By Jim Urquhart

It was four in the morning and for the second day in a row I found myself on the highway headed for a photo assignment before the sun rose. Still a bit tired and sore from the day before, I was however in a decent mood. The day before at the same hour I was trying to get to the start line of the Salt Lake City Marathon in the pouring rain, sleet and hail. On that morning I was assigned to photograph security efforts at the marathon, the first since the Boston Marathon bombing.

That day I covered prevention, this morning I was covering the team that are called in to help when the situation has already gone bad. The Salt Lake City Police Department SWAT team was going to be running candidates through an obstacle course as part of a test of physical fitness.

It was day one of the department’s SWAT school. Candidates spent the next six days participating in exercises designed to educate and test their physical abilities along with their decision-making skills in stressful situations.

I have always been intrigued by these groups. They are some of the top cops who are licensed to kick butt while decked out in impressive gear. They save hostages, bust down doors and in general make it a bad day for the less than honorable among us.

Well before dawn I was at the site visiting with my police department contact, who was the same person that hired me for my first newspaper job 16 years ago, when I had a thought from the past.

When I was a young punk I often found myself challenging authority for no other reason than a combination of limited brain cells and excess testosterone. I would often size up police officers by my perceived ability to outrun them. That behavior made no sense (see testosterone above). As I looked over the obstacle course assembled in front of me I thought I might just be able to run it with a decent time – retaining my ability to outrun an officer. Luckily I am a bit older now and realized that was a dumb idea.

Just then three vans with no side windows pulled up and unloaded their human cargo. About 30 candidates from various law enforcement agencies from around the state were hoping to make the cut in this round. Within a few minutes these men were being sent through the course that included items like climbing over a wall, crawling under barbed wire, jumping over a hung log, running through tires, crossing monkey bars and walking a balance beam to name a few.

After less than 10 minutes it set in just how hard the course was. Several of the guys at the beginning were struggling under the physical demands but they were quickly followed by a group of officers that navigated it fairly smoothly. They seemed to be aiming for times between three to four minutes. Some made it, many did not. Those that couldn’t complete a particular task on the course had to do a series of 10 modified burpees (a punishment that I could barely complete) further driving home the point that the days were gone that I could contemplate making a run for it.

Spring in Utah means it might as well be winter because it is certainly not summer. It was cool and wet and these guys were loaded down with at least 20 pounds of helmet, bullet proof vest, other body armor and guns.

As they continued to jump, climb and run I found my knees getting sore just by carrying my cameras around and bending down for a shot. At this point I was beginning to look to make images that showed just hard these guys were being pushed. Ideally a grown man pushed to tears would easily illustrate that point. But it wasn’t happening, these guys were handling the stress pretty well considering the course was designed to beat you.

But then there was hope. Way down the course, too far away for a decent shot, was one candidate that I could see had been passed by the others and was having to do the punishment exercise at virtually every station. Could he be the one officer left I might be able to elude?

As the morning progressed it became obvious that some had really prepared for this part of the school. Some were even given a little grief by the instructors. They tended to be the ones that worked for the Department of Corrections. The course was at the state prison and some of the correction officers could run it when they were off shift at the prison.

As the training segment wound down I was almost tempted to ask if I could have a go at running it. However, I chose not to because I just didn’t want to start my Sunday by humiliating myself in front of others.

In the end as I got back into my truck with leg muscles that had grown tired and tight in the cold I thought back to the one officer I saw struggling on the course. I had a slight inkling there might just be one officer out there that I could still outrun. The problem was he had about 30 of his cop buddies with him and I was, for sure, going to lose this race to every single one of them.

By Jim Urquhart

I may be a Red Shirt but I made it to Mars.

According to Urban Dictionary (the finest source of American literature), a Red Shirt is defined as; A character in a science fiction or adventure story whose sole dramatic purpose is to get killed by the story’s villain and/or itinerant monster. Taken from the propensity of security officers on the original Star Trek series (who typically wore red uniform tops) to be killed in the episodes’ pre-opening-credits teasers.

GALLERY: LIFE ON MARS

When I was young I wanted to be an astronaut but I never had the discipline to follow through. At one point I wanted to be a scientist but I barely made it out of high school and later dropped out of college but not until after I learned a little chemistry for recreational use in my younger days.

Even with my Red Shirts I have always been wanted to be around people that put their minds and bodies to the test. I even married a woman that has three Master’s degrees and is working on her Ph. D. I have always prided myself in consuming as much science news as possible. To me, the mind and the search for tangible knowledge is the fuel for dreams and will lead you to adventures in life.

So with that said, when I heard about the Mars Desert Research Station in the desert of southern Utah I knew I had to go. I had tried for years to go but my story pitches never made the cut, maybe I wasn’t an experienced enough photojournalist at the time for an agency to trust me with an assignment that took quite an investment to tackle. At times I had thought this place was going to be my Red Shirt assignment.

But now it seems in recent years science and space exploration have become sexy again. I made the story pitch and then I was on the road. Traveling through the desert of southern Utah is always a treat. It is a stark and naked land that has not seen much of the touch of man and at many places is devoid of any life. And as a fan of science, I have always been a fan of movies that dealt with space is some way and Utah has played host to many of my favorites. With those images in mind, I have often found myself pretending in my head that the trail I was hiking was actually on a distant planet and I was searching for signs of alien life.

The research station is set perfectly in a landscape that could easily pass as an alien world. Countless creatures and space travelers have met their fates on the silver screen in this land. Much of the science taking place on site is based on a simulation of conditions and the environment of Gale Crater on Mars where Curiosity is exploring.

