One day not long after 9/11, I fell victim to the fear infecting the country and stayed away from the Golden Gate Bridge after the government warned of a possible attack against the span.

I felt cowardly and ashamed afterward. To erase those feelings, I did a run over the bridge — a small act of personal atonement for giving in to fear. In return, the magnificence of the bridge gave me inspiration and belief in the possibility of mankind when I needed it most.

Here’s a piece I wrote about the experience. It’s long (and over-written), but seems apt today in the wake of the horror on Boston.

***

Nov. 10, 2001 — On a bright, brisk morning, suspended on a hanging roadway 22 stories above high tide, even the winter’s glare cannot mask the glorious view — San Francisco Bay, its deep blue surface eddied by current and interrupted by islands Angel and Alcatraz; the rim of hills near and far, golden in the last days before the rainy season; the urban uprising of San Francisco itself, rolling unbroken from the Financial District westward to the beach; and, out beyond the Gate, the absolute beginning of the Pacific Ocean, stretching into an unfathomable distance.

I am running on the Golden Gate Bridge, running for the beauty of steel, running for the audacious imagination of architects and engineers, running to honor the American belief in the possible. When the California governor said terrorists might bomb the Golden Gate, I betrayed the bridge and abandoned it to whatever destructive fate might come its way. I canceled a dinner with friends in San Francisco. I had had enough of heightened alerts, of armed men in airports, of the barrage of bad news. For at least that one night I wanted no more. Now I am ashamed, and my atonement is to run the bridge.

The Golden Gate Bridge is, by definition, an out-and-back course. But even a simple round-trip run can be started at either end, a change that alters the view and decides when the wind will be in your face or at your back. You can also adjust the degree of difficulty by extending the route – tacking on a flat mile of Crissy Field to the south, adding a knee-grinding climb to the Headlands in the north, or, for a full-day’s effort, starting downtown and a finishing in Sausalito, then treating yourself to a ferry ride across the Bay to return to San Francisco.

For me, running is hard work. My knees repay me for a lifetime of abuse and injury by resisting and at times refusing to run altogether. For the first few hundred yards, they protest with ominous-sounding pops and warning shots of pain, but slowly they warm and eventually become youthfully intoxicated by the rush of freshly pumped blood.

I hate being so blatantly reminded of my own aging so I motivate myself to suffer the pain-pleasure-pills ritual by running in interesting places – the beach, a redwood trail, Central Park, the Golden Gate Bridge. This day, I begin at Crissy Field, whose reclaimed wetlands abut the Bay and offer an unobstructed view of the Gate. I envision myself mid-span on the bridge, one tower behind me, another ahead. It is enough to get me moving.

That was 45 minutes ago. Now I am in the center of the bridge for the second time, heading back, sweating through my vest and laboring a bit from the half-mile climb up from the north parking lot. Soon I will enter a big downhill that will take me off the bridge and onto a dirt trail that will quickly drop 200 feet to the flats where I began. From there it’s only a half-mile to the end. The thought of the downhill, and the welcoming change it will bring to my legs, relaxes me and I focus on the view.

Like me, the surrounding scene is in motion. Watercraft of all variety criss-cross the Bay: Dozens of sailboats, an equal number of windsurfers, a pair of brightly painted tour boats, several large tugs — their protuberous prows pushing barges festooned with valves and pipes — and, directly beneath the bridge, a huge, inbound Dutch container ship. I am tempted to stop so I can watch the vessel fully emerge from the bridge’s shadow but the downhill beckons, and I continue.

Here, at the apex of the bridge’s arch, halfway between its soaring twin towers, I have few fellow travelers. Most visitors only venture out a few hundred feet from the parking lots, and even fewer advance beyond the towers, where the walkway bulges outward to accommodate the column of steel that rises from the water 200 feet below and tapers elegantly upward for another 500-feet above the deck. Beyond the bulges, the 4,200 feet of suspension span hung from the towers belongs mostly to runners, bikers and bridge workers. The downward curve of concrete in front of me is empty except for a maintenance crew in the distance near the South tower. When I passed them heading north they were eating a mid-morning lunch.

