April 8, 2002. Southern Minnesota - The dilapitated grey barn could barely be seen through the dense fog. Only nineteen minutes left on the battery, and 100 miles to go, but this really looked worthy. Quickly the truck came to a stop on the small two lane serviceable highway which wound through the farm hills of southern Minnesota – a dangerous and unthoughtout action. Still not a good view, so the truck backed up on the shoulder to get the right composition. There. Perfect. Hope the oncoming cars see the hazards in the fog.

Camera in hand the driver’s door of the small pickup opens, and a focused photographer slides out onto the moist remote pavement. In the distance dogs bark. Dogs? They sounded a good distance away. More dog barks. Closer. The photographer, now on the far side of road heading into the ditch turns to look into the foggy field across the roadway. Dog barks getting closer. THERE! Dogs, mangy dogs, only slightly farther away from the truck than the photographer – and these were not “let me slobber all over you barks”. It seemed as if both the dogs and the photographer stopped to assess their options - the dogs to attack, and the photographer to take a picture. The lens cap was already off and the camera on, so the photographer quickly composed, zoomed, and fired.

At the instant the shutter clicked, the dogs seems to bark and charge with renewed vigor. Now it was distance versus time. The dogs were no doubt faster, but had more ground to cover. It was going to be close. The photographer reached for the door handle as the dogs encroached up the ditch. The door slammed shut as the crazed dogs barked and circled in a frenzy. The photographer was safe, his heart rate on a steady decline. Safe.

Now safe, the photographer under composure and behind a car door, slowly rolled down the window and fired some more.