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Monthly Archives: May 2015

OK, so picnics are ruined by rain, and so are camping trips, but I still have the farm boy’s memory of the delight in rain—too wet to work the fields, and, besides, we needed the rain…


Road and Rain, May 25, 2015

Road and Rain, May 25, 2015

I’m happy to note that Ben Huff’s “Last Road North” is now available for sale on Amazon.

I must also confess that I am not an unbiased observer when it comes to this book—Huff is a friend—and I watched this project develop over the years. I first met Ben in about 2006 in Fairbanks, he was photographing the grit and grime of town, but wanted to get out. He was also completely taken with the work of photographers working in large format color—but too broke to even consider buying a camera or film. I’d been working with 8×10 for about 20 years at that point in time, and offered to loan him one of my cameras, buy a few sheets of color film, and see what happened. What happened, of course, was that he came to his senses, and settled on 4×5 as a more manageable format—I briefly loaned him my 4×5 to give that format a try.

Ben Huff in Coldfoot, June 2008


About the same time, Ben started his exploration of the Dalton Highway. For me, the Dalton highway is “on the road”, and therefore part of civilization—I’d spent several years living on the open tundra in Northwest Alaska—where if you got into trouble, help could be days or weeks away—on the road, there was always someone you could flag down and get help from. But Ben saw the road differently—for him it was a push outward into the wild space that still remains and characterizes Alaska. And he was fascinated by the misfits and misanthropes that seemed to settle at the edges of the road—a group of people I’ve always taken care to leave alone.


Ben Huff plays matador, February 2011

Ben Huff plays matador, February 2011

Ben made dozens of trips up the Dalton—I’ve done far less—but we did two trips together—the first a summer trip in my 1984 beater van— memories—the bugs in Atigun Gorge were intense, and I caught Ben doing a selfie with mosquitoes all over his face—we talked endlessly for about 2 days until we were exhausted—the last few hours back into Fairbanks we listened to my 1960s Bob Dylan cassette tape collection, laughing. The second trip was in late February, a weekend with storms blowing through the Brooks range—we intended to leave Friday, but I stayed home after hearing forecasts of blowing snow just north of Fairbanks—Ben tried to go out anyway—turned around not that far out of town. The next day we drove to Coldfoot, halfway, to find dozens of trucks idling in the parking lot—Atigun pass had been blown shut for days—the next day we drove as far as we could—no traffic on the road at all—we stopped where we wanted and set up our tripods in the middle of the road—an amazing day—and that trip, after we tired of talking, we listened to a CD of poet John Haines reading his work.

I watched Ben struggle to arrange his photographs into a book—to find a thread that kept the project together. In the fall of 2011, shortly after he moved to Juneau, I spent an evening at his house, and he showed me his attempt to edit his pictures into a sequence for a book—pictures hanging from string with clips—we rearranged them looking for a sequence that worked—and I offered to write an introduction to define the thread—which I did in about 20 minutes:


People come to Alaska for all kinds of reasons, but there is a look that some of them have, a little wild eyed, hell bent towards something, like the third generation bastard offspring of Kerouac, edgy, that identifies them as one of them, that “into the wild” crowd, the refusal to compromise, to take advice, to listen, that occasionally results in death, but mostly just results in pushing things until the wheels come off, or they lose their grip on the road and go sliding into the ditch…

Alaska is full of wanna-be photographers and writers, just one of the forms of madness that drive people north, to find the end of the road, the real wilderness.   John Szarkowski wrote that Americans are scared by a sense of innocence, and one of the places they come looking for it is in Alaska, some of them end up on the Dalton Highway, that 500 mile long gravel ribbon crossing some of the most amazing space left. The road is there because there is oil at the end, and the big trucks that own the road are all there to support the oil fields. But other people come—tourists, hunters, drifters—mostly because it’s as far north as you can go, to get away from everybody else. Most of them never leave the side of the road, never venture off into the empty space.

The first picture I ever saw that Ben Huff made on the Dalton was precisely the kind of picture you’d expect from one of those young men—taken through the cracked windshield of his car—of snow swirling in the doom of twilight—and of course he made it while driving alone in November, coming back from one of his first trips up the road, listening to Mat Dillion reading Kerouac’s “On the Road”. I’d already seen a group of his photographs made around Fairbanks—a little spooky, the color pallet of the failed painter, the intensity of someone intending to make Art.  You knew he was up to something, so long as his tires didn’t shred.

On the Road, with Ben Huff, February 2011

On the Road, with Ben Huff, February 2011


But how can one take a space as large as the land this road crosses and make the place your own? It is too big, too cold, too desolate, so much beyond the scale of human comfort to ever be home. It is a place that attracts our eye, but ultimately is so severe that it drives us away. Nobody lives in Prudhoe Bay—the workers come and go on week long shifts, the truckers drive up the road one day, drop their loads, and run back home.   Most of the people that come and try to live along the road give up after a few days or weeks and move on. The place is just too damn hard.

I know, from conversations with Ben, that he thinks these pictures aren’t enough—I’ve watched him plan his “last trip north” about half a dozen times now—but what he perhaps is still too young to realize is that no picture or set of pictures will ever be enough—that place is still beyond his grasp. As it should be—and hopefully will be for generations to come. But I’m grateful for his pictures of the place and the wild men that drift through it.


It has taken several years to get the book published—with a wonderful essay by Barry Lopez—and sans my own introduction—but I still think it defines at least one thread that runs through his pictures.