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As we piled into the van at 8:30pm and headed up Interstate 80, one of the world's most famous photographers, now 81, was making his third three-hour trip between Reno and Winnemucca that day. It was September 18, 2004. "We're off to Maine!" he said, anticipating the bright prospects of a road trip. This is what he always said over the 25 or so years I had known him. It referred to his childhood in New York City, when his family, on special occasions, would borrow a car and pretend to be setting off, like the richest of the rich, for their summer holiday.
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