When I reached the station I was greeted by a young crew of excited scientists. I am in my mid 30′s and I am sure I had 10 years on some of these faces. But these were my heroes with awesome titles like Commander, XO, Habitat Engineer and Health and Safety Officer. These were the faces of who are leading the way for man to explore beyond our blue dot. During the cooler winter months crews of six scientists (geologist, biologist and engineers and many others) rotate through simulations of how it would be to live on Mars.

It may be uncomfortable. Everything you need to survive you need to be able to produce on site or bring it with you and be able to fix if it breaks down. Despite only being able to shower every few days for only a couple of minutes in order to conserve water, their station did not smell like a gerbil cage.

The Mars Society has been in charge of creating an environment for experts and students to study how science would be done on a Martian world. Over the last 10 years 32-year-old geologist Melissa Battler has spent over 200 days living and working in a Mars simulation either in the desert of Utah or on Devon Island in the Arctic. She was the commander of the crew on mission that I spent time with in Utah.

It’s her studies and others like it that are paving the way for us to make the jump off this planet. But it takes serious dedication. Over the past 10 years she has worked an average of nearly three weeks a year in a space suit mock-up trying to do her job. Geologists rely on their sense of sight, touch and even taste to unravel stories from stone. Now imagine trying to do your job with three or more senses taken away from you.

Then there are guys like Matthew Cross whose background is in engineering and who is studying how to make rovers work alongside man during missions. “Coming out and seeing the geologist use the equipment hands on is a different thing… its one thing to hear and read about it about, its another to experience it first hand.”

But they were also just people enjoying the experience. They had co-opted the names and characters from the sci-fi series Battlestar Galactica to entertain themselves while cut off from much of the outside world. At one point when Matthew was trouble shooting a problem with their rover, Volker Maiwald, the XO and habitat engineer from Germany, came over and touched the rover. For a moment when it seemed to come to life they joked that he was part Cylon.

I understood the reference because I remember growing up watching the original series with my sister who is a devoted fan of the latest version of the series. She too has been dedicated to learning all she can of the world. I will always cherish the time spent watching Star Trek: The Next Generation together, imagining myself as an awesome Number One preceded by the spoken words of “Space… the Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise. Its continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no one has gone before” where ever I showed up.

Regretfully my time in southern Utah and on Mars had to come to an end. As I made the drive back to the nearby town of Hanksville on the dusty road I kept thinking to myself that this group of six embodies so much of what I wish I could become. They were passionate and chasing their dreams.

As Mission Commander Melissa Battler said, “Humans, we are explorers… there are a lot of obstacles but we can overcome those obstacles.”

By Jim Urquhart

If patience is a virtue I am damned to burn forever but I’ve made some friends in the process.

Growing up in Utah, knowledge of polygamy has long been part of my experience. I can recall standing on the side of the residential road looking at a nondescript home with a large cinder block wall surrounding it. My friend leaned over to me to tell me that a polygamist family lived there. He tried to explain to me what plural marriage was in the best way a 10-year-old could explain to another. I was confused. I had a hard enough time trying to fully understand why my parents were divorced let alone trying to figure out how there could be a home with several moms and one dad.

As I grew up what I was able to glean from hushed overheard conversations was that the people living behind the walls were different and something to scrutinize whenever we caught a glimpse of them or that we should try to ignore that their home was even there.

It wasn’t until I was older that I began to grab the concept of what polygamy was. But, until recently it was a skewed and unfair view.

I had grown up believing that those who practice polygamy were religious freaks living in an environment that oppressed women, preyed on young girls and didn’t educate their children. What I found south of Moab, Utah blew my mind.

Reporter Jennifer Dobner, who has very successfully developed a strong relationship with many of the plural marriage communities in the west introduced me to “The Rock.” Formally known as Rockland Ranch, it’s a community of approximately 100 people in about 15 polygamist and monogamist families living near the southern tip of Canyonlands National Park in one of the most beautiful settings in the world. The community was founded about 35 years ago on the south face of a sandstone rock face that reaches 400 feet tall in places.

Gallery: Life in a polygamist community

The homes, many measuring more than 5,000 square feet, are blasted out of the sandstone with explosives and then filled with the fixtures of modern living, including electricity, internet, running water and more.

Absent the reminders of the rock it was blasted from, once inside a home it would be easy to forget you are in a cave.

Dobner has spent years educating herself and others on plural marriage and cultivating relationships with those who practice it. During that time she has not been sidetracked by the salacious stories that occasionally appear in isolated communities, but rather has focused on the people, their faith and devotion to something larger than themselves.

Fundamentalist Mormons make up the majority of the Rock. They believe in the teachings that are the foundation of the Church of Jesus Christ and Latter-Day Saints. Although the modern church abandoned the practice of polygamy in 1890, an estimated 37,000 fundamentalist Mormons still practice polygamy and believe it brings exaltation in heaven as originally taught by the church.

Jennifer had a connection with the community by way of others in Salt Lake City and they were able to lay the ground work for us to make contact. We still felt it was important that we travel to the Rock for a day with members of the community to earn their trust. On this trip several months ago we spent time answering just as many questions that us journalist are accustomed to asking. That trip was all about building relationships and letting them know we were not there for a quick hit tawdry story. Rather, we wanted to get to know the people in the community and do an honest story.

Once that first trip was done, without shooting a single frame, it was a waiting game. Members of the community had to have a vote to decide if we were going to be allowed back in to work. After several weeks of waiting we got word – we were in (sort of). Now it was time to wait several more weeks until schedules came together that worked for them and us.

The waiting was pure torture.

This was my first look inside a community like this and any preconceptions were totally blown away.

