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Silence & Movement

Monday, March 3rd, 2014

“Silence. We are seldom conscious when silence begins—it is only afterward that we realize what we have been a part of. In the night journeys of Canada geese, it is the silence that propels them. Thomas Merton writes, ‘Silence is the strength of our interior life.… If we fill our lives with silence, then we will live in hope.'” — Terry Tempest Williams

It might not seem surprising that silence has been on my mind lately, given my lack of posts this year. The truth is that 2014 has been very busy, and I’ve spent a lot of time in quiet contemplation. There is peace to be found in silence: sometimes we are afraid the moment will be ruined with words that can’t do it justice; sometimes we find forgotten spaces within ourselves–spaces that have long since been buried. We tend to not wander into these open and unprotected expanses, but rather build against them, filling them with things that obscure our view.

Normally by this time of year, I’ve taken several trips. By contrast, I’ve been content to focus on local landscapes this year. One of my favorite images so far was made in a little grove of trees in the riverbed along my normal Saturday morning running route. I’ve been eyeing it for weeks, and the weather finally cooperated on a morning I was able to get down there.

I’ve also taken advantage of clearing storms in the mountains, and an invitation from a friend for an early morning hike on the beach. There’s been a certain joy in creating images close to home this year. Normally my trips are planned out on a limited itinerary and involve tiring travel. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy visiting far-off places (not even close), however by removing the stress of an abbreviated schedule and unfamiliar landscapes from the equation, I have the flexibility to let the light rather than the calendar dictate the situation, allowing me to relax and be more creative.

Movement seems to be an unintended theme in my images so far this year, but perhaps it’s fitting; we’re always quietly in motion, always changing. When the clutter and fillers are cleared away, our own evolution becomes unmistakable and unmissable in the image-making process. It’s these discrete, silent moments of self-reflection that propel us in making inspired art. So it is that the open spaces we have unearthed no longer represent dullness, but vision and hope.

Posted in california, creativity, locations, technique | 6 Responses »
Tags: introspection, landscape photography, southern california

A dew-covered world

Monday, September 9th, 2013

This last weekend, my family and I visited the eastern Sierra for an event I was attending. We had a few extra hours on Saturday afternoon and decided to drive up to Tuolumne Meadows. On our way up Tioga Pass, I wondered if we would see any evidence of the Rim Fire. Highway 120, which connects Yosemite’s high country to the Valley is currently closed, so it was very quiet in Tuolumne Meadows, and as I expected, a very large smoke plume was evident across the western and northern skies. As evening arrived, the wind shifted and heavy smoke moved into Lee Vining Canyon, filling the Mono Basin.

Negit Island and smoke from the Rim Fire

Although it’s now 80% contained, the Rim fire has been burning since mid-August, and has charred over a quarter of a million acres, making it one of the most destructive fires in California’s history. Fire is becoming more and more a way of life in the West, but in the face of a blaze this size, outdoor enthusiasts, photographers, hikers, and simply the general public have stood in awe and horror as fire crews scrambled to get the upper hand in hot and dry conditions.

Unlike most people, when I think of Yosemite, I don’t think of the Valley. I think of Tuolumne Meadows and the granite domes, Mts. Dana and Gibbs and the Cathedral Range (one of my favorite mountain chains anywhere). This is the Yosemite I know. Standing there on Saturday, looking at the smoke, something didn’t feel right. I know I’m not alone in this feeling.

In the face of such destruction, whether it’s a forest fire or something more personal and human, we experience a visceral suffering. Pico Iyer had a wonderful op-ed piece in this Sunday’s New York Times, “The Value of Suffering,” in which he concludes that with love and trust, maybe we can be strong enough to witness suffering, and freely admit that we will never get the upper hand over it.

To put it another way, consider the interesting Japanese word nen. Nen is the smallest unit of time any human being can experience, and in any nen one can return to something, anything…whether it’s a breath, partner, path, or choice. This decision to return is the foundation of Zen practice.

In any nen–whether watching the Rim Fire from a distant Tuolumne Meadows or thinking about a loved one, we have the choice to return. I don’t want to distract from the mess that the Rim Fire has caused and allude to any single benefit, but we are an angry enough world as it is; it’s time to return to a more compassionate path and be thankful for the dew that covers the meadow each morning.

