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Adventures in the Sagebrush State

Tuesday, September 8th, 2015

In early August, Jackson Frishman and I were able to get out for a short backpack in the Toquima Mountains of central Nevada. Although I’ve been interested in the lonely and desolate central Nevada mountain ranges for several years, I hadn’t really been able to explore them until our trip; Jackson was nice enough to give me a great tour.

The entire Basin and Range Province–which occupies most of the American West–is characterized by steep mountain ranges alternating with arid valleys. In central Nevada, where the Toquimas are located, this pattern is especially pronounced. These ranges were formed not by crustal plates pushing together, but rather by their separation. Big blocks of crust acted like icebergs as the West was pulled apart, and one end tipped up, creating a mountain range, while the other tipped down, contributing to a basin. Despite the common mechanism by which these mountain ranges were created, they are diverse in terms of their ecology. The White Mountains of eastern California are at the western edge of the Basin and Range and are quite dry, with sparse vegetation (save for their eastern slope), but the other high ranges in Nevada (the Toiyabes, Toquimas, Snakes, etc), are surprisingly lush with beautiful aspen groves and verdant streams and rivers.

Jackson and I planned to climb Mount Jefferson, which is the tallest peak in central Nevada. Driving across western Nevada to the trailhead, we watched thunderheads build all afternoon. As we packed our bags, rain drops started to fall, and by the time we hit the trail, we were in a full-on downpour. We continued onward in the rain through a mix of sagebrush and aspen–two species I’m not used to seeing together. After about 2,000 feet and three hours of climbing, the rain got the better of our spirits (and our body temperatures) so we set up the tent to climb into the warmth of our down sleeping bags. Once the rain stopped, we hiked a little further up the trail and saw that it had been snowing not far above us on Mount Jefferson.

The next morning we were awake long before daylight, continuing up the trail towards Mount Jefferson. Trail builders in Nevada don’t seem to believe in switchbacks, so while steep, the ascent didn’t take long. Not long after sunrise, we found ourselves in a bowl around 11,000′ looking up at three bighorn sheep rams making their way across the peak above us. Hiking further up onto the plateau that separates the different summits of Mount Jefferson, we spotted many more bighorn ewes and lambs.

In hopes of spotting more sheep, we walked across the plateau between the Mount Jefferson’s south and middle summits. Ahead of me as we topped a small rise, Jackson stopped suddenly and said, “whoa.” I immediately assumed sheep, but a small band of wild horses was just as surprised to see us as we were them. After spending about an hour with them, we headed south again, towards the highest summit of Mount Jefferson. Jackson has some great images of the horses here.

As we left the horses I happened to stumble across a small, nearly perfect arrowhead. This portion of the Toquimas is part of the Alta Toquima Wilderness, which is named for the Alta Toquima archaeological site, which we weren’t far from. At an elevation of about 11,500′ feet, this site is the first evidence we have that early Americans were settling relatively permanently at high altitude as early as 1 AD (this gives some interesting background on the site and its discovery). Permanent high altitude settlements are rare in North America, as opposed to places like Peru, Tibet, and Ethiopia. After photographing the arrowhead we left it and went on our way.

Although we spotted more bighorns in the distance we were unsuccessful in getting a close look (one curious lamb did come fairly close to us for a good look). After summiting, we hiked back to camp to pack up, then back to the trailhead.

After leaving the Toquimas we explored the Monitor Valley which is located east of the range, and the Toiyabe Mountains just a little bit before heading back home. Even though it was a quick visit to the, it was interesting to see how different they are from the Toquimas.

The Basin and Range isn’t an easy place to photograph, in fact I found it quite humbling. Although I was surprised by the number of (unpaved) roads on our visit, the “best” viewpoints are not easy to get to. The abundance of roads isn’t necessarily matched by an abundance of trails, making access a bit tricky and perhaps left for a time when you’re feeling ambitious. That said, the payoffs are pretty big. Jackson and I had complete solitude during our visit to the Toquimas, we saw incredible wildlife, and got to briefly experience of a bit of culture. That’s not bad for an overnight backpacking trip.

