I am haunted by places and one-time features in the landscape that have faded, crumbled, disappeared, or given way to time or progress.
Barns, buildings, houses, rivers, old roads, lanes — doesn’t matter. I love to think about what remains of them all, spell-struck by voices of another age, gone faint through lack of use, yet brought to life once more by the scratch of a needle on an old phonograph.
Like tracing across the west the remaining ruts left by the covered wagons that followed the Oregon trail westward, like feeling the wind blow at the old Whitman massacre site in Eastern Washington…