A story is never far away … you just have to dig a little. The journalist tells the story, while the photographer shows it. But, given the right photo, that one glimpse of time can speak volumes. That was Brewer Hutch’s quest … to capture the picture that roared.
Hutch struggled through the marina service station’s front door, his camera bag slipping from his shoulder and spilling hot coffee all over his hand. ‘Shit!’ he hissed, letting the screen door snap shut behind him as he eased the bag onto the veranda floor. Hutch sat, composed himself, licked coffee off his thumb and sighed.
The morning sun, low on the eastern horizon, glimmered off the wake of the river ferry across the way. Its engine burbled faultlessly, a gentle drone in the crisp, quiet air. But the relative peace was soon disrupted by the squeal of brakes from a midnight-black Kenworth hauling logs from the mill in the high country. Hutch recalled the sign he’d seen coming into town yesterday: Big River Logging Co. The Kenny stopped at the ramp’s T-junction and turned off its motor with a monstrous exhale from the airbrakes.
Hutch squinted against the light, fished a pair of Ray-Bans from his battered leather jacket, and polished them clean on the hem of his faded Motorhead T-shirt. He held the glasses up to the light and observed the weary reflection staring back at him. His face appeared to be a decade older than his thirty-five years, the consequence of a restless night in an unfamiliar bed. He slipped the Ray-Bans on…