A pedestrian bridge hangs under highway 1 and crosses the
James River to
Belle Isle. We've walked it before; dear wife hates the height, though, and hasn't gone on it the last few times.
Our teens love it. On this trip it was blowing colder, thunderstorms had just roared over Richmond that afternoon, and the air was clear and full of the gold of the last half hour of the sun.
In this shot my oldest son and I are shadowed on one of the huge piers that hold up the northbound side of route 1. I like to think about this oldest national road, most of it on the route of the old post road that connected the capitals of the original colonies. I can't imagine how many pieces of it I've been on over my lifetime - or under, in this case.
The roar of the river, the traffic rushing overhead, the last light, the violent purple and pinks mixed with smoky grays, the camera can't capture the colors or the feeling I have for a cold windy sunset in a strange and exciting place.
A pedestrian bridge hangs under highway 1 and crosses the James River to Belle Isle. We've walked it before; dear wife hates the height, though, and hasn't gone on it the last few times.
Our teens love it. On this trip it was blowing colder, thunderstorms had just roared over Richmond that afternoon, and the air was clear and full of the gold of the last half hour of the sun.
In this shot my oldest son and I are shadowed on one of the huge piers that hold up the northbound side of route 1. I like to think about this oldest national road, most of it on the route of the old post road that connected the capitals of the original colonies. I can't imagine how many pieces of it I've been on over my lifetime - or under, in this case.
The roar of the river, the traffic rushing overhead, the last light, the violent purple and pinks mixed with smoky grays, the camera can't capture the colors or the feeling I have for a cold windy sunset in a strange and exciting place.
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