Posted in adventure photography, Nevada | 5 Responses »
Tags: backpacking, basin and range, great basin, toquima mountains

Long-distance relationships

Thursday, June 4th, 2015

“Sense of place is the sixth sense, an internal compass and map made by memory and spatial perception together.” — Rebecca Solnit

Over the last several years, I’ve devoted much of this blog and my photographic efforts towards the Colorado Plateau. More so than even the results I’ve shared here, I’ve devoted time and experience to the Plateau; no place I’ve visited has given me a more of a feeling of calm than that landscape of sinuous canyons, sandstone mesas, and petrified sand dunes. That’s why I return year after year without fail; every time I go back I hear my bones say, “I’m home.”

I feel that the resulting images from my time spent on the Plateau are purpose-driven, grounded, intimate, and unique. As an individual, no one else can see things quite like me, and I want my portfolio to reflect my own way of seeing. Just like with any relationship, time has been invested to get to know the Plateau, as well as a few cactus pricks, scrapes, and bruises.

Because of my approach to photography, I’ve never been great at walking into a place for the first time and being comfortable making images. I almost always experience some intangible awkwardness during the process. How does place-based landscape photography translate to travel to distant locations, where a great distance has been traveled and the unlikelihood of ever returning again is small? I recently found myself asking this question when my girlfriend and I ventured to Iceland for my first big trip away from the Southwest. Tourism in Iceland has exploded in popularity over the decade or so, and I wanted to avoid making copies of everyone else’s images; I wanted to see the country with fresh eyes.

Planning an appropriate itinerary is key. While it’s tempting to want to see everything, that is not conducive to thoughtful landscape photography. We picked out three or four places that we considered ‘must-see’ locations and planned around them. Anything more would have been difficult or impossible given the amount of time we had.

In concert with the logistics, I had to ask myself, “why is this a must-see location for me?” Presumably the idea of it spoke to me in some way, so I proceeded to learn more about these places. Iceland, like many European countries, has a rich history, so spending time to learn the stories of the places I wanted to visit helped me to tell the stories with my images. Knowing the story behind many of the Icelandic sagas helped me to understand the culture and people, and reading about the geology of this ever-changing island also helped give me a sense of place. As always, I had a map out as I did this, allowing me to connect the landscape with the stories.

Being able to go back to Iceland would probably be of great benefit to me photographically. However, the work I did before leaving home made me feel as though I had a connection to the place before ever setting foot there, which–in my opinion–made the photography that much more productive, enjoyable, and meaningful. People and places make up the topography of our lives; the result is not much different than a landscape, with valleys and peaks, sunrises and sunsets. My internal compass will always calibrate toward the Colorado Plateau and Southwestern United States, but I came home from my first international trip understanding that it is possible to connect with a place even if I may never visit again.

See all of my Iceland images here.

Posted in adventure photography, locations, travel photography | 4 Responses »
Tags: Iceland, landscape photography, philosophy, sense of place

A Canyon Offering

Friday, June 21st, 2013

Once I got to the ground, I laid down on the cold Navajo Sandstone, preparing to belay my friends who would be joining me by rappelling over 300 feet into this remote canyon nestled deep inside the Colorado Plateau. A few minutes ago, on the canyon’s rim, the morning sun warmed me, but now as I lay on the cold rock inside of this deeply shaded crevasse, I become chilled quickly. Laying on here, I quickly realize that sandstone makes a crummy pillow, and it is my body that is forced to conform to the curves in the rock, not the other way around. Still, although I have never been to this particular place before, I feel comforted and relaxed by my surroundings and I wonder to myself, “How much is it possible to love a place?”

My friends have joined me now, and the rope has been retrieved. In a sense, we are now cut off from the world. For the next several hours, we will work our way through the obstacles in our path. Of course we will laugh (a lot) and enjoy each others’ company, but for me it is also a time of quiet contemplation, walking alone for brief periods as I soak up my time here.