To my right  a continuous stream of traffic fills the roadway. Six lanes of freeway have been crammed into the 90-foot-wide bridge, so only a few feet and a thin, shin-level girder separate the sidewalk from the road. Tour buses and large trucks pass close enough to touch. In their wakes they leave a rush of warm air and diesel fume. The traffic emits a cacophonous jam of engine noise, tire hum and downshifting big-rigs. Headphones are required running gear.

During rush hour an enjoyable role reversal occurs: I pass the motorists instead of them passing me. I watch them watching me through their windshields and imagine them wishing to be in my place, running free, striding long, wind at my back. I allow the smugness a moment then smother it with memories of sitting traffic-bound in my own car, staring at an unobtainable outside world. We all become each other’s distractions at some point.

I am now near the South Tower and my speed is up. A few steps take me past the bridge crew. A cluster of white-legged tourists clogs up the bulge around the tower, but I clear a path with a couple of head fakes and cut through them without collision. This is my favorite part of run, the last straight stretch down the bridge’s approach. I always tell myself to slow down at this point, but I never do. My legs move faster, anticipating the end of the concrete and the curving drop to the subsequent dirt path. I am breathing quickly, in short bursts, and can feel the outgoing air inflate my cheeks as I push it out in exchange for a fresh supply.

Suddenly off the bridge, I am dropping steeply. If I had to stop, I would fall. Directly ahead is a group of Japanese tourists, maybe a dozen. They are walking slowly, almost laboriously up the slope and the somberness of their black and gray business clothes creates a funereal impression. I startle them and, like wildlife surprised on the highway, they freeze. I leap an orange traffic cone to avoid crashing into them and speed off, smiling as I imagine the animated conversation that will follow.

I am on the soft soil of the dirt path and each footfall produces a satisfying puff of dust. The trail enters a short, dark tunnel, a remnant of this land’s long military past. All the rugged headlands, pine forests, mud flats and beaches surrounding the Golden Gate once belonged to the Army. Dwindling federal budgets and rising public clamor converted it all into parkland. The tunnel is cool and damp and littered with the debris from the types of things people prefer to do in the dark rather than in the daylight.

Out of the tunnel, the trail drops rapidly. The dirt gives way to an uneven set of wooden stairs. I skip rapidly from step to step, landing briefly, and then adjusting for the next one. Soon I am back on Crissy Field, determined to sprint to the far end and offer a final salute to the bridge. Halfway there, though, I drop the pace, my heavy legs happy to lope the last quarter mile.

While walking toward my car, I can’t take my eyes off the bridge. From here, 220 feet below its deck and a half-mile from its base, the Golden Gate looms enormous, an immense, magnificent presence that dwarfs all around it.

I see tiny specks of people walking on the span and marvel at the seemingly boundless contradictions of human nature that make us capable of such wondrous constructions as this bridge and such horrific destructions as the atrocities of Sept. 11. One photograph published after the attacks on the World Trade Center showed these words traced into a dust-coated window in Lower Manhattan: The strong build, the weak destroy.

Now more than ever, I think, we must be strong. From Sept. 11 onward, we must measure ourselves by what we build. Today, I found strength in my rickety knees and with it built a new appreciation for the accomplishments of mankind. And that feels good.

On Sunday, Venezuela held a presidential election, choosing between Nicolás Maduro, the hand-picked heir to Hugo Chávez, the U.S.-taunting strongman who died of cancer in March after 14 years of rule, and Henrique Capriles, a state governor who, under the flag of an united opposition, ran against and lost to Chavez in October.

Maduro won, but not before hundreds of Venezuelans converged on the country’s consulate on Mission Street in San Francisco to vote and to loudly proclaim their allegiance to one side or the other.

Capriles supporters, most clad in some form of red, yellow and blue, the colors of the Venezuelan flag, far outnumbered the chávistas, who used bullhorns to compensate for their lack of mass.  The chávistas, wearing red, included an assortment of other left-leaning demonstrators, whose banners proclaimed support for socialism in Mexico, the Bolivarian revolution  in general and, of course, Che Guevara.

