Recalling memories of growing up on the open prairies of rural Nebraska, I often associate my unconscious with the fragmented images of childhoods past. These were the days before a camera recorded my every move, idea, and emotion. In growing older, I’ve begun to fear a complete loss of my early narrative. Memories of childhood seldom return to me, and when I’m fortunate to encounter them they are in the form of dreams, or more often then not, nightmares. As time passed these dreams have become increasingly infrequent, and sometimes I fear that I’ve lost the ability to dream altogether. Believing we are apt to remember traumatic experiences more so than happy memories, I’ve begun using various mind-altering substances in hopes of achieving what is called a “bad trip.” Camera in hand, I’ve begun to record my nighttime excursions in the wild in hopes of returning with something previously imagined lost.