Inside of a canyon, we must embrace the notion that we are very small beings in a very large world. It is one thing to be awed by a large ponderosa pine that has become lodged twenty feet up between a canyon’s walls. It’s entirely another to return the next year only to find that the tree is gone, vanished. Trying to understand the force that a flash flood exerts as it moves through a place like this is utterly impossible. To escape from these forces inside of a canyon would be equally impossible: we would be crushed and our bodies washed away like the ponderosa pine. Yet the rock endures, over time becoming more sensuously curved and beautiful in spite of (and because of) the nature of the destructive forces that shape it.

We spend much of our time in everyday life searching for the bigger picture. As I walk through the canyon, I can see pine trees hundreds of feet above me, and I know that the world is going on “up there,” but I am not a participant in it today, however I have fallen into rhythm with the canyon, engaged in life down here. There is something strangely liberating about surrendering to a world that rapidly–and voluntarily–becomes small and very focused. As a reward for relinquishing my place in the world today, I am treated to some of the most sublime light imaginable. Before my eyes, the canyon’s walls shift between shades of red, orange, purple, magenta, and blue that seem to exist only in dreams. I can feel the peace deep inside of my soul.

Visitors to pretty much any national park in the American southwest will get a taste of canyons, whether they look in from the top of the Grand Canyon, or upward at the towering sandstone cliffs in Zion. Of the millions of visitors to these and other parks each year, very few will experience a canyon close-up, and still fewer will get to experience the silence that true solitude can offer in between these extraordinary sandstone walls.

I am, I’m unashamed to say, in love with this place.

Posted in adventure photography, Introspection, locations, national park | 12 Responses »
Tags: black and white, canyoneering, sense of place, utah, Zion

Through the Grama

Monday, February 25th, 2013

For February at 6500′, it’s a warm day–about 40 degrees–and the sun makes it feel even warmer as we hike across the windswept grassland plateau. Snow still blankets the north-facing slopes, but the rest of the ground is free of snow, soft, and slightly muddy in places.

Everywhere, almost literally, signs of elk abound; I have never seen so many turds and tracks in one place. This small plateau must be great winter ground for them. I haven’t seen (or felt) any invasive Drooping Brome (Cheat Grass) in my socks all day, only native Bouteloua (Grama Grass). Here on the Colorado Plateau, where some areas have been grazed extensively, that must be one sign of a healthy ecosystem.

Through the Grama we hike, our heavy packs weighing us down more and more, until–finally–the east rim of the Grand Canyon reveals itself to us.

Last weekend, Jackson Frishman invited me to join him on a trip to visit the confluence of the Colorado and Little Colorado Rivers. Jackson’s proposal was ambitious: nearly 40 miles of hiking in 2.5 days, with no water along the route (we had to carry our own water cache). He introduced it to me as a hare-brained plan, and honestly that’s all he needed to say to get me on board.

Jackson told me he wanted to visit the confluence because the Grand Canyon Escalade–a proposed tourism development on the western edge of the Navajo Nation, which overlooks the confluence. If the project passes, it would include a tram from the rim down to the Little Colorado River (read more about Escalade here, here, and here). For me, it was a good time to familiarize myself with this area, learn a little more about the proposal, as well as to visit the Grand Canyon again; I began my backpacking life there, and the Grand Canyon evokes many special memories for me.

On Friday night, we discussed the final plans over beers and enchiladas, and it was clear that the stress of planning the trip had turned into excitement for what lied ahead. We started out on Saturday morning; our packs were weighed down with a couple of extra gallons of water for the return hike. We dropped the water underneath a couple of stiff piñon boughs to keep it from freezing, as well as to keep it away from the ravens which were surely watching us. As we got closer to the park service boundary with the Navajo Nation, we found an old hogan, with a missing west wall; the doorway of a Navajo hogan faces east to receive the morning sun and it’s good blessings, and when someone dies in a hogan they are carried out through a hole that has been knocked in the west wall, then the home is abandoned.