Black Point Fissures and smoke from the Rim Fire

Posted in california, Introspection, locations, national park, sierra nevada | 7 Responses »
Tags: mono basin, mono lake, rim fire, yosemite, zen practice

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

A trip to the San Jacinto Mountains

Tuesday, May 28th, 2013

Not to have known–as most men have not–either the mountain or the desert is not to have known one’s self. Not to have known one’s self is to have known no one. — Joseph Wood Krutch

This year for Memorial Day, we decided to stay local and go camping in the San Jacinto Mountains, one of the major peninsular mountain ranges in southern California. For those traveling through the Banning Pass on I-10, the imposing north face of San Jacinto Peak–the range’s high point–is really hard to miss, and that’s about the only taste most people get of San Jacintos.

The more time I spend there, the more I really like this mountain range. Although not as glaciated as parts of the Sierra (think Yosemite), the granitic formations in the San Jacintos are spectacular. Similarly, because the range is a sky island surrounded by desert, it hosts an interesting variety of plants and animals.

Because of the dramatically steep slopes of the San Jacintos, there are many opportunities for interesting landscape compositions, including the granitic formations I mentioned above, as well as the ability to look out on most of southern California. This time of year, when the lowlands of southern California are receiving a fairly heavy marine layer, the atmospherics viewed from above can be interesting.

Like a lot of people I know, I spend time daydreaming about places I would love to visit and photograph, often forgetting almost completely about the places that are practically in my backyard. Getting to know these places can be valuable, because one realizes–as I am often reminded–that they can be just as beautiful as the faraway locations we invest so much time and money in getting to. Similarly, depending on exactly where your “backyard” is, these locations can be gloriously under-photographed, allowing for freedom of expression and creativity. If you have nothing to compare your image to, it is much less constraining to the creative process.

Perhaps instead of challenging ourselves to produce a new take on an “icon,” we should challenge ourselves to discover a totally new place, unphotographed and unknown. It might end up being a bust, but at least you’ll know.

Posted in california, creativity, environment, locations | 10 Responses »
Tags: new location, san jacinto and santa rosa mountains national monument, san jacinto mountains, sky island

In Defense of the West

Friday, May 3rd, 2013

As something of a disclaimer, I know not all of my thoughts here may make sense, and I know my connection between environmental issues in the West and landscape photography is tenuous at best, however because I believe so strongly in a strong sense of place guiding the production of quality landscape photography, I do believe there is a connection here. So, please humor me, and if you have any thoughts to add, feel free to leave a comment.

A little bit over a year ago, I wrote a blog post, “Citizen of the West,” in which I began to think about the landscape of the West, not just in terms of the topography, but of the culture, the art, and history as well; I was intrigued by how all of these components intersect to shape the West we live in today. The general idea I wanted to convey is that landscapes like those of the West are more than just named places on the map–because of an inherent sense of place, they become part of who we are. The places–just as much as the experiences–are what define us. For many in the West, these bloodlines, as they are, run thicker than clay red Colorado River mud.

I recently watched a powerful and somewhat dark short film, “The Death of the Bar-T,” directed by Anson Fogel from the Camp 4 Collective, that highlights this uncommon connection to the land and illustrates the complexity of some of the issues Westerners face–the collision of the old and the new West. The old versus the new; a theme that is ever-present. Another example of this was given just a couple of weeks ago by American Rivers when they named the Colorado River–the lifeblood of the West–as the most endangered waterway in America. As the population of the West grows (the arid Southwest states are among the nation’s fastest-growing), its precious little water is being strained beyond limit.

To me, landscape photography has an extremely strong Western influence–Ansel Adams’ work in the Sierra Nevada, Eliot Porter’s images of Glen Canyon, Edward Weston’s images from the California coast, Philip Hyde’s work from Utah, California, Colorado–all of these photographers shaped landscape photography as we know it today. Because of their work, the named places that dot maps of the West are practically ingrained into our DNA and their images give the feeling of a sense of place whether we’ve visited these locations in person or not. This is why so many flock to the national parks and monuments of the West each year.

As far as places go, these natural icons continue to be sought after by many as the holy grails of landscape photography, and in the name of originality, their portrayal is being pushed farther and farther to the limit of aesthetics. The old versus the new: the icons as established by the f/64 school of thought, being reinterpreted by technology-driven pictorialists.

Family ranchers are still succeeding in places, but the culture is slowly losing its grip as larger operations take over, among other things. Landscape photography, too, is changing (much has been written on this–see here or here). Whether or not you eat meat, and whether or not agree with my thoughts on photography, there is much reason to defend Western culture.