I found people like Enoch and Catrina Foster who are raising 13 children with another wife. There were no prairie dresses to be found. There was not a culture of women and children being oppressed. I found children being educated and women running the households with a sense of command. The community members were not cut off from society. Many work in the nearby town of Moab, Utah, and are very successful.

We were welcomed in and allowed to have frank conversations. There was no filter.

Once I started photographing I kept thinking to myself that I must absolutely do this fairly and do a good job. This was a rare look on the inside and I owed it to those that consumed our work and to those I was covering to portray them just how they are.

And who are they? Quite frankly no different then anyone else I know. Most of the adults were about my age (mid-30′s) and were open minded and educated. They never pushed religion and are active members of society. They are careful in whom they allow to live among them and this provides an environment where children can run and be kids.

It was an almost ideal setting to raise a family. Yes, they lived in the side of rock formation, but they had all the trappings of the modern world. The setting on the edge of wilderness provided children with a safe environment to thrive in and explore the world. I did not see one wasting the day playing on a video game console. Instead I saw children working alongside their parents in the community garden, running around chasing each other and also getting ready to embark on an afternoon of rappelling.

Neighbors knew each other and watched out for each other. While many can go out and into town and enjoy a drink with dinner, alcohol and drugs were not in the community. The community relied on one another to participate and provide labor to maintain the community. I heard jokes that about every skilled trade was represented in the community.

I was moved when Enoch extended an invitation for me to come back and hang out anytime as a friend. Enoch and Catrina were so open to us and we were able to have open and honest discussions about concepts like humility and what is most important to us – like our families.

He stood there with a shotgun over his shoulder and asked me in no uncertain terms, “What do you think about oil drilling?” And in that moment, the seasoned oil man I had come across pheasant hunting with five of his friends in a field west of the oil boom town of Williston, North Dakota, had me stunned like a deer in headlights.

GALLERY: North Dakota’s oil boom

There was never a threat of danger, but there was definitely a bit of suspicion as to what my motives were. Being obviously out of place, having asked these guys where an oil drilling rig was and after telling them I was a member of the media, I had to pause for a moment.

Part of me was thinking, “Whatever you think of oil is what I think too.” But I just explained to him I had no dog in this fight and was there to document the oil boom. It was the truth and it was all I had.

As it turned out, we were able to have a really good conversation and he pointed me in the right direction. As I drove away I looked back in the mirror. They walked to the west to hunt and paid no attention to me.

But the road to this moment began nearly 4,000 miles and three weeks earlier. I had been assigned to cover the Presidential debate in Denver where the issue of oil drilling and domestic energy came up.

From there I hit the road to travel the midwest, documenting wind farms as part of the side project I had been commissioned to do. It was amazing to log well over 500 miles on dirt and four-wheel-drive roads.

I got away from the hustle and bustle of the cities. I got electrocuted while crossing under an electrified barbed wire fence meant to control livestock and thrown onto my knees into a fresh pile of cow dung. I was out on my own to make pictures. When it became apparent I was going to end up within striking distance of a major news story, it was decided that I should travel to western North Dakota for a couple days. The events taking place in this isolated part of the United States will be debated long into the future.

After spending a couple weeks almost all by myself on the road chasing wind turbines, I threw myself into the exact opposite of the solitude I had been immersed in.

One hundred miles from Williston, lonely roads gave way to a constant flow of high-speed heavy truck traffic. With every mile closer to town, it became apparent that all my ideas of North Dakota were being shattered.

Within 50 miles there was still farmland but you couldn’t travel a mile without seeing a new housing project going up, or new road being cut to an oil rig out in the middle of the corn or wheat fields.

I was witnessing the gold rush of my generation.

The Bakken Formation that sits under the once sleepy town is yielding so much oil that it may become the most productive site in the country’s history. This comes at a time when energy consumption, efficiency and dependency are in the news almost everyday.

With the exploitation of the formation, tens of thousands of people have converged on the windswept plains to take their shot – attempting a fortune in oil and its support industries. I heard figures like $30-40 per hour to work in the oil fields. I even heard that some fast food restaurants were paying $18/hour to start.

Every few miles “man camps” that provide housing to thousands of workers line the highway. Some of them appear to be on par with a luxury getaway, while others are more similar to military barracks. Another option was the scores of camps dedicated to those who brought their own camping trailer to call home. But even these places can cost upwards of $800/month just to park your trailer.

I was able to secure a place to stay at a roadside motel and paid about double what one would expect for similar accommodations in any other city. However, if you included the value of late night drunken parking lot fights (courtesy of the bar next door) then it is a steal of a deal.

But that’s just it. This is today’s frontier; today’s rush to stake a claim of the pie. The promise of high paying wages attracts men and women from all over the country. Well, many more men. During my two days in the area I saw thousands of men and maybe five women. The male to female ratio may make this place uglier than Alaska.

But one thing about being out on the frontier was the lack of red tape to jump through. I was granted unrestricted access to an active oil drill rig.

Once out of the plains southwest of town among the bluffs there were only a couple rules I had to follow – always wear my protective gear (fire retardant clothing, glasses, hardhat, gloves and steel-toed boots) and don’t get hurt. I was jokingly told by one of the crew that if I got killed they had shovels and they would take a break to bury me. I was allowed to be there – I just couldn’t expect anything special and shouldn’t get in the way.

The “roughnecks,” as they are called, work long hours on rigs that don’t stop no matter day or night or weather. The quest for oil pits man against steel and the pressures of the planet.

