold is coming, the kind that creeps into a man’s marrow—especially when he’s alone, unable to contact the outside world, uncertain about exactly where he is.

The cold air carries on its currents the faint smell of smoke, as if a great distance away an enormous forest fire is raging, running, consuming.

Home.

He wouldn’t have chosen to come back to this place, but it feels right to be here—here in the real Florida, not the manufactured or imported, not the tacky or touristy, not the Art Deco or amusement park, but the great green northwest, Florida’s millions of acres of bald-cypress swamps, dense hardwood hammocks, and longleaf and slash pine forests.

Here, in addition to taking care of his mother and keeping his family from ruin, he can hone his craft, practice his art, lens the rare and the beautiful, film Florida’s most exotic and elusive wildlife.

S
uddenly, startlingly, the thick forest opens up, giving way to a pine flatwood prairie. Several acres in circumference, surrounded by thick hardwood forests and cypress swamps, the small area is comprised of scattered longleaf pines, saw palmetto, cutthroat grass, gallberry, fetterbush, and fall flowering ixia.

Thankful for the temporary respite from the abrasive, nearly impenetrable hardwood forest, he moves more quickly through the thick, but low lying, foliage on the soggy soil.

Lifting his feet high, in part to avoid the palmettos, in part out of his phobia of snakes, he lopes across the small flat plain within a few minutes, wondering why in all his previous trips out here he’s never seen this particular one before.

—You lost?

The voice startles him, and he jumps. Turning, he sees a gaunt old man with grizzly gray stubble, holding a large woodgrain shotgun, having just emerged from the cypress swamp Remington is about to enter.

Taking a moment before answering, Remington gathers himself.

—Only in the most existential sense, he says.

—Weren’t meanin’ to frighten you.

—It’s okay. I just didn’t expect to see anybody this far in.

—Me neither.

The man, younger than he first appears, is wearing grimy green work pants, scarred boots, a red flannel shirt, and a soiled baseball cap with a local logging company logo on it. His swimy, slightly crossed eyes seem to float about, impossible to read.

—You a grower?

—A what? Remington asks, but then realizes he means pot.

—You ain’t huntin’. What’s in the bag?

—My camera.

—Camera?
You with Fish and Game? Remington shakes his head.

—Some sort of cop?

—No, sir.

He wants to say he’s a photographer, but can’t quite get it out.

—You hear someone scream a few minutes ago? Remington asks.

—Scream?
The hell you talkin’ about? Ain’t no one out here but us.

—Probably an animal. I heard something.

—Ain’t from around here, are you?

Remington starts to shake his head, but stops.

—Used to be. Am again, I guess.

—People what own this land don’t take much of a shine to trespassers. Best go back the way you come in.

—This is my family’s land. My dad is—was Cole James.

Remington realizes that the land he’s standing on now belongs to him.

—I’s sorry to hear about his passin’.

—Thanks.

—What’re you doin’ out this far?

—Taking pictures.

—Of what?

—Animals, mostly. Some trees.

—What kind of animals?

—Deer, gator, fox, bear, boar, and the Florida panther.

—Ain’t no panther this far north.

—So everyone keeps telling me, but I’ve seen it.

—The hell you say.

—I have. When I was younger. And I’ve seen its tracks since I’ve been back.

—Well, you best be gettin’ back. Be dark soon. Easy to get lost out here.

—Thanks, I will. I’m almost done.

—Wouldn’t wait, I’s you. Want me to, I’ll take you in.

—Thanks, but I’ve got a compass.

The man cackles at that.

—Suit yourself. I jest hope the panther don’t git ya.

He then turns and continues walking in the direction Remington has just come from.

Remington stands and watches the man until he crosses the small pine flatwoods plain and disappears into the hardwoods on the other side.

Unsettled by the encounter, he tries to determine why. Would he feel the same way had Heather not called and told him about her undeveloped feeling?

I would, he thinks. Though he can’t quite identify what, there was something menacing about the man. Threatening. He’s up to something illegal—and not just trespassing. It could be poaching or over-the-limit hunting, but it’s far more likely that
he’s
the grower.

Remington’s great-grandfather, Henry Clay Cole, a turpentiner who moved his family over from Mississippi, buying thousands of acres for less than a dollar each, had to contend with moonshiners—ridge runners as he often referred to them. Over eighty years had passed, and his family was dealing with the same issues. Different contraband. Same situation.

H
e considers walking out of the woods right now, but is determined not to be scared off his own land. Besides, he’s on a mission, and knows how depressed he’ll be tonight if he goes in without accomplishing it.