Those who live here know the West is a challenging place–it is hard and arid and unforgiving, with no offering of shade or water in summer and no shelter from winter’s blizzards. This challenge is the one against which we built everything. Without it, we have fragments of memories–a mere recollection–of what was.

Things change, shifts in culture and perspective are inevitable. I understand that, and in some ways, I suppose it’s silly to hang on to the past and avoid facing what’s here. But, on some level, I feel compelled to think about these things. All of them, from cows to photographs. Because they all matter.

Posted in environment, Introspection, locations, Wyoming | 10 Responses »
Tags: Colorado River, drought, sense of place, the West, urbanization, wildlife

In the struggle lies beauty

Tuesday, April 30th, 2013

One time I saw a tiny Joshua tree sapling growing not too far from the old tree. I wanted to dig it up and replant it near our house. I told Mom that I would protect it from the wind and water it every day so that it could grow nice and tall and straight. Mom frowned at me. “You’d be destroying what makes it special,” she said. “It’s the Joshua tree’s struggle that gives it its beauty.” — Jeannette Walls

I am about a mile away from my car in the Lost Horse Valley in Joshua Tree National Park. Joshua trees are scattered around me, each one seeming as if it’s pointing in a different direction. Are they trying to confuse me? Perhaps it’s their cruel joke. As the sun gets closer to setting, I hear a group of cactus wrens start to raise a commotion about one hundred yards to my right. What has them riled up? Ah, a coyote is trotting along the base of the hill. I wonder if it sees me? Surely it does–they don’t miss much. I can hear cars driving by at the head of the valley, their passengers unaware of the story unfolding out here in the valley.

Over the last week or so I’ve spent quite a bit of time out in the Mojave Desert. During a spring following a wet winter, the flowers in the Mojave can be quite spectacular, however this year things are depauperate to say the least; in southern California we’ve gotten less than twenty percent of our normal rainfall totals this season.

Despite the bleak wildflower viewing, the Joshua tree bloom this year was reported to be the best in recorded history, with trees blooming across their entire range; whether you were in the Mojave National Preserve, the New York Mountains, the Chocolate Mountains, or Joshua Tree National Park itself, the trees were adorned with beautiful white blooms. Mojave yucca were blooming in profusion in places as well, and of course cacti dotted the hillsides with lovely splashes red, pink, purple, and yellow.

Unless something major like a Joshua tree bloom or the once-in-a-decade wildflower bloom is happening, the desert doesn’t get much press. Still, life here persists. Understanding the beauty implicit in the struggle of not only the Joshua trees but of all the plants and animals who live here gives a greater appreciation for the display they put on for the quiet observer. Is there a metaphor here for our own lives I wonder?

After the sun goes down I shoulder my backpack and start walking back to my car. Despite the hot April day, darkness will quickly drain the heat from the dry air, and before I get back to my car I am ready for a sweatshirt. I don’t see the coyote any longer. If it did see me, it certainly didn’t pay me any mind. Crickets are starting to chirp, bats are flitting over my head, hawk moths are visiting the opening evening primrose, and the calls of the cactus wren have been replaced by a poor will in the distance.

Life here persists.

Posted in california, Introspection, locations | 10 Responses »
Tags: Joshua Tree National Park, national parks, sense of place

The nature of loss

Tuesday, April 16th, 2013

I’ve often (somewhat seriously) joked that the only reason I’d want to be the President of the United States is because of the Antiquities Act. This law enables the President–with the swipe of a pen–to protect our nation’s “antiquities” by declaring a national monument. Theodore Roosevelt, who signed the bill into law, used the Antiquities Act to create Devils Postpile National Monument, as well as Grand Canyon National Monument, which would later become a national park. Most boys want to be an astronaut when they grow up; I wanted to create national monuments.

Today is the 105th birthday of Utah’s first national monument: Natural Bridges. The monument protects three large natural bridges, including the world’s second largest, all of which are carved out of beautiful, white, Cedar Mesa Sandstone. Two relatively untamed canyons come together in Natural Bridges, and between the large arcs of stone, Ancestral Puebloan ruins are also protected, standing sentinel over these canyons as they have for hundreds of years. Natural Bridges is out of the way and remote, located in one of the darkest nighttime areas of the United States, earning it the title of the world’s first International Dark Sky Park.