It’s a carefully scripted dance that takes place as the rig is ready to plunge another length of pipe into the ground. The men know their roles almost as if it’s by muscle memory. Cables were pulled, equipment swung and with little spoken they came together every few minutes to wage war as a team. They all watched out for each other and in turn trusted each other to watch for themselves.

While they earn the title of roughneck they are also “salt of the earth” type of people. They could care less about the words you say. They measure you by the work you do. They welcomed me, the outsider, into their pack – one that works months and months together, weeks at a time. They offered me food when it was time to eat and joked when it was time to laugh. My temporary admission was dependent on not getting in the way and to not expect any special allowances.

None of them were from North Dakota and all had sacrificed, in some respect, to be there. Almost all of them had families and loved ones to support. Being away from home was made worth it by the paychecks that went to their partners.

As I drove away in the afternoon, light dodging around the steady stream of diesel trucks, I thought I finally understood what I was witnessing.

It was almost as if home was the wide open spaces, although they were away from the ones they loved. By being there, they were providing for their loved ones.

I think back to the moment in the field when I first arrived. If I could go back I would tell the hunters, “I am not interested in the oil. I am interested in documenting the men doing the work.”

Twenty-four hours removed and two showers later, I can still smell the mix of oil, diesel fuel and mud on my hands. It makes me want to go back for more. I feel I barely grazed the surface of what is really taking place on the wild, windswept plains. However, I am extremely fortunate to have been able to witness a bit of history unfold right in front of me.

Photographer Jim Urquhart poses at Temple of Juno at Burning Man. Photo courtesy of Brian Erzen

As I write this I am sitting in my little camping trailer the morning after completing my Burning Man 2012 coverage. I am exhausted, a bit dehydrated, sore, my hair has become matted like dreadlocks from the combination of sweat and fine dust and I reek so horribly of body odor that I can make the sense of shame blush. But I am so aware of myself, I am alive and thriving. This is why I love what I do and the opportunities and experiences that it makes possible.

Okay, maybe not so aware of myself (I just fell asleep with my finger on the tab button after writing that first paragraph).

SLIDESHOW: BURNING MAN

This was my second year covering the event and I really wanted to let go and participate more in the experience. Last year I was a Playa virgin made worse by also being working media. This year I was no veteran in the dust but I was more tuned in with what was happening around me.

I decided first and foremost I wanted to let myself go deeper into the experience of being a burner. Burning Man is an event that demands your participation. Just entering the gates this year I watched virgin burners being made to roll in the dirt, mounted and humped over their clothes by greeters. The dusty, middle-aged couple will now have that sacred memory to pass on to their loved ones. I myself was made to get out of my vehicle and asked how many times I had been to the burn.

When I answered this was my second I was greeted with a long lingering sensual hug and a soft whisper in my ear, “welcome home.”

That is key. In many journalistic ethos you are required to be just an observer and not participate in any form. But that would never fly in the burner experience. If you want access and want to witness intimate moments in other’s lives you have to let go of many of your inhibitions and let it ride. They are welcoming you into their community, no questions asked. Be respectful and participate.

You are surrounded by 60,000 people creating art with all their soul and as a matter of respect to those around you, you better be ready to be open to the experience. I am still reeling and trying to get my mind around many of the moments I shared here with others. One in particular almost brought me to my knees. I don’t know if I will ever understand and I don’t know if I want to. I am just fortunate I had it. There is nothing bad in the desert, this place is defined by what you bring of yourself to it.

Before coming out I made a firm decision that if I was going to be working, I was sure as hell going to be somewhat comfortable when I edited, transited and slept. I dragged the trusty Burro (fiberglass trailer) across the desert for another run at base camp.

It hasn’t failed me yet. It provided a great little spot to escape most of the dust. I also brought out a generator (with baffle box to cut down on the noise) and installed a small air conditioning unit in my trailer. I bought a used child’s bike trailer to get the weight off my back and to put camera gear, beer and some water in. As cell phones are virtually useless out here and I had to transmit photos out to the world several times a day I also brought out a satellite internet system.

This was one of the more important and successful decisions I made for this assignment. It was nice to be able to transmit images from camp and not go searching for somewhere to get a signal from. But with that I also had to be a carpenter, electrician and communications technician to keep everything up and going.

The hours can be long with a festival that literally goes 24 hours straight with no breaks for a week. So, I decided to set a routine for myself that would provide me with some time to rest. I would get up and shoot in the cooler hours just before and after sunrise, rest and sleep in the heat of the day and then go out and shoot again before sunset and return to camp several hours after dark to sleep again.

I camped next to Michael Troutman, a Carmel, California-based photographer. He was great to bounce ideas off, drink beer with and also a great desert cook with fresh fruit and vegetables. When your teeth are being worn down by the playa sand in your mouth, fresh grapes and bananas are a gift from something greater than me.

As a journalist, you have to be “radically self-reliant” like those around you. At the media mecca there is no wi-fi, no internet and no muffins. Hell, your working press pass states you are entitled to absolutely nothing. And in that way Burning Man is a great social equalizer. The playa does not care if you are a mechanic from Scranton, a wannabe from Los Angeles or the Prince of Saudi Arabia.

The playa will own you. By bringing out my supplies and equipment I was not trying to beat the playa, rather I was just trying to be able to work long enough to make it through.

It was amazing to be able to ride my bike, surrounded by the sights and sounds of thousands of people and art but also be able to be alone and experience loneliness in a way I want to. I could ride, meet new people and ride off again to feel the heat of the burn on my face, then off again in whatever direction I wanted. In doing this I was not Jimmy from Utah, rather, I was just Jimmy.

