Just like nothing (else) on earth: Harpers Ferry

By Tim Jon

Believe it or not the prospect of a new artistic project often includes a healthy dose of fear: not due to any real or even imaginary danger involved with the adventure, but—for me—a feeling of inadequacy. What if I go to the well of inspiration and come up empty? What if I have nothing original and unique to share with the world in this wonderful opportunity? I imagine this impasse has been faced by actors taking on a famous role like King Lear, or a painter examining a classic piece of architecture or natural formation—or even a successful musician wondering, “How do we follow up on ‘Yesterday,’ or ‘(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,’ or ‘Layla.’ 

If these creative forces were anything like mine, they blundered ahead through a fog of stupidity. Yes, it’s always worked for me. 

I’d been meaning to get back up to Harpers Ferry National Historic Park for ages. I’d taken my parents there a couple of decades ago, and had a few intermittent visits over the years, but never for an official exploration and photo session. And this, I’m sure, is where the sense of trepidation came in. First of all, this iconic site represents an important part in our nation’s past.  Secondly, the setting of the confluence of two well-known Rivers—Shenandoah and Potomac—abutted by the hilly terrain and architectural silhouettes make this an instantly recognized spot on the map. 

So, driving up Harpers Ferry Road in Loudoun County, then traveling along Route 340 into West Virginia for a short stretch, I was thinking about treating this historic subject with its due reverence. Now, I hadn’t really been there for a full-immersion visit for something like 20 years, and had no idea what kind of tourist numbers the place would attract. 

It was a blisteringly-hot day in the middle of the working week. I had a blessed vacation from my stint at the Post Office, so I figured the visitor numbers may be rather light, and I could just park along one of the many streets running to and from the actual ‘tip of the spear,’ as it were. 

Well, by the time I’d negotiated all the proper turns and started onto the property, it appeared as if about half the Earth’s population had descended on Harpers Ferry on this particular day. Official Parking lots appeared full to capacity, so I meandered through the narrow, cobbled streets, awash with arms, legs, faces and cameras. I still hadn’t given up on finding a spot to leave my vehicle and get some shots. The geography and architecture are a photographer’s dream— so I headed uphill from the main attractions closer to water level. 

It seemed every shop-owner was running some sort of open house or giving away free TV’s, at least, as the numbers of patrons made me wonder if I’d be able to park anywhere within the Town borders. I kept driving, and climbing. Harpers Ferry features very little level ground, once you get up and away from the riversides. 

After I’d been seeing yaks and sherpas for several miles—not really, but that’s about how my imagination was running. I finally located a spot where I could nudge in my vehicle and see about getting back to my mission: John Brown’s Fort, from the 1859 abolitionist raid, and some of the views of Maryland and Virginia along the Shenandoah and Potomac. 

But first, mind you, I had to interpret the street parking status: was it free parking, or was there some type of payment system? I’m still wondering, since I failed to figure out the ‘instructions’ along the side of the road. 

Not wanting to return to my car to find it ticketed (or worse – towed!) I figured I’d better make tracks if I wanted to capitalize on this impending disaster. I decided to run all the way down the hill to the site of the Fort, get some iconic shots, then run all the way back (did I mention the hill?) to my vehicle before any Rita the meter maid could do her worst. 

I remember some of the trip downhill, and I have a few vague images in my mind’s eye of the historic park down on level ground, and I’ve got some very nice (to my mind) photos of the important pieces of history and geography, but I truly recall only one or two brief moments of gasping for breath on the way back up to my car. 

My friends will all admit that I’m no longer 21, and I’ve never auditioned for the role of Tarzan on stage or screen. I did play the Welsh Poet, Dylan Thomas—so that should give you an idea of my physical attributes. 

Well, the Harpers Ferry gods were kind: no ticket, no heart trouble, and I think I still had some iced coffee left in my travel mug. See what a well-planned photo shoot can lead to? Who said I was scared?