Perhaps it’s an ironic coincidence, but on the birthday of Utah’s first national monument, a group of congressmen–one of whom is from Utah–will begin a hearing in an attempt to undermine the framework of the Antiquities Act. If passed, this body of legislation would require an act of Congress to declare a national monument as well as remove restrictions on land use within national monuments. In Nevada, the Antiquities Act would become null and void (as it is in Wyoming currently). My fear is that in today’s hyperpartisan congress, these changes would make it virtually impossible to use this law as it was intended.

What strikes me even more deeply is the fact that I see the world changing. We are developing land and extracting natural resources at a rate which is simply unsustainable. As a nation, we are slowly but surely abandoning wild places, which is opposite of the notion on which we built our country. Wallace Stegner wrote in his now-famous wilderness letter, “We need wilderness preserved–as much of it as is still left, and as many kinds–because it was the challenge against which our character as a people was formed. The reminder and reassurance that it is still there is good for our spiritual health even if we never once in ten years set foot in it.”

Much has been written on the value inherent in preserving these places and I can’t begin to reiterate all of it here. You can read about clear cuts, pipelines, and mining all day. However, I can’t help but think there’s something deeper happening which we must examine. The material impact of our society on wilderness is obvious, but what about the impact of wilderness on us? Does it no longer move us? Are we no longer in awe of what’s “out there?” Are we simply missing the bigger picture?

What’s the connection to photography? Honestly, I’m still working on this. As landscape photographers, we have the ability to inspire people, to make them want to see places that they might not otherwise see. We have the ability to become an impassioned voice. It’s worth considering, and it beats the alternative. The loss of nature will eventually force us to examine the nature of loss one way or another.

If these mountains die, where will our imaginations wander? If the far mesas are leveled, what will sustain us in our quest to be larger than life? If the high valley is made mundane by self-seekers and careless users, where will we find another landscape so eager to nourish our love? And if the long-time people of this wonderful country are carelessly squandered by Progress, who will guide us to a better world? — John Nichols

When I was a boy I didn’t want to be an astronaut; I wanted to be in the wilderness. I still do.

Posted in environment, ethics, locations, national park, rants, utah | 5 Responses »
Tags: canyon, introspection, sense of place, utah, wilderness

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

The Sacred Mountains of Tibet–eBook review

Thursday, December 13th, 2012

I can remember being in a sporting goods store with my Dad when I was about 14 years old. It’s not clear to me exactly what he was looking at, but as he talked to the salesperson, I started looking at the pictures in a catalog sitting on the counter; it was for the clothing company The North Face. In those pages I saw my first big wall climbers, my first mountaineers, and I discovered the Himalaya Mountains of Nepal and Tibet for the first time. Fortunately the catalogs were free because I decided almost instantly that I was bringing one home with me.

Over the next several weeks I went to sleep and woke up with those photos–those places–on my mind. In my daydreams I would fantasize about what it would be like to visit Everest base camp, or trek between Buddhist monasteries. As I got older, my own adventures began, albeit much closer to my home in northern New Mexico than the Himalaya, and my mind started to wander to these places instead–the Colorado Plateau, and the high peaks of the southern Rocky Mountains.

Yet, to this day, I still find myself in awe of the Himalaya. Although I hate the term, “bucket list,” I guess you could say that someday before I die, I’d love to visit these mountains. While I don’t hold on to the adolescent fantasy of climbing Mt. Everest or K2 any more, I would love to take a trek though the lower elevations, admiring the scenery, as well as the culture. As a photographer, I see the austere peaks as very beautiful subjects; they seem to create their own weather, which can make for dramatic light. I enjoy viewing photography from this region; its relative inaccessibility results in an internet that is not flooded with “iconic” Himalayan images (for which I’m grateful).

Photography in the 21st Century leads to a lot of “online” friendships, and I’m grateful to have developed one with Alister Benn and his wife Juanli Sun. Together, they are Available Light Images, and live together in Liajiang, China. I have long been a fan of Alister’s photography; his nighttime work is top notch (I reviewed his night photography eBook, Seeing the Unseen in March), and both he and Juanli have impressive images from the Himalaya. How fortuitous it was that Alister and Juanli just published a free (that’s right: free) eBook last week called, The Sacred Mountains of Tibet.

