August 29, 2008 was a strange day. As I covered commemorations for the third anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, the tension in the air was palpable. Hurricane Gustav was coming and decisions had to be made. Do we stay or do we go? I was staying.

In 2005, Reuters assigned me to cover Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath. After seeing first hand the scope of the storm’s devastation, I decided to move back to New Orleans. I then began to focus my work completely on documenting the city’s recovery. In the months following Katrina, there was a pioneering spirit among the few living in the city, and I became personally involved in the story. Last year, I bought a home here.

As Gustav approached, I knew I couldn’t stand to be outside New Orleans as this new chapter was unfolding. By Saturday, officials were making dire predictions about the probable impact on the city, and I got a little worried. After shooting pictures of resident evacuating early Sunday, I spent the afternoon securing my house and belongings. Although I live in the Bywater, an area that did not flood in Katrina, I needed to take a few precautions. I put my desktop computer, external drives and other valuables on the highest shelves in my house. I planned to work completely out of my rental car, with a laptop, inverter and portable batteries. I placed my duplicate drives (which should have been shipped to a safe city) into an ice chest and brought them to the Chimes Bed and Breakfast in Uptown, where most of Reuters’ staff was housed. They have three stories and didn’t flood in Katrina either. I stayed for dinner, went home and slept easier after hearing Gustav’s punch was weakening. I was awoken by storm gusts and my power was out.

I live two blocks from Inner Harbor Navigational Canal. We call it the Industrial Canal and its role in the Katrina nightmare is notorious. My first stop was the east bank of the canal, where the breech in the Lower Ninth Ward occurred in Katrina. After climbing the floodwall, I became a bit concerned to see water already two to three feet from the top. I drove around the neighborhood, shooting a bit, and then headed over the Claiborne Bridge. I stopped at the top of the bridge for a wide view. That’s when I saw waves cresting over the top of the floodwall onto the east bank of the canal, my side. I photographed the scene, called correspondent Tim Gaynor, and went to a coffee house in my neighborhood with power to file the pictures.

When I returned to the bridge after filing, news crews were crowding it, probably tipped by their desks after seeing Reuters pictures of the situation on several news websites. I was glad they were. I wanted everyone to see the impending danger. Water was now accumulating at the foot of the bridge. Not a good sign. I photographed National Guardsmen arriving on the scene of the flooding, and went back to the top of the bridge. The waves had gotten stronger. It was amazing to watch the force of the water push against the concrete walls and try to imagine the incredible pressure on them. How could they possibly hold? Every thing I owned was just beyond those walls. They had to hold. They did, at Category 3. We need to build higher, stronger walls because other, stronger storms are sure to come.

In the days since Gustav, I have photographed the clean up and people returning to the city. I haven’t had to go far from my neighborhood to find pictures. My house is the only one on the street without electricity, so it is powered at night with a generator. But it’s there. So is my stuff. Things are feeling a little less dangerous, for now.

With the hopes of seeing a slice of Americana and a desire to get back to the Big Easy, I thought what better way to get to see the country than take a Greyhound bus. My trip, which originated at Port Authority in New York City and was to end in New Orleans, covered 1,400 miles, 15 scheduled stops and 4 bus changes.
As hoped I met some really interesting characters along the way : A man who claims to have staged a pre-meditated suicide in hopes of claiming a new identity, a pastor who has fathered 13 children, a kid who hiked the whole Appalachian trail by himself, a marine who claimed to have not been home for 6 years and was returning to New Orleans via Boston to see his six-year-old daughter for the first time and his wife, amongst many other people who if I dared to approach I’m sure had their own stories to tell.

I left Port Authority at 11:00 a.m. on Tuesday (8/12) and arrived some 31 hours later on time in New Orleans at 6:30 p.m. on Wednesday (8/13). Along the way we made a few meal stops as they were called and I have to admit I see why America has an obesity problem. The only food options at these stops were McDonald’s or random other stops that had the options of Fried Chicken with or without fries. Unless you were packing your own meals, healthy options were few and far between.

Sleep was tough. The first bus I was on was pretty comfy, however, when we switched to a Carolina Tramways bus chartered by Greyhound it was far from comfortable. A school chair had more cushion that these seats and unfortunately it was the longest non-stop leg of the trip. Once in Atlanta, we changed buses to what felt like a Rolls Royce compared to tha old bus and I was able to get my only 3 hours of sleep along the way.
Seeing the night come and go was great and I really knew I was in the south when we stopped in Opelica, Alabama for a meal and ordered some good ‘ole salt cured bacon, grits and sweet tea. Getting close to New Orleans I chatted with a bus driver and reminisced about Katrina. She was telling me how she drove Greyhound buses to evacuate the people days after the storm and I remembered being on one of those flooded overpasses myself watching these people finally being taken out of that dire situation.

Arriving in New Orleans I was glad to be off the bus, however, I felt a little sad that my visual journey of 30 some hours had come to an end. That feeling left quickly after getting dinner at my favorite oyster joint and falling to sleep on a nice bed for 12 hours.

View a slideshow of Shannon’s trip here.