Nov 2007 West End Walking between the 6 foot high berm of sand and the violent, unforgiving surf, I am completely immersed in the spectacle of this unpredictable landscape. I am entirely at home. As the 25 knot winds whip the berm into a menacing blast of sand that stings the face and threatens my camera gear , I turn my back and wrap myself around my camera , waiting for the screaming to subside. As I walk towards the bay side of this Katrina-ravaged barrier island, I come to a large inlet, complete with a heron, crabs completely covering the floor of the 4 foot deep inlet, and an occasional fish jumping out of the water. Flocks of seagulls appear, and are gone. Where the bay meets the island, virtually no surf exists on this windy, hostile day. A narrow walkway of sand, 10 feet wide and 100 feet in length, extends between the bay and this inlet, creating a sensation of being surrounded by water with virtually nothing between one and the temptress. The quiet nature of the surf on this side, in contrast to the gulf side of the narrow island, is surreal. As I reach the end of this walkway, I come to a stream of ocean water that breaches the path and feeds the inlet. The current is swift enough to take your balance, despite the shallow depth. The crabs are waiting for a misstep. Such a brittle, helpless stretch of sand, surely to be destroyed by the next hurricane. Nov 2007 West End Going past this obstacle leads to a large area of sand that looks more like a lake bottom that is trying to dry up. Mucky, sticky, and a bit treacherous, as the depth of the semi solid area is unclear. Katrina debris is still evident. This section of the island, the extreme west end, is flat. It has been totally decimated, and it reminds me of a war zone. An oval shaped hole, filled with water, appears . 4 feet across and 8 feet long, the water appears deep. I wonder if I could get back out if I were to enter this crater. Very deep, but with a sloping side. After dark, one could easily step into this abyss. Beyond, nearing the end of the current configuration of the island,, lies a bevy of watery twists and turns carved into the fragile landscape. The sunset casts unimaginable colors and patterns upon the odd canals. Like a painting of pastels. Beyond lies a one mile cut that was formed by the hurricane. Five feet deep I have been told. At the narrow tip, where no further exploration is possible, someone has turned his back to the cut and written in the sand: “I’ve Always Been Here Before.” West End August 2007 Reversing my course back along the gulf side, the surf is crashing with a deafening noise. Again, the sand is swirling and blasting me as I turn away in defense. Ahead, lights shine in the distance, a 30 minute walk. This uninhabited stretch is my solitude. I love the cold, dreary, gray walks along this beach. Maybe the appeal is knowing the powerful, unforgiving lady will kill me if given the opportunity. I am in awe and respectful. Nothing remains in its place here. A month passing will create a new landscape of shells, driftwood, and debris. And the narrow, fragile walkway of sand…… I have wondered what would be my thoughts if caught in a sudden storm on this stretch. Surely this thin, flat, devastated piece of sand would be washed over with a minimal storm? Was the surge 25 feet during the hurricane? During a recent event 60 knot winds were reported on this part. Whiteout conditions existed due to driving sand. My mind drifts to a solitary walk along the edge of the gulf during this event. The challenge. I prefer the gray skies with the gale force winds, and the privilege of respectfully coexisting with nature’s extreme, raw power. Driftwood, large and small, washes up. Holes are bored in the side, with shells inside the openings. Clinging for life. These are my souvenirs, not the postcards with the pretty beach and umbrellas. The tumultuous life of anything that survives here. This place is my solitude.