After several more miles, we crested a hill and scared a large herd of maybe 200 elk out of a drainage. They must have known about a water source that we didn’t. We watched the elk until they disappeared into the horizon and would see them several times over the next couple of days. The final push to the east rim was tortuous; buttes on the north side of the Colorado River were visible, but they never seemed to get any closer. However, finally, after what felt like hours we arrived at Cape Solitude.

Solitude indeed. We had not seen any other human footprints all day, and aside from a windbreak built from rocks, our campsite showed no sign of other humans at all. In the second-most-visited national park, solitude can be tough to come by. It’s a special feeling to have a piece of the Grand Canyon all to yourself.

We woke up to a windy but beautiful sunrise the next morning and hiked back to our water cache (thankfully untouched) from the day before. After rehydrating, I was happy to hike to our second night’s camp, closer to our trailhead, but with another private view of the canyon’s rim. Horned larks flitting through the sagebrush and elk were our only company. The next morning Jackson and I returned to our cars, shared a couple of cold beers, and parted ways.

We hiked through the Grama–through a healthy ecosystem–to a part of the Grand Canyon only a few people get to see. Elk tracks went right up to the rim. I wonder if they admire the view from time to time? In my twentieth year of visiting the Grand Canyon, I still stand in awe of the vast landscape, and can’t help but wonder if some of that awe would be diminished if I could take a tram all the way to the bottom, or if–consequently–the elk tracks didn’t go all the way to the rim.

P.S. You can also read Jackson’s post and see his image of Cape Solitude at his blog here. His blog is always worth a visit, with fantastic writing and wonderful imagery.

Posted in adventure photography, Arizona, environment, locations, national park | 13 Responses »
Tags: Arizona, grand canyon photography, landscape photography, sunrise photo, sunset photo

Climbing Mountains

Friday, August 10th, 2012

I recently did a solo backpack into southern California’s San Bernardino Mountains. My primary goal was to climb San Gorgonio Mountain (11,503′), the tallest point in southern California; my secondary goal was to escape the searing heat in the valleys below. On August 11, I’ll have lived in southern California for ten years (as a somewhat macabre coincidence, August 11 is also the ten-year anniversary of Galen & Barbara Rowell’s death), and I decided it was finally time to climb this formidable mountain.

Over the past decade or so, I have not really climbed mountains for the sake of climbing mountains. In college, I used to drive down to Colorado and climb 14,000′ peaks a few times a year, but I seem to have gotten away from that. I suppose the time period that I stopped doing long hikes was also the time I got into photography. In some ways, the two don’t really dovetail well–long hikes require early starts and the pace can be, “go go go” for hours on end; when you’re in the mountains, a 16-hour day isn’t uncommon. Photography, on the other hand, calls for quiet contemplation. It can be a tough balance.

San Gorgonio Mountain, 11,503′, January 2011

This disconnect has bothered me, and like so many other insignificant problems, I’ve let it stay on my mind longer than it really should. I’ve largely solved the problem by carrying with me a small point-and-shoot camera that can capture images in RAW format, still giving me the ability to edit them, but also giving me the flexibility to pursue more difficult and athletic outdoor pursuits. There is, of course, the tradeoff of image quality when you use a point-and-shoot over a DSLR, but it is one I was willing to make.

When I was in college, I read Robert Pirsig’s, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I’m not sure I completely understood it, and even if I reread it today, I’m not sure I would. It’s pretty far out there, and it’s deep. However, the theme of the book–quality–has been on my mind since. Every time I go into an outdoor store, I drool over all the sexy new gear, and sometimes I succumb to advertising, but I pride myself on my really old equipment. For instance, I’ve been using the same backpack for over 20 years now, and it’s still going strong, after 1,000s of miles. I used my nifty point-and-shoot camera to for some self-portraits to highlight the pack in action on my recent trip to San Gorgonio Mountain. Despite my allegiance to my gear, the specter of consumerism hovers near me most of the time.

