Motive for hiking and shooting photos

When I first tried the TAv setting, it was during discussions with someone over the Pentax TS-1.  This was this person's favorite camera.  I'm old (83) and some times have twinges, and since hiking keeps me in pretty good shape and photography keeps me hiking, I need alternate kits and the TS-1 seemed like a good idea at the time.  But I didn't like its having only one dial.  This TS-1 person recommended various automatic settings including the TAv (although I don't think that is the setting he used).  In any case I gave it a try.  In editing, the changes in the photos due to different ISO settings didn't feel right.  So I set the TS-1 on a shelf and maybe I'll use it the next time a shoulder or knee develops a twinge -- or maybe not.  I subsequently bought a K70 which has two dials.

Now as to what I might have to lose by trying the TAv setting, I probably have a different motive for going shooting than anyone else on this forum.  Maybe not, but I'd be surprised if there was another.

My wife had a serious illness and while I could slip away to the local river for a couple of hours hiking, I could not risk driving long distances.  I had to be on call.  She was sleeping most heavily at dawn and that is when I would take the dogs for a hike.  After many years, and on July 4th 2015, she died, and even though there is nothing now preventing my driving further up into the mountains, I'm used to the convenience of the local dry river-bed.  Also, would using up energy in a drive further up into the mountains be the best thing?  I need to hike to keep in shape, not drive.  There is nothing wrong with me (that the doctors know about) at age 83.  But if I go back to the same place to hike day after day without any additional distractions, I would be bored.  I have been bored.

Then I discovered that by taking different lenses on hikes, they would present me with different challenges and give me different looks when I ran a hike as a slideshow on my monitor.

But of course that isn't all.  I retired after 39 years from Boeing.  My education was in English literature, but I was a quick study and learned engineering in companies that were largely meritocracies (Douglas, McDonnell Douglas and finally Boeing).   So despite being a retired engineer I have an artistic background.  I appreciate not only good literature but classical music and  painting.  I'm not convinced that photography is art, but I know what an "artist's eye" is and do look for the best shots presented to me.

I have been on a Rhodesian Ridgeback forum which folded but there are 20 or 30 people who want to receive photos of each hike.  For them the activities of the dogs are more important than artistic (if there is any) merit.

And for me, I make things up to keep up my interest in taking a camera with me hike after hike.  Right now I have a raft of lenses to try with the Pentax K1 full frame camera.  I felt frustrated by not getting it all right with them immediately and intuitively.  Perhaps you can see at this point that the more automatic I make my camera, the fewer challenges I'll have on a hike.

If I had many days like today, encountering dogs owned by homeless people who live under bridges and elsewhere in tents, then I'd need the TAv setting in self-defense.  Fussing with the EV setting cost me some time and maybe I've fixed that problem by setting the EV at +2 -- maybe not.
I just changed the ISO to automatic.  I decided I've been enduring too many challenges all at once.  I think I'm going to like the FA77 lens better than my other primes, but you couldn't tell it from the shots I took today.  I need another outing with it.

Fever number eighty-three

    I am ill, or perhaps just tired
    From the last hike – children
    Bickering in the other room,
    Shouting from time to time –
    Like that – liking the sound of
    Their voices never saying anything
    Of consequence – yelling with
   
    Fervor and conviction.  The day
    Is dark – I hear the rumble of thunder –
    Kim Jung-un threatens war –
    Heidegger is denigrated once
    Again.  I lean back – anyone seeing
    Would think I’m thinking but I’m not.
    A helicopter flies low, searching for

    Someone retarded and lost, full grown,
    Not armed – “do not shoot him” a voice
    Pleads from it moving slowly in
    Circles overhead – not thinking like me
    Walking about seeming strong –
    One who is going to reduce sounds
    In the room – Retarded man passing

    By, if he will, outside listening to the
    Voices in the sky – not wishing to die,
    Hiding in a bush each time a voice
    Goes by.  I see him by this time –
    Should I approach?  What could
    I say to assuage his fears?  He
    Will not listen or if he does he’ll

    Think he understands this
    World better than I and maybe
    He does.  I’ll leave him here
    To do his hiding in bushes
    And trees, with his
    Fear of what he is
    Hearing – weary and ill.
   