Until recently I would have not devoted part of a sunny, spring Sunday to standing on a San Francisco sidewalk amidst a crowd of vociferous Venezuelan expats, but the small Spanish school  in Marin where I engage in my own revolution against the demands of  the subjunctive is run by a couple from Caracas and the current state of their native country is a frequent topic of conversation.

John Kostecki is the brains behind the boat. As the tactician for Larry Ellison’s 2013 America’s Cup team, the 48-year-old world champion sailor is the guy who will be plotting the course when the team’s 72-foot catamaran races this summer on San Francisco Bay.

I photographed Kostecki at Oracle Team USA’s headquarters off lower Third Street in San Francisco. When Kostecki told me to meet him at the team “shed,”  I envisioned some shanty-like building sitting dockside along the water. Wrong. The “shed” is massive warehouse on Pier 80 whose size dwarfs the 44-foot hulls of the catamarans team used last summer for preliminary races.

As I usually do, I had little time to make a picture, and went with one light and a wide lens. I wanted to highlight Kostecki, of course, but also show the spaciousness of the shed.

Here’s the interview by Stephanie Martin of Kostecki in Marin Magazine.

Food fosters community. I used those words from a young Bolinas farmer to start my book on organic farming. On Saturday, I saw them come to life again in the opening of the Canal Community Garden.

Located on what was a vacant quarter-acre of city land where the butt end of Bellam Boulevard collides with the salt marsh separating San Rafael from the Bay, the garden represents a successful collaboration between the Canal Alliance, the Trust for Public Land, local government and a clutch of private donors and volunteers. (Marin IJ story.)

With 92 plots of soil, a modern greenhouse and a composting complex, the garden gives its urban farmers the chance to  bring fresh, local, organic food to one of Marin’s poorest neighborhoods. But more than that, it does what all farms do: Promises that today’s effort will bring tomorrow’s harvest — a message of inherent hope in a community where life is challenging.

Farming is always an investment in the future. The soil, the seed, the crops, the weather, all are unknowns that the farmer — whether in Iowa or Marin — must cope with and curate through the season, believing that work, nature and a bit a luck will fulfill the cycle of land to table.

There is dignity in the dirt. Weathered skin, encrusted fingernails and achy backs are badges of honor. Thanks to the Canal Community Garden more of us will have an opportunity to wear them.

(Here’s my post from last November, when volunteers were installing the mosaic centerpiece for the garden.)

(Buy: Organic Marin: Recipes from Land to Table).

Many of us are pigs. Sadly. We toss our plastic bottles, takeout containers and other trash out of our cars, inconsiderate of the environmental damage it does, the aesthetic blight it causes and the cost to to clean it up.

I spent some time walking a section of U.S. Highway 101 in Marin County with a crew from the Conservation Corps North Bay (CCNB) for a story in Marin Magazine about how, even in the wealthiest of the Bay Area’s counties, motorists use public roadways as their private dumping grounds.

The CCNB crews consist of young men and women who were born into challenging lives and, with the help of the Corps and the sweat of their brows, are turning them around.

Next time you’re about to dump your double-decaf-mocha-grande cup out of the car window, think about who has to clean up your mess.

A bunch of us gathered in Phoenix over the weekend to take in some desert sun,  celebrate a friend’s 50th birthday and catch some Giants-ball at Spring Training.

Our ticket package came with great seats, hats, T-shirts and a stay at the Arizona Biltmore, which until I read this Wikipedia entry had always thought – along wth the rest of the uninformed masses — was designed by Frank LLoyd Wright.

It wasn’t, but he was the initial consultant on the hotel, which opened in 1092 and as designed by one of Wright’s protegees, Albert Chase McArthur.

Even minus Wright’s name on the finished product, the architecture is captivating — angular, etched facades reminiscent of the Zapotec temples of Oaxaca;  nooks, crannies and walkways that open onto round, green lawns bordered by concrete cottages; placement that pitches one building against another, creating depth in every direction.

Here are a few snapshots from a walk around the ground one day after a ball game.

For 10 years, a group of elderly residents of Northern California’s hippest retirement community, The Redwoods in Mill Valley, have gathered every Friday afternoon at 4 o’clock on the street corner in front of their complex to demand peace over war.