Honestly, I really understand why some don’t want to leave and return to the “default world.” Yes, we all smell, sharing port-a-potties with 60,000 people can be adventurous and the dust sucks. But here they are making a community they define as they go along.

I can’t wait to return and see where the the art and people of playa lead me… even though I have fallen asleep three times from shear exhaustion while writing this short blog.

As I attempted to leave Toronto I found I had to go into deep Canadian mode to make it possible.

Last week I spent several days meeting editors and visiting a friend in the city. I had looked forward to the trip but I never expected it to be such a mind melting, dignity crushing, blood letting experience to simply go home when it was all said and done. Through my work I get to travel my fair share. Over the last several years I have developed several habits that help me ensure my travels go as planned.

A major one is avoiding traveling by air as much as possible. Traveling by commercial aircraft you are limited by what camera gear you bring along. I never check in any of my gear with luggage. I have seen too many other photographers’ equipment get destroyed by doing so. Also, you are dependent on so many variables that can come into play like weather and aircraft maintenance. I prefer to drive if time allows but seeing as it 1,899.94 miles from my doorstep to Reuters’ Toronto offices I had to fly to return home.

When I was younger I was a student pilot and feel at ease in small private aircraft. But on commercial flights I am stuck in the cabin, packed in with everyone else and so far from the controls. I guess it is that sense of “I am so very screwed” in the event something happens with no control of my destiny. So, if I have to travel by a commercial airliner my next major rule is be sure to have easy access to whiskey. That will come into play later.

After several days of exploring the city, which is really like an urban United Nations with it’s rich mix of cultures, it was time to head out and head home. The night before my departure I stayed out a bit longer than I had intended. But, I had planned enough time to get back to my room, rest up a bit, get all my gear together and head to the airport for my flight home.

It was late, about 3am when I went to my room – that is where Toronto dug its first claw into my back.
Once at the door of my room I was confronted with a key that no longer worked. It was one of those magnetic keys that always fails. When given these I carry two just in case one fails. But both keys didn’t work and it was just hours before I needed to get to the airport and I couldn’t get into my room.

In most instances this would not be a problem, simply go to the front desk and get a new key. But, this time I was staying in an old mansion that had been turned into a guest house in a residential section of Toronto and there was no management on the property at this hour. I desperately called any number I could find associated with the property but to no avail.

After spending more than an hour trying to gain access to my room it was time to give up. It was time to give up on getting on the scheduled morning flight. I called Delta Airlines and had them reschedule me on a flight a couple of hours later that would also take me home via a stop in St. Paul, Minneapolis.

I made the most of this time, hanging out with my friend. I met with someone from the guest house when they showed up for work and got access to my room. I explained very clearly to them that by not having an emergency number to contact staff after hours I had missed my flight.

I soon arrived at the airport in a semi-conscious state. I had already been up more than 30 hours at this point. Arriving at the airport on the way home a bit haggard is pretty much par for the course for me but this time it was without the usual partying hangover that creates my zombie walk of shame.

I checked the weather and the forecast called for a hot day over the west. This meant bumpy turbulent flights that I hate. So once I past security I grabbed one last Canadian whiskey before jumping on my flight. However, just as we were about to pull away from the gate and I was feeling relaxed, about to fall asleep, we were informed that our flight had now been cancelled due to a mechanical failure. I wanted to swear but my chemically induced coolness was starting to take hold.

Once at the ticket counter I confronted the reality that my flight was filled with a lot of angry Americans. One thing I noticed, painted with a general brush, is that Canadians really are much more polite than their hair-trigger neighbors to the south.

At the counter I witnessed professional men having complete meltdowns as they talked about how they needed to get home. I watched one guy juggle phone calls between his wife, his girlfriend and his secretary who was in charge of rescheduling his meetings and not letting his wife and girlfriend ever meet. Many of us Americans think that we may be exceptional in our ways to tackle problems. A group of angry Americans freaking out and swearing at the ticket counter agent working hard to reschedule everyone going to multiple destinations was, I believe, an exceptional trait. In a situation where I would normally feel my stress level raise I stayed cool. At that moment I was a chemically induced Canadian.

When it was my turn to talk to the ticket agent I also had one on the phone. The agent at the counter was smooth and cool but the one on the phone sounded like she was about to loose it. In fact I looked around and to my surprise she was not in line with me. She was in the States. I ended the call and the ticket agent in front of me easily made a new itinerary. I was now scheduled to fly out of Toronto in a couple of hours on a flight to Detroit then another on to Salt Lake City.

This city didn’t want to let go just yet and I was cool with that.

I headed to the pub for some lunch and to watch the EuroCup semi-final between Germany and Italy. Just as I was about to start my meal I received a message from Delta Airlines that my flight to Detroit was now cancelled because of a cracked windshield. Seriously? This was getting ridiculous. I got on the phone to try and schedule another flight out and I ordered a whiskey; this was going to take going deep Canadian to handle this now.

After about 30 minutes on the phone a Delta ticket agent had me flying out of Toronto to Houston but on United Airlines in just a few minutes. All seemed good, but my luggage was with Delta and I would have to retrieve it with only have a few minutes to run, hop on a tram, change terminals and run some more to catch my flight out.

At this moment I had to make an executive decision. If I tried to retrieve my luggage from Delta, I would not make this flight out. It was already going to be close. I make a mental inventory of what was in my checked luggage – just clothing. My cameras, lenses, computer, chargers and medications were all in my backpack, on my back. It was now time for the executive Canadian decision; clothing be damned, I was going home.