Looking up, examining the quality and quantity of daylight left, he decides all he really has time to do now is check his traps, which is at least something. Something he can live with. But as he turns to enter the hardwoods, an indentation in the ground catches his eye, and he stops.

There in the soggy, sandy soil, as if in plaster, is a perfect paw print. And a little ways further another. And then another. And another.

He’s fairly certain the tracks are those of an adult Florida black bear, but searches the nearby trees for confirmation. He smiles as he sees the territorial scratch marks that Florida black bears make in the tree trunks. His smile broadens when he realizes that the marks are nearly seven feet high.

B
ounding. Loping. Barreling.

Black as the void.

Buckskin muzzle bursting out of a forest of fur, chest ablaze.

Shy eyes.

The Florida black bear, the smallest of all North American bears, has been endangered for over three decades, its population having dwindled down from twelve thousand to fifteen hundred.

Rarely seen in the wild, the solitary bear hides in areas of verdant vegetation, avoiding interaction with other animals—especially humans.

Convinced there’s no better weapon to combat the threats facing the Florida black bear than artistic images of the magnificent creature in its natural habitat, Remington has wanted to capture such photographs since the moment he picked up a camera again.

Stillness.

The hardwood hammock he’s entering is serene and motionless, the only sounds the swish and crackle of the dead leaves he’s trudging through, the damp, brown coverage so thick he can’t see his boots.

Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker taps out his mating morse code on the resonant bole of a hollow tree, and when a gentle breeze sways the tops of oaks, cypresses, magnolias, and gums, the falling leaves around him sound like the start of a soft rainfall.

The blanket of downed leaves is so thick, he can’t believe there are any left on the trees, but the ancient timbers are far from barren. In fact, the area has yet to experience a hard freeze this year, which has not only left leaves on trees, but petals on flowers, blooms on branches, pastel highlights among the dominant rusts, reds, golds, and browns.

With ranges up to eleven square miles for females and sixty-six square miles for males, the chances of actually finding a bear are slight, but the tracks are fresh and his excitement makes him hopeful. This is the closest he’s ever come.

Pressing past palmettos, hanging vines, fallen trees, and jagged limbs, Remington adventures into untouched undergrowth, unspoiled woodlands.

He doesn’t have to go far.

Climbing a low ridge with the help of hanging vines, he makes his way down a short slope to a narrow slough. The small body of water is green-black, covered with floating plants and algae, and still—except for the tiny ripples emanating from the light brown snout of a huge black bear taking a leisurely drink.

Disbelief.

Excitement.

He thinks of how many hours, days, weeks, he’s spent wandering these woods without encountering a single species, and today the first animal he sees is one near the top of his list.

A
we.

Exhilaration.

With one quick motion, Remington tugs on the strap, swinging his Tamrac pack around to the front of his body, and withdraws his new Cannon camera.

Lens cap.

Focus.

Aperture.

Exposure.

Click. Click. Click.

The new SLR snaps as fast as he can press the button.

Click. Click. Click.

Looking up from the water, the bear, which is less than ten feet away, turns its head toward the sound of the camera.

Click. Click. Click.

Glancing at Remington, the bear looks away, then raises up on its hind legs, exposing a diamond shape blaze of white fur on its chest, and begins to sniff the air.

The black mass of endangered species stands nearly six feet tall, weighs almost two hundred pounds, its massive body imposing, intimidating, irrational making.

Reminding himself to remain calm, Remington continues to snap pictures rapidly, checking the display to confirm image quality only once during the process.

Click. Click. Click.

She’s not gonna kill you. Glancing away from you and avoiding eye contact is a threat-averting action.

No human’s ever been killed by a Florida black bear.

In preparation for this moment, Remington had read a great deal about these animals, learning how gentle most of them are, how they eat mostly fruit and insects. This time of year, her diet consists primarily of the fruits of saw palmetto, cabbage palm, tupelo, and oaks.

Overdevelopment and the resulting loss of inhabitable land has the black bear’s vast, original, heavily forested hardwood habitats fractured into tiny green slivers between urban and suburban sprawl, unable to sustain the beautiful, magnificent creature standing so majestically before him right now.

The number one killer of the Florida black bear is automobiles.

More cars. More houses. More goddam malls. Like a controlling, possessive lover, we’re destroying the very thing we claim to love, carving parts off piece by piece.

An important part of Florida’s ecosystem, the black bear is what’s known as an umbrella species—with their broad ecological range and requirements, including a variety of habitats over a large geographic area, they are umbrellas for a wide range of other protected, threatened, and endangered animals, including the gopher tortoise, Eastern Indigo snake, and the Florida scrub jay.