A backpacker in the San Gorgonio Wilderness of southern California

20 years old and still going strong, self-portrait, August 2012

(click on the diptych to see it full size)

“All that matters is that you spare yourself nothing, wear yourself out, risk everything to find something that seems true.” –Tony Kushner

To summit San Gorgonio Mountain, I got up at 3:30am, and was on the trail by 3:45. From my campsite, I was able to summit at 5:30am, just before the sun came up. I used the self-timer on my camera for a few self portraits, and then headed back down to my campsite for a cup of tea before packing up and heading back to my car. The morning was cool, and I forgot how long the Earth’s shadow and Belt of Venus seem to hang in the sky at this elevation. Even though I could see the megalopolis of southern California stretching below me, I had this mountain completely to myself.

Predawn light, San Gorgonio Mountain, August 2012

On my hike down I thought about the physical act of climbing mountains as well as the mountains we climb within ourselves. “Like those in the valley behind us,” wrote Robert Pirsig, “most people stand in sight of the spiritual mountains all their lives and never enter them, being content to listen to others who have been there and thus avoid the hardships.” I thought about my point-and shoot camera, my 20-year-old backpack, people in my life, and the mountains we all find ourselves challenged by every day.

I am happy that I finally ventured into the San Bernardinos to climb San Gorgonio Mountain.

Mt. San Jacinto as seen from San Gorgonio Mountain, August 2012

Sunrise on the flanks of San Gorgonio Mountain

Krummholz, Jepson Peak, and the Earth’s Shadow, August 2012

Posted in adventure photography, california, creativity, ethics, locations | 19 Responses »
Tags: california, introspection, national forest, san bernardino mountains, san gorgonio, southern California hiking, sunrise photo, wilderness

Zion Canyoneering

Friday, June 29th, 2012

Can•yon•eer•ing /ˌkænjəˈnɪərɪŋ/

noun

The sport of exploring canyons by climbing, rappelling, hiking, swimming, or wading.

It might seem like a silly way to spend a vacation, but I recently met some friends to go through several technical canyons in Zion National Park. As the definition implies, there are all sorts of obstacles that you encounter in these canyons, from tight squeezes into slots, to extremely cold pools that you have no other choice than to swim through, and very large drops (sometimes several hundred feet) that you have to rappel from.

A technical canyoneer in Das Boot Canyon

A canyoneer moves through Das Boot Canyon

Of course, that’s part of the fun. Problem solving, using your brain and working as a team to move past these obstacles. There are times when I feel like I’m literally walking into the heart of the earth, the sky disappearing above me, as I move into some sort of subterranean wonderland. The aspect of adventure is always there; canyons can change quickly, and often do with flash floods. But also, there’s the aspect of having the privilege to see these wonderful places. These are the parts of our national parks that very few visitors get to see–most don’t give much thought to their existence.

Reflected light in a southern Utah canyon

Even in darkness there is light

A tight squeeze inside Das Boot Canyon

In three days, we went through four different canyons, each with a different story to tell. First we went through Das Boot, which is the technical start to the much more popular Left Fork of North Creek (The Subway). Even on a dry year, Das Boot is wet and cold–at the minimum wetsuits are a requirement, and swimming multiple (sometimes stinky) pools is unavoidable. It is a stunningly beautiful canyon, though, with some of the most amazing reflected light I’ve ever seen.

Reflected light, Orderville Canyon, Utah

Into the heart of the earth, Orderville Canyon, Utah

The next day we went through Birch Hollow, which is a technical start to Orderville Canyon; Orderville ends in the Zion Narrows. It’s a long day, but there’s a little bit of everything in there, ending with some classic Zion scenery.

A canyoneer rappels into Pine Creek, Zion National Park, Utah

Rappelling into Pine Creek

Finally, we went through Keyhole, which is a very short, but cold and wet canyon, and Pine Creek, right in the heart of Zion, and a true classic. The last rappel in Pine Creek is a lot of fun, about 120′, and you’re hanging free of the rock face for most of it. I was able to have my friend belay me while I made a few images on my way down.