As I made my mad dash through the airport it became clear there was no way I was going to make it on time, but the ticket counter was in sight. I rushed up to the United counter where I was greeted by the agent, showed him my passport and explained that I needed him to print out my boarding pass. If he did this quickly I could be on my way home. He calmly informed me that there was a problem with my ticket and something hadn’t gone right in the communication between Delta and United. He worked quickly but it became clear there was not enough time to get it sorted out – I was not going home on this flight either. But he quickly arranged for me to fly out a couple of hours later on another United flight that would take me through Chicago then on to home.

After taking my time getting through security and customs I finally boarded my flight. I sat in the last row near a window not actually believing I was about to really leave.

I had had; one flight to St Paul’s cancelled because I couldn’t access my room to get my luggage, another flight cancelled because of mechanical problems, a flight to Detroit cancelled because of a broken windshield, couldn’t get to the gate in time for a flight to Houston but now I was sitting on a plane getting ready to fly to Chicago. The sun was beginning to set and I knew it was still high in the sky over my home. Home really was in sight if only I could get off the ground in Toronto.

And then just as they were about to close the doors on the plane a dark haired gentleman that looked very familiar to me sat next to me. I tried not to stare, but I knew him from somewhere, a face from years ago. I turned to him and asked him, “Excuse me sir, but are you married to Alisa Hamblin?” With a stunned and surprised look he glanced up at me and said, yes. He seemed confused and I was amazed.

After a day from hell, running from place to place at the airport in a country where I only have a few friends I was now sitting next to my cousin-in-law and he was flying to Utah too. The last time I saw Todd Hamblin in person was 21 years ago when he married my cousin Alisa. He is now an executive working in Toronto after recently moving there. He is in the process of relocating his family to Toronto and here he was sitting with me on a series of flights to Utah.

For the rest of the trip we stuck together and chatted. He sensed what kind of day I had been through and, as the Canadian in me was slowly metabolizing out of my body, he offered comfort and understanding in a way only a family member could. When I arrived in Utah we went our different ways but now I know besides having great friends in Toronto, I also have family.

Oh, and my luggage did show up a day later delivered to my doorstep. But it was just clothes and as long as I have my gear with me it really didn’t matter.

“Jim Urquhart; lowering expectations since 1977″

That is something that kept popping in my head as I drove home from southern Utah after covering the annual eclipse for Reuters the day before. That, and also regretting not purchasing a bumper sticker from a small gas station in the town of Beaver, Utah.

It wasn’t that my pics were bad – several had run in some the most respected online photo galleries of the event – but I knew I didn’t hit a home run.

I had spent weeks planning how to cover the unique annular eclipse that was last visible over the United States in 1994. I researched time tables, discussion boards on how to shoot the eclipse, talked with other photojournalists on how they planned to cover it to make certain I was in the right place for the eclipse. I spent hours working with neutral density and solar filter combinations. I even researched the meaning of Johnny Cash’s 1963 hit “Burning Ring of Fire.” Some say the song is about “transformative love.” After covering the eclipse I subscribe to the belief it has more to do with the transformation of one’s bowels after too many habaneros and tequila than it does with love.

Myself and our reporter ventured to the small town of Kanarraville, Utah. NASA scientists had deemed it the world’s “sweet spot” to view the eclipse. I heard many people (over and over again) say they expected 5,000 to 15,000 people to venture to the town of about 300 for the event. I was dead certain this was the right place to watch the eclipse and also make images of the crush of on-lookers.

When I had arrived there early on Sunday at about 10 in the morning to secure my shooting position a whole ten hours earlier than the event, I was one of the first there. I felt good about this but as the day went on I began to really question my choice. Yes, I would have a great view of the eclipse, but I wouldn’t have a distinct landmark in front of the eclipse to really show where I was.

The weather forecast of clear skies was also holding true and this was actually kind of upsetting me. I thought clouds would make a more compelling frame. The day before, I spent rock climbing elsewhere in southern Utah and had found several unique rock formations that would make for interesting photos. But I was going to the small town to focus more on the people watching the eclipse and not the eclipse itself.

As the eclipse neared I really began to question my decision to be where I was. Thousands did show up, but not the crowd crush I had envisioned. There were a lot of people where I was, but we weren’t crushed in shoulder to shoulder. A nine mile section of road leading to the town was lined with cars parked on both sides but I was now quite a distance away from this road and wouldn’t have enough time to go there and come back. So I opted to stay.

I made images I felt told the story of what was happening in front of me, but I wished there was something more amazing. The eclipse itself was beautiful but I didn’t spend a lot of time focusing on it.
During the eclipse I spent my time making photos of it, shooting pics of people watching it and also editing and attempting to transmit the photos from my location. Earlier in the day I had tested my broadband internet connection and had no problem sending pics but now that thousands of people had descended on this small town, the cell phone towers were bogged down by everyone’s smart phones. It was almost impossible to even make a phone call. I was now waiting in excess of 20 minutes to just upload one photo.
This beautiful event was taking place right over my shoulder and I was sitting there cussing and swearing to myself (and to anyone else that dared listen) about such issues like connectivity and trying to get the pictures out in the U.S. before east coast deadlines had expired. Luckily, no one cared to listen.

I kept making images but none were jumping out at me. I have tried to tell myself over and over again that I did the best I could. I covered what happened in front of me but I am not convinced that is fully true. Yes, I was there. I shot what was taking place in front of me. But it was not anything close to what I had expected of myself. As the eclipse began to set behind a mountain the crowd began to sing “Burning Ring of Fire.” To them I guess this was a happy moment.

However, in my mind, I was shaking my fist in the general direction of the sun and moon and mumbling to myself about even more offensive theories to which that song is really about.

“It’s been a wild ride. Thank you.”

