The soft spongy earth and high grass soaked my shoes immediately. A thick heavy mist hung over the landscape- I had come north to Cajas for the streams. Cuenca with its dense population and cobble stone streets was foreign to me, but the rhythm of casting a fly rod, reading the current, transcended time and place- taking me from the high Andes back to the Vallicito valley. My mind at ease in the new surroundings.
They say change is inevitable, that tourism will be the new economy. I prefer to remember it as it was- the community that gave it’s self to my upbringing- following the cobblestone streets in the footsteps of my grandfather. Patiently listening as he spoke to the other fisherman in his daily routine.
The extreme heat was inhospitable, the landscape thundered in my ears. Adrenalin coursed through my veins making the experience bearable, almost distant. I was assured that the high ridge was safe, running like a black spine above the sea of fire and fury below. My instinct was to flee – eyes fixed on the molten earth.
These excerpts are part of the in class writing assignments that seek to emulate creative non fiction, each excerpt written in under two minutes. Our instructor, the renowned William R. Gray, teaches various courses on the art of prose throughout the year. As a photojournalist, I feel that mastering the English language, and how it is written plays a very strong role in the field of photojournalism.