Mill Valley Seniors for Peace, as they call themselves, began the weekly demonstration in protest of the U.S. invasion of Iraq in the spring of 2003. It has continued without interruption, through the winter’s rain, the summer’s fog and the inevitable deaths that occur in a group whose members include several who are well into their 90s.

As street theater, they are rowdy and spirited and impossible to ignore, yet, reflecting their generation, they are also respectful, polite and welcoming to strangers (and strange photographers) who stop to chat with them or take their pictures.

Led musically by Rolly Mulvey (above), an 85-year-old retired paper salesman who strums a 12-string guitar that is short a few strings, the group gathers for hour, some standing, some sitting, some in wheel chairs, to sing songs of Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie, to applaud passing motorists who honk in support,  and to remind all of us, in a greater sense, that passion, commitment and action are not the provenance of only the young.

I’ve photographed these folks several times over the decade they’ve taken to the corner, including once for a Marin Magazine feature on The Redwoods. (Here’s a PDF of the story).

For that ariycle I not only photographed the weekly demonstration (see the photo below), but made portraits of the seniors themselves (left.).

Bill Usher, the grandfatherly-looking gentleman in the upper right, is one of the group’s founding members. He was 91 when I took that picture. Today he is 95 and still out there on that corner. He told Marin Magazine, which ran a one-pager on the group to mark its 10th anniversary: “We live right here. And we’ haven’t missed a Friday since January of ’03, when Bush talked about a war against Iraq.”

Earlier, in the 2008 story, Usher said,

“I feel strongly about it. If I could talk to President Bush, I’d tell him 9/11 was justification for invading Afghanistan but our going into Iraq was wrong in the first place. We took our eye off the ball. It was a terrible, terrible mistake.”

For the photograph this time I tried something different. I brought my Profoto pack with me and hung a beauty dish above the group as they sang, beat drums and waved signs. I wanted a photo that was as bright and animated and full of life as the Seniors for Peace are. I was happy with the results.

I was trying to make a picture the other day, but my camera and my computer wouldn’t let me. Sound silly, but it’s true. And it’s making me think my photography has become more complicated than it needs to be.

I had the studio all set. The paper was out, the lights were up, I’d metered front, back and sides. All good. Then I hooked my camera up to my laptop so the pictures would flow into the computer screen as I shot.

Nothing happened. No connection. Without one, no pictures.  I was using a new camera, a Nikon D4, and the software – also made by Nikon – wasn’t “recognizing” the camera. No problem, I thought, I’ll download an update.

As I began to do that, the clients showed up, a mother and her daughter. The mom is a dancer, her daughter a middle-schooler. I was photographing them for the magazine, full-length on a white background, hopefully with some leaping and frolicking.

We chatted and I told them where to change. I returned to the computer, thinking I could install the software patch before they came back. No luck.

I found the patch, but it wouldn’t install. Nikon wanted the original registration number, which was home on my other computer, plus it required me to install every version of the software between the current one on the laptop and the latest fix – and there were three of those. No time for that.

I opened another piece of software, Lightroom, and configured it to capture the pictures coming from the camera. This was an unreliable workaround because Lightroom sometimes  quits in the middle of a shoot, causing me to lose pictures, but I had no choice.

OK, I said, to the mom and daughter, I’m ready. But I wasn’t. Even thought I’d metered the lights,  the first shots looked terrible – the light was muddy where it should have been sharp, overblown where it should have been no more than bright. I’d used this set-up at least 100 times previously and had no idea why this was happening.

I fiddled, I fussed, I moved things around and I changed settings on the camera. Things improved. I’d learned over the years that different lenses can produce different exposures under the same lighting conditions, but now I was learning that moving from one pricey Nikon model to another could do the same.

OK, I said, to the mom and daughter, I’m ready. But they weren’t. The 30 minutes I’d spent hacking at the software and moving gear dampened  the enthusiasm they’d walked in the door with. But they were gamers, so they perked up, posed a half-dozen ways and I made some decent shots, enough, at least, to get the job done.