And with that Renee and Kail Mantle closed a chapter of American history. On Sunday the husband and wife team held the closing ceremonies to end the last of 11 horse drives they have completed with their company, Montana Horses, after racing over 300 horses through the western outpost of Three Forks, Montana.

The duo, a redheaded former theater major preparing for law school and a tanned wrangler who is a former rodeo champion, have been operating Montana Horses off a plot of land north of town since 1995 when they started with just 14 head of horses. Recently the plot of land has grown to 500 acres where they lease hundreds of horses, each one of which Kail and Renee know by name, to dude ranches and trail ride companies throughout the west and in many national parks. The Mantle family has a long tradition of supplying and tending to horses, leasing horses in various western states since 1964.

Last year the pair announced that they plan to begin selling the horses in their herd. According to Renee many of them will be purchased by their leasing clients. While the herd is being reduced they have added about 300 beef cattle to their land. The Mantles also plan to sell their ranch next to the Missouri River and possibly sail the world.

The Mantles opted in the direction of cattle after several years of battling to continue a thriving business in a market where horses are no longer profitable when compared to cattle; a story that seems to be becoming increasingly familiar with more stories of dude ranches and outfitters closing their doors after years in the business.

Every spring over the course of three days the herd of horses are gathered off the winter range from the mountains south of town and driven 35 miles to the Mantle’s 500 acres to be picked up by leasing clients after making a run through the middle of town where the streets are lined by thousands of people looking to catch a glimpse of the herd running past.

Doreen Lee, a wrangler from Cameron, Montana, taking part in her fourth drive noted that this type of working drive is becoming more a piece of history than contemporary knowledge. “Some day people will talk about how it was done and I can say I did it … I am so blessed to be part of it,” Doreen said.

The west is my home and ever since I can remember, cowboys have been the image of hard work, hard love and a real sense of integrity. Horses have always symbolized power and intelligence beyond what I am capable of. Without the two occupying the pastures and mountains I run to, the west doesn’t have the spirit I hold so dear. Montana is big sky country; some of the most pristine land in the world runs under the hooves of horses in this part of North America. The cowboys and cowgirls around these parts are built with hearts pumping strong and shoulders sturdy enough to carry the weight of the big sky and the mountains together.

There are cowboys and wranglers like Shad Broadman, a former world champion rodeo rider, who run through the mountains chasing barbwire fences and who is at home under the stars. In Shad I witnessed hard work and determination, but I also saw the kindness of the west. One minute he was a tough cowboy who could beat the hell out of the Marlboro Man and in the next moment he lit up with a youthful grin that breaks from under the hat when I showed him a photo I took of him riding his horse.

“I love the run and those horses… and I like the people,” Shad said. What separates this drive from the various dude ranches and trail drives is that this is a real working drive to bring the horses off the winter range and prep them to be sent across the west to their clients – but it comes with risk. Twenty-five year old Sara Fry, completing her third drive when a horse reared-up and rolled on her, luckily only breaking her clavicle bone and separating ligaments in her shoulder commented while holding her left arm in an sling, “it is the end of something you will never see again.” While standing near the horses, unable to ride again in the drive she said, “there is a saying, ‘the best thing for the inside of a man is the outside of a horse.”

Dr. Al Carr has been a wrangler on the drive for 10 years and is in charge of taking care of the injured people along the way. Most of the injuries have been minor with no fatalities, only minor head injuries and broken bones. There is also the steady cool care required while tending to a few wranglers after heavy nights of drinking by the camp fire. Carr summed it up as the drive was nearing an end, “the old west is disappearing right before our eyes”. On the fading cowboy culture, he added “it’s a goodness that defies imagination.”

Photographer Jim Urquhart documents the horse drive. Courtesy of Manuela Stefan

These strong horses have a sense of the world I have very rarely witnessed in people. They have the ability to look a man in the eyes and dissect his character. There is no faking it with a horse. They won’t buy it and they know they are the ones in control no matter who is on top. This is exactly why I don’t ride. They have the capacity to see through people and in many respects I am not ready to confront what they may show me.

At the end of the drive with the horses safely in their pastures, the Mantles dismounted with about a dozen of the horses surrounding them, vying for their attention. Renee said, “I think I did take a moment to reflect while riding on Main Street. It was awesome.” Kail noted he won’t miss the hard work required to successfully and safely complete a drive, “It’s gone as good as it has ever gone. We finally got good at it.”

“It is bittersweet, I will miss the mayhem,” said Renee.

The horse drives across the west may be coming to an end and the western way of life may be fading but through this assignment I was granted an experience I will always carry with me and hold so dear to my heart. The drive may be over, but it will live on with all of us that witnessed it.

(View a large-format selection of photos here)

Courtesy of Trent Nelson/The Salt Lake Tribune

I am not a star stalker nor am I a paparazzi. I am just a screaming photojournalist and the Angry Birds Champion of the World!

I was recently given the opportunity to work with Reuters’ photojournalists Lucas Jackson and Mario Anzuoni as part of the photo team covering the Sundance Film Festival. This was my second year covering the event, which is more like a triathlon in terms of photo work. The days can be long, you have to use different photographic skill sets and there’s a bit of competition for pictures.

It is the one assignment a year like it for me. I mainly cover breaking news, features and sports. I know nothing about celebrity or entertainment news. But for some reason this doesn’t deter the editors from throwing me in to it. Luckily Mario and Lucas know what they are doing.

To overcome my lack of knowledge for the beat I have developed a very simple two part plan. First make features and art when I am out on my own and try to justify my pay that way. Secondly, watch for where all the other photographers are, chase them when they get excited about something, shoot who they are shooting and ask who it was after the action has subsided.