Hard on the hands

Being able to explore these canyons, to get up close with the earth, and see something very few get to experience is good for the soul (if perhaps a little hard on the hands). That’s not a bad way to spend a vacation.

Floris van Breugel also recently has done some canyoneering in Zion; check it out here (fantastic images), and if you are interested in even more canyoneering, check out Dan Ransom’s work. He goes into some pretty serious places, and comes home with some beautiful images.

Posted in adventure photography, southwest, utah | 24 Responses »
Tags: adventure photography, Canon G12, canyoneering, outdoors, utah, Zion

Finding John Muir

Wednesday, February 15th, 2012

This morning, I saw the trailer for a new documentary on the John Muir Trail, “Mile…Mile and a Half.” It looks like it will be worth a look when it comes out, and I hope I’m able to see it on the big screen.

In 2010, a friend and I hiked approximately the last 1/3 of the JMT, from Devil’s Postpile National Monument to Yosemite Valley. The scenery is spectacular, showcasing some of the finest peaks in the High Sierra. Of course, we passed the classic views of the Ritter Range, like Banner Peak, as well as the outstanding Yosemite high country. The Cathedral Range in Yosemite was among my favorite scenery of the whole trip–the rugged Echo Peaks and Mathes Crest are beautiful.

Our plan was to hike the rest of the JMT, but my friend’s bad knee has pretty much taken him out of the game. I am now thinking of ways to complete the trail, possibly even by doing it from the beginning in classic through-hike fashion. There’s something really special about getting in rhythm with the mountain range, and creating your own adventure.

Check out the trailer, which I’ve embedded below. Hopefully it inspires you to find your own adventure.

MILE…MILE & A HALF (trailer) from The Muir Project on Vimeo.

Posted in adventure photography, creativity, inspiration, locations, sierra nevada | 8 Responses »
Tags: california, inspiration, john muir, sierra nevada

Those who passed before me

Monday, January 24th, 2011

Have you ever imagined what the first people who walked into a place as grand as Yosemite Valley, or a beautiful remote canyon in Utah must have thought? Unless they wrote their thoughts down, we can’t be sure, but I’d imagine it was something along the lines of “Holy Crap!”

Being the first person to see a place must give a grand sense of accomplishment. But, similarly, seeing something grand for the first time–whether you’re the discoverer or not–can also be satisfying. Perhaps you’re the first visitor of the season, knowing the canyon you’re in was left to the mountain lions, flash floods, and snowstorms for many months prior to your visit. Or, maybe you’re witnessing your favorite peak after an epic summer storm being lit up by a fantastic atmospheric light show. The sort of feelings and memories we take from experiences like this can easily leave us feeling like the most intrepid explorer.

As photographers, we try to make images of the places we visit as if we were the first to visit these locations. We criticize an image if there are footprints in the dirt; I once saw another photographer carefully sweeping footprints out of the sand underneath an oft-visited arch in Utah. Few photographers could claim theirs is the first image made at that spot (with the occasional very notable exception), but we want our image to look pristine, unvisited, wild just the same.

Alternatively, for me anyway, knowing I’m not the first person to pass through a place can be just as satisfying. I made the images below at an intersection of two slot canyons in southern Utah recently. (I think) the petroglyphs are from the Fremont period, from ~900-1300 AD (although if anyone could help me figure this out, I’d appreciate it); even if I’m wrong, these drawings have been on the wall of this canyon for many hundreds of years. To me, being able to appreciate those who passed before me is just as satisfying as the idea of actually being the first to see an area.

This image may not be everyone’s cup of tea, and I understand that. But, to me, its simple, telling, beautiful. I hope you enjoy it. Click on the image to see it big.