The weirdness with the computer and the lights ate up half the time they had. The shoot felt rushed – because it was. Their faces showed strain at times – because their patience was running out. The resulting images were good, but limited – because there was not time to try other things.

The shoot wasn’t a failure, just less of a success than it could have been. My fault. I should have checked the software compatibility with the new camera. And I shouldn’t have used a new (well, I’ve had it six months, but haven’t used it in the studio) camera on something that had to be done right the first time.

This is me falling on my sword. Ouch.

With the pain out of the way, I can say this: It shouldn’t be this hard to make a picture. Oh, I know, I can hear Michael Corleone saying in The Godfather, “That is the price you pay for the life you choose.” I get it. I just don’t have to like it.

Other than the lens-cap thing (Photography 101, folks), the Mamiya is simplicity embodied. I spent a few hours with it, walking around empty buildings near the ocean, framing windows and doorways and chairs. The roll of black-and-white film in the camera only held 10 exposures, so I devoted more time to looking than actually shooting, making the experience much more about seeing the world rather than capturing it. That patience, yogic-like mindfulness, was intensely relaxing.

Then there was the camera itself – no electronics other than the meter, a body made of smooth, heavy metal that always felt cool in my hand, a lens  silent and smooth as my fingers adjusted its focus and a shutter that just whispers its acceptance of its role, no ka-chunk of a mirror, just an affirmative, soft click to acknowledge the making of the picture.

Simple.

The Mamiya does demand one more thing – faith. Since it isn’t a digital photo factory, there is no immediate playback to look it, nothing to verify whether the picture is exposed correctly or framed adequately or has any other additional merits as a photograph. It is up to the photographer to have faith in the judgment he or she exercised with the press of the shutter, and then wait hours or days for the film to be developed to determine whether that faith has been rewarded.

Here we have a camera – and a way of making photographs – that is not only mechanically simple, but encourages patience, faith in your vision and technical knowledge (sorry, no histogram, you chimpers).

These are attractive qualities in a world like mine, which is dominated by technology, subject to the demands of deadlines, and often less focused on taking the picture than on remaking it later in the computer to satisfy the whims or needs of clients.

I’m already trolling eBay with a boxy, black slab in mind.

Brenda Chapman won an Oscar for co-directing the animated feature “Brave,” but before she did that she stopped by my studio a few months ago for an interview with Marin Magazine and a photo session.

She was delightful. As she talked with writer Mimi Towle, Brenda mugged for the camera, sketched some drawings on a large pad she’d brought with her and generally kept us all in laughter — mimicking, for example, her heroine’s (Merida) stance with a bow and arrow.

Merida, by the way, is based on Chapman’s 13-year-old daughter, Emma, a student at Mill Valley Middle School. She told the Marin Independent Journal in an article published today that when her daughter was younger …

“… She was so strong-willed, challenging me every step of the way. Honestly, I never did that to my mom. It was old school in my house growing up. But my daughter took over my life. I’d be going to work thinking about the morning I had with her. It evolved into channeling that energy into creating something positive around it.”

Congratulations to Brenda.

Nothing much phases them. Ordinary people — meaning you and I — get nervous when they wait or, say, there’s a computer glitch (which happens regularly these days with tethered shooting). Oh, oh, they think, the photographer’s having a problem and I’m going to look terrible.

That doesn’t happen with pros like Claudia Cowan, Fox News’ San Francisco reporter. I photographed her for a Q&A with Marin Magazine (here’s the story). She brought a couple of dresses, several hats and the other important thing for this kind of glammy photo with a lot of lights — a makeup artist, a good one like Christina Flach.

Christina and I worked together once before — only that time it was more personal. I photographed her husband, ex-tennis pro Ken Flach, who hung up his racket to open a barbecue joint, Best Lil’ Porkhouse in San Rafael.

My work is small time compared to much of what Christina does — TV ads, print campaigns, etc. — so she was as cool as Claudia, which makes my job pretty easy. All I need to do is get the lights right, make sure the cords are connected and push a shutter button a hundred times or so.

Working with pros makes me look even more professional.

(See Claudia and Christina together in the gallery photos below).