But maybe my lack of knowledge of the beat is what really works for me. Trent Nelson, a very respected and knowledgeable photojournalist I have worked with many times once discussed how his lack of sports knowledge and not being a fan of sports may actually make him a better shooter of sports since he has nothing to cheer for. Instead he observes and makes art. He watches the scene unfold around him and makes sports beautiful by tuning out the noise.

However, one man’s art can easily be translated as everyone’s trash. Luckily I am still getting assignments, so maybe it was the former for me.

Endurance is another part of covering Sundance. You cover several movie premiers a day and you have to secure your place in some of the press lines a couple hours ahead of the celebrities and artist to arrive.

This is where I excelled at dominating the world of Angry Birds on my iPhone. For me, I need something to kill time while I wait. As of writing this, I not only beat every level of every version of the game but I have achieved a three star top score on all the levels. By the second to last day I was checking my phone every 30 minutes while standing in line waiting to see if there was a new update with more boards of green pigs to destroy. For the record, my birds of choice are the exploding bomb bird and the new orange inflating bird.

The screaming part was new to me – it was more like a kid yelling for attention, which actually is not unlike me at all. On the press lines you have several other photographers and you are angling for the celebrity to look at your camera. When you are only 5’6″ on a good day, it is easy to get lost in the glare of flash bulbs. I listened to what all the other photographers were yelling to get attention and took notes. “Now one here in the center,” or “how about one for the big guy in the back?”

I am not used to interacting with my subjects in this way but it is the one time of year I have to. As time went by I got more assertive and a bit louder but it was still hard for me to distinguish myself from the rest of the pack of cameras. That’s not good. By the end of my run I had come up with my own way of getting the attention I needed. With actress Melissa Leo I yelled, “right here with the most sexy photographer.” It worked, she looked at me and I had a frame. When in a scrum trying to get the attention of actor David Duchovny I belted out, “now right here, one for the children” he paused and looked amused or annoyed.

On my last scrum I had to go all out because I quickly found myself standing on the far left outside of the pack. I pulled all my new acquired sayings out including; “Right here for Mr. Sexy,” and my favorite, “now right here, one for the good photographer.” When I yelled that last one, I got the shot but also got the glare of several other photographers.

Thankfully it was my last one and I scurried out the door with the pics I needed.

In my mind I was begging and pleading for the set of 1983′s movie “War Games” and a young Ally Sheedy to be escorting me through my photo assignment. But what I unfortunately found was much less exciting, much more sterile and nowhere near as hot as Ally.

Last week I traveled for Reuters to a top secret cyber security testing lab and watch center operated by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security at the Idaho National Laboratory in Idaho Falls, Idaho.

The folks who work there design ways to protect government, corporate and industrial computer networks and keep them safely functioning in the event of malicious attacks by cyber hackers or electronic invaders. Their mission is to keep the nation’s infrastructure humming and private industry’s secrets a secret.

During my three hour road trip from Salt Lake City, Utah, I kept playing in my mind what I might see and what I hoped to be able to see. Deep down I knew what I was really in for: a lot of sitting around waiting and then shooting pictures of things that in no way would be visually appealing. But I had a mission of my own.

Luckily a friend of mine working for another news organization had also been assigned to the “media tour” and we quickly decided to work as a team and come up with ideas on how to make this work and how to negotiate together to actually be allowed to make some good pictures.

Media tours are great in the respect that they give us journalists an opportunity to get behind closed doors and pierce the standard veil of secrecy and share what we find with the public. But the downside is that in many cases the environment is so very controlled and has been sanitized in so many ways that anything really interesting is not available. It was clear that before we arrived that the areas we were seeing had been cleaned of any sensitive or secret material so that we would not see or photograph anything that they did not want the public to see.

This is the challenge that we face. Not all of our assignments are really sexy or that interesting. And maybe that was the point of this trip. When one thinks about the Idaho National Laboratory, usually research on nuclear reactors comes to mind. And when someone thinks about the Department of Homeland Security, many think about a covert force fighting terrorists. Or based upon my own experiences, the DHS has usually represented someone telling me “no” to basic journalistic endeavors that seem protected under the first amendment while giving me the standard, “it’s a matter of national security,” as the only vague reasoning offered for why I cannot shoot pictures.

I guess during my visit the veil was actually lifted and I saw the realities of life inside a top secret government facility. The DHS leases a series of uninteresting office buildings that are filled with beige walls, florescent lights and had the same feel as any office park filled with spaces that could just as easily be credit card call centers or software engineering firms. Most of the cyber security workers sitting at the computers defending the nation from electronic attack would not have grabbed your attention for a moment if you saw them dropping their kids off at a soccer practice or pushing a shopping cart at the local mall.

There were no walls filled from floor to ceiling with maps or live feeds showing realtime surveillance of covert activities taking place across the globe.

The one image that I really thought told the story of the assignment was a doorway that was plastered with restrictions of what was not allowed beyond the threshold. That doorway was the veil, but beyond it, there was no holy grail of mind blowing visuals that said, “this is the mother of all terror watch centers.”

Instead, inside sat just five guys at keyboards, watching a couple of big monitors and not a hint of sweat dripping off their heads or a sense of any state secrets or imminent peril.

I guess that’s it. The DHS operates in such a way that it doesn’t stand out from the rest of the world and probably does not want to. Yes, they work behind closed doors, but I wouldn’t have been able to pick out their offices while driving through an office park anywhere in the world.

And worst of all, there was still no hot young Ally Sheedy anywhere to be seen.

Believe me, I searched for her. She was not to be found.