The Sacred Mountains of Tibet

Unlike Seeing the Unseen, The Sacred Mountains is not text-heavy. This is not a how-to manual; it is a celebration of place, written by two placed people. A short introduction, and individual introductory sections to different regions make up the bulk of the text, but the real gem–the thing that sets this book aside in my opinion is Juanli’s poetry. Several of her poems appear on pages between images, bringing a better sense of belonging to the viewer (I use that word rather than “reader” because, again, this book is about admiration of place, not of the written word). In addition to the cover, I’ve included two of my favorite images in this blog post.

Makalu, Lhoste, Qomolangma – Juanli Sun

The Sacred Mountains is the brainchild of a larger project; Alister and Juanli are planning on expanding this project and turning it into a printed book over the next few months. I think this is a worthy project, and it would make a fine book, library-worthy for any adventurer, or photographer.

The only thing I found myself wanting in this eBook was more, but I suppose it was the perfect teaser for their (hopefully larger) book. I’d like to thank Alister and Juanli for publishing this eBook, and for reminding me of my teenage dreams, awe, and respect for this mountain range. It really is a lovely effort, and I highly suggest you settle in on one of these cold winter nights with the beverage of your choice, dim the lights, and let the light of the Himalaya fill you up. You can download your free copy of the 51-page PDF by clicking here.

Chanadorje – Alister Benn

Posted in General, inspiration, locations | 5 Responses »
Tags: ebook, inspiration, landscape photography, sunset photo

Concerto in D minor

Monday, December 3rd, 2012

It’s chilly, gloomy, and rainy outside today; winter, it seems, has arrived in southern California. Sitting here in my office, the heater is warming me up, and I am listening to Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 in D minor. The third and final movement ends on a happy and light note, but unlike some of Mozart’s other work, Concerto No. 20 is aggressive, in places even agitated and ominous; well-suited for the weather today. As I listen, I think of our recent trip to the Escalante area of southern Utah. How fitting I would be drawn to this particular piece today, as my imagination wanders back to the sandstone I love so much.

Just like a good friend, the redrock wilderness always welcomes me; my feet find purchase immediately, and it is as if we haven’t skipped a beat since being apart. I am constantly amazed at the plant life that–like my feet–finds refuge in this habitat of stone. These organisms eek out a living, nurtured by the harsh landscape, growing slowly but surely through the years.

Finding purchase, November 2012

Hiking up the Calf Creek drainage with my family, I think of a word that’s not often used in the desert: “lush.” Harbored between the gaunt canyon walls is an ecosystem that supports thriving plant and animal life. It is easy to see why you can look high up on the rock walls and see ancient Native American granaries, dwellings and rock art–they were drawn here for the same reasons as we are. Sustenance. Life. Safety. While I am not growing food or defending myself from marauders, all of these qualities are here for me. They are undeniable. As the morning progresses, cold night air moves out of the canyon, meeting the warm air that is radiating off of the sun-warmed rocks; the lingering scent of autumn hangs in the air, and it is difficult to imagine a place on earth where I would rather be. Just like Mozart’s welcoming melodies, it is easy to feel that way here: embraced, peaceful, calm.

Autumn in the Desert, November 2012

A Desert Utopia, November 2012

In the same way that Concerto No. 20 turns turbulent, so can the desert. Here in the Escalante, temperatures can drop below zero in the winter and can soar to well over 100 degrees in the summer. While plants and animals find a way to survive, it is not without compromise; life here is harsh. A summer’s worth of water can arrive in one storm, destroying everything in its path as it crashes through the tight corridors of a slot canyon. I have never seen the desert her in all of her fury, and am not sure I would want to. However, it is just that fury that has helped shape this landscape into what it is.

Under a wine-dark sky I walk through the light reflected and re-reflected from the walls and floor of the canyon, a radiant golden light that glows on rock and stream, sand and leaf in varied hues of amber, honey, whisky — the light that never was is here, now, in the storm-sculptured gorge of the Escalante.

–Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

Gloaming, November 2012

I am now sitting here listening to the rain hit the window of my office; Mozart’s Concerto is over. After 227 years his music lives on, and is still evocative; it will be until we as a species cannot hear–or feel–any longer. So will the Escalante, which is not exactly a piano concerto, but is–without question–a work of art.

Posted in environment, inspiration, locations, utah | 16 Responses »
Tags: fall color, Grand Staircase-Escalante, landscape photography, sense of place, utah

Alpenglow Images

Landscape & Nature Photography by Greg Russell