The Tree House

   
    What would it take to make
    This okay?  Moving away would
    Cause readjusting, needing to
    Remember new locations of
    Light switches and numbers
    Of stair steps, forcing me to
    Stop my drifting dreams, settle

    In and remember – I built a
    Tree-house seventy years ago,
    High up, overlooking the street
    And kids walking underneath.
    When it rained we’d get a bit
    Wet, Richard and I, my best
    Friend at the time.  I heard

    He was arrested for beating
    His wife – more than once –
    He may be too feeble now
    To climb.  I climb my stairs,
    Open the curtains and look
    Out at the trees I planted
    When I first moved here

    And the rustic shed my son
    Is building a bit at a time,
    Much as I built the tree house –
    Only lower down – with windows,
    Though looking out I see little
    When looking down.  He’s
    Yet to install a front door.

    When it rains I have two
    Drains in the yard to take
    The flow out into the street.
    Eaves over-hang the window
    I see the mountains through.
    I’ve a coffee-maker up here
    And granola bars – back then
   
    It was peanut butter sandwiches,
    Richard had no wife to beat, and
    I had none upon which to lavish
    An affection I didn’t know I would
    Have, thinking back past her
    Now it’s not so very bad up
    Here, especially when it rains.
   

Hurricane Season

    Running toward us through the rain,
    High-heeled shoes in one hand,
    Purse in the other, she smiled
    Unfearing.  The whole bus cheered.
    Sometime later it was just me she
    Seemed to run toward.  I wasn’t
    Initially sure.  Indomitable,

    She could not be otherwise, 
    Clouds gathered, rain fell. 
    Water eventually reached
    Our threshold.  She stepped
    Out, her purse in one hand,
    Her flats in the other. It was
    Up to her knees by then. 

    I rushed out, hoping to grab her
    As she fell into the deepest part,
    Me, standing now knee-deep
    Waiting for I knew not what, a
    Sunken purse, a floating shoe?
    Above a hawk sailed unperturbed, 
    But here below foundations groaned.

Dog-eared dreaming

  

    A number of men sat
    ‘Round the table discussing,
    Words.  I heard “philosophy”
    Mentioned, but I mostly
    Heard music that only
    Occasionally let me feel
    Words.  Words that could

    Sing.  There were times I
    Reached or stepped with
    Something that ached; so
    I stopped rather than moved
    On listening to what I
    Heard.  The men seemed to
    Speak of conditional relations

    Overriding what might otherwise
    Have been said, if it was said long
    Ago or in another context.
    I watched through a mist of music
    The rising and fall of it all, the
    Imputation of sadness
    And inevitable loss.

    I rolled over and the ringing
    In my ears increased.  I checked
    The time.  I’d slept too long
    And it drowned out the nuance,
    And signification, the bandied
    Words.  The boy on the Ferris
    Wheel saw it all and wept.

Georgia

    A number of old men stood in a
    Circle and sang by turn.  I was
    New there and stood aside.  I knew
    Them all and was surprised they
    All could sing.  Some were good,
    Appropriately supplying the
    Lower ranges, tenors handled

    The rest.  Even those who weren’t
    Good took their turns and were
    Pleasing to hear since I knew
    Them.  I could  take my place
    In the next one, knowing
    The words; yet knowing I
    Wouldn’t -- not willing to join

    This singing.  I would sing a song
    Entire though on my own. All 
    Those old men smiled as they
    Took their turns, and went on
    Smiling their joy as the night wore
    On – finally leaving as they ran
    Out – their last song fading.

Time Rift

    The lights dim.  I seat her
    At our table.  I am younger
    Then, smiling, full of music –   
    Singing softly so only she
    Can hear – smiling and she
    Smiles too, catching her breath
    As she does.  Beauty is thrown

    Down and we take it up.  Which
    Ever way we turn the light’s
    Brighten.  Then comes the drum,
    Cymbals, sax and trumpet.  Then
    Keys thunder and outside rain
    Begins to fall.  We step out
    In night-air crisp and wet

    Hiding tears she shed on a
    Night I'll never see again --
    Nor smile -- nor hear her
    Catching her breath as all
    About us thunders in my ears  --
    Leaving me singing songs
    She'll never hear.