Petroglyphs located in Buckskin Gulch, Utah

Petroglyph Diptych, January 2011

Posted in adventure photography, inspiration, utah | 8 Responses »
Tags: Anasazi, black and white, canyon, fine art, inspiration, sense of place, Topophilia, utah

The Canyons of Utah, part 2

Friday, June 25th, 2010

In my last post, I described Mystery Canyon, a slot canyon located in the backcountry of Zion National Park. The day after visiting Mystery, we visited Behunin Canyon, another technical slots, and one of my favorite canyons in Zion. You enter Behunin (named after Isaac Behunin, who had a homestead in Zion Canyon) from the West Rim Trail above Angel’s Landing, and the final rappel drops you into the Grotto, where you find the Emerald Pools.

To me, the word “big” really describes Behunin. All of the rappels are large–almost all are 100′ or longer–and you really feel like a small person in a large, amazing, beautiful place when you descend into this canyon. This was my second time through this canyon, and I was able to enjoy the day much more with the added experience under my belt.

Rappelling in Behunin Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah

Deep inside Behunin Canyon, June 2010

One thing that canyons teach you about life is that change is a constant. Last year when we descended into Behunin, it was almost completely dry. This year, although we didn’t have any swims, we were definitely wading in water up to our knees most of the afternoon. I suppose that adds a sense of adventure to the day when you don’t completely know what to expect.

A canyoneer rappels in Zion National Park, Utah

On rappel in Behunin Canyon, June 2010

I was happy to have my Dad join us for the Mystery Canyon descent, but back troubles prevented him from joining us in Behunin. Maybe next year. The day after Behunin, he and I visited one more slot canyon that I’ll talk about in my next post…

Posted in adventure photography, locations, national park, utah | 2 Responses »
Tags: black and white, canyon, fine art, landscape photography, utah, Zion

The Canyons of Utah, part 1

Tuesday, June 22nd, 2010

Let the canyons seep into your soul. Allow the quiet, the mystery, the chaos to work its way deep into your being, making you calmer, gentler, sweeter.

–Tom Jones, Imlay Canyon Gear

I’ve just returned from a week-long trip to the greater Zion area in southwestern Utah, exploring a number of canyons. Two of the canyons within the park itself involved some technical expertise, some large rappels, and for my part, a few butterflies in my stomach. I was, however, able to carry my SLR body and a lens in a Pelican case and take some photos of this area of Zion National Park that few visitors get to see.

The first canyon we descended was Mystery Canyon, which feeds into Zion’s main canyon. The beginning of the hike is the descent into the canyon itself. I use the term ‘hike’ loosely–this is basically a controlled fall, with the hiker braking himself on tree branches, roots, etc, while trying to not kill himself. This descent has affectionately been named the “Death Gully.”

Mystery canyon in black and white, Zion National Park, Utah

Mystery Canyon, Zion National Park, June 2010

Once in the canyon, the walls closed down around us, leading us through several rappels, ranging from 30-120 feet in length.

The walls of Mystery Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah

Inside Mystery Canyon, June 2010

A hiker canyoneering in Mystery Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah

A canyoneer inside Mystery Canyon, Zion National Park, Utah

Mystery Canyon culminates with two large rappels; the first of which sends you into the icy waters of Mystery Springs, and the second one delivers you straight into the Narrows of the Virgin River, approximately 3/4 mile from the Temple of Sinawava. Because of its close proximity to the trailhead, you usually have an audience for the final rappel–make sure you don’t do a face plant on the rock!

Because of the high flow through the Virgin River this year, the day we descended Mystery was also the first day the Narrows were open, meaning we were the first group through that canyon this year. Because of that, we had a significant amount of deadfall to clear, making the going slow. We left the canyon scratched, battered, and bleeding a little bit, but honestly, it is so exciting to see a beautiful canyon that fewer than 1% of the park’s visitors will ever see.

The next day, we descended Behunin Canyon, which can only be described as BIG. I’ll share photos from that trip in the next blog post…

Posted in adventure photography, national park, utah | 3 Responses »
Tags: black and white, inspiration, landscape photography, stock photo, utah, Zion

Alpenglow Images

Landscape & Nature Photography by Greg Russell