sense of place

...now browsing by tag

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 | 8 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

A life well-lived

Monday, March 18th, 2013

In my last post, I reflected a little bit about the landscapes and experiences that make us who we are; I know that much of who I am is tied to the landscapes of the Southwest. Since then, through a series of separate but related conversations with friends, I’ve been thinking more about a life lived to its fullest.

The path I followed in life was probably not unlike that of many others. I went to college, got a job, started a family, and now, here I am. There was a crossroads in my past where I could have gone another direction, working seasonal jobs in order to make ends meet between adventures. More than once, I almost went down that road, but today I fit my adventures in around other obligations. I accepted the trade-off: stability for freedom, as it were. Similarly, I would have been sacrificing stability, family, and possibly relationships if I had gone down the other road.

Trade-offs. Life is full of them. In most cases, they’re unavoidable, however what’s important (and this is where my conversations from this week come in), is to live a life with no regrets.

This week I also came across this video that’s been circulating online. Renan Ozturk is an accomplished climber, artist, and photographer, and was a 2012 nominee for the National Geographic Society’s Adventurer of the Year. The video below is his 2013 Director’s Reel, produced with the Camp 4 Collective. Quite frankly, on the surface, it’s badass. But, looking deeply, it’s a good reminder to live life to the fullest.

How does this relate to photography? In photography, as in life, it’s all about the personal journey. Treating every image as if it counts, because it does. Putting only your best work forward. Thinking very hard before saying “no,” when an unforgettable opportunity comes up. Creating personal, meaningful images.

As I watch the video above, I wistfully wonder about what I would have found had I taken another path in life, and I know that other crossroads lay before me yet. In life, in photography, I want to always say that I have had a life well-lived.

Posted in creativity, inspiration | 6 Responses »
Tags: inspiration, introspection, landscape photography, sense of place

Potsherds

Monday, March 11th, 2013

I am writing this sitting at a desk that my dad made for my eleventh birthday. In the second drawer is an old pipe tobacco can–Captain Black–filled with Native American potsherds.

My family moved to the Four Corners region in northwestern New Mexico when I was six years old. Many of my earliest memories of New Mexico involve the typical sight-seeing outings families do; I remember going to Chaco Canyon and Mesa Verde. At that age, the significance of these world-class archaeological sites did not really mean much to me. However, I started to draw connections to the ancient residents of this area one September day while deer hunting with my dad; we walked through an area filled with potsherds. I was probably a little bored after several hours of hiking through the seemingly endless piñon-juniper pygmy forest, and the potsherds made for an exciting treasure hunt. We picked up some of the nicer ones and brought them home. Since then, they’ve largely lived inside of the pipe tobacco can inside my desk drawer.

I am not sure how old they are. Some are really lovely bowl rims, with simple triangular black-on-white patterns painted on them. Others are pieces of corrugated bowls. Many of the archaeological sites in that area of New Mexico are Navajo–about 400-500 years old. However, the areas we used to visit do not lie far from Salmon Ruins and the Great North Road. So, it is entirely possible–probable even–that these pieces are much older Ancestral Puebloan potsherds.

Archaeologists say that we learn best about ancient cultures by leaving artifacts in their place, admired but untouched. After all, they tell the stories of the peoples who came before us. Indeed, much science is lost by looking at these pieces of pottery ex situ. However, when I look at them, I think of the people who made them. What were they thinking when they left them? Did they walk away unflinchingly from their home, or did they take a longing look back, thinking they may someday return?

These fragmented pieces of pottery tell the story of a people who eeked a living off of the land, who knew the landscape and probably felt a deep sense of place here.

“I looked down upon hillside after hillside of slopes clear-cut for their timber. Traversed back and forth by logging roads, the hills were deeply scarred and patterened. All I could think of were pottery designs. Beginning there, the entire flight was an aerial Anasazi visual feast of basket weaves made of farmland plowing, river ways drawn out like rock art, and cloud patterns resembling rock forms.” – Bruce Hucko, Cave to Cave–Canyon to Canyon

Flying from my home in southern California to Colorado at 30,000′, I can relate to Hucko’s evocative impressions of the Western landscape (Bruce Hucko was the photographer for the Wetherill-Grand Gulch Research Project). I see landscapes–monoliths, cliffs, and mesas–that are part of who I am, so much so that I can recognize them without having seen them on a map, or even visiting them, in years. A floodplain in the Mojave desert, the Grand Canyon, the Vermillion Cliffs, Navajo Mountain, Cedar Mesa, Mesa Verde, the San Juans, the Sawatch, and finally we touch down in Denver. Terra firma.

Two hours in the air filled with fragments of landscapes that conjure memories–in the same way those broken pieces of pottery tell the story of a people, these landscapes are my potsherds of the American Southwest. This is where I have spent my life and I’ve had adventures with friends and family; these stories would fill a hundred books.

It has been over 25 years since my first visit to Chaco Canyon, but it feels like many more. It’s a sunny and warm December afternoon, and many of the other tourists have left, leaving the halls of Chetro Ketl and Pueblo Bonito quiet and a little lonely and the moon is rising over Fajada Butte. I sit for a while, watching the reflected winter light bounce through the rooms, which are now open to the sky. For what feels like the hundredth time, I find myself thinking about the journey of the people who lived here, and of their great road north toward my childhood home, near Salmon and Aztec ruins. Potsherds lie across the high desert for nearly 100 miles; the stories of these travelers are being told in fragments.

So it is that we tell our own stories in broken, scattered pieces. Our own beautiful stories are being shared and discovered by the people in our lives, just as we discover our own pieces of others. If we are lucky we find an entire, unbroken, pot now and then.

Posted in california, Colorado, ethics, New Mexico, Personal, southwest, utah | 11 Responses »
Tags: black and white, introspection, sense of place

Crisis in Confidence

Wednesday, December 19th, 2012

Last Friday morning, I got up early and drove up to the San Jacinto Mountains near my home. A storm had been in the area and I wanted to go for a hike in the fresh snow, as well as to make some images. Living at low elevation, it felt good to be back in winter for a while. I wanted to hear the sound of snow crunching under my boots. I wanted to breathe deeply and soak up the silence and sheer peace that comes with newly fallen snow. I made some images–some that I’m quite happy with–but the morning would have perfect even if I had not.

As I drove home, I turned on my car radio and slowly started piecing together the events that had happened thousands of miles away in Connecticut. Profound heartbreak is really the only way I can describe the emotions I felt as I listened to the radio, and when I arrived home, I turned on the TV and saw the images. So much devastation, so much innocence needlessly lost.

On Monday morning, I read Guy Tal’s blog post, “Heal Thyself.” His advice on how to heal after this tragedy? Unplug. Go away from the hype, the media, everything, and allow yourself to heal. Today, that’s just what I did. I went to the Mojave Desert and started walking. When I came home, I told myself that although some might consider it cliché or derivative to write about this tragedy, I still feel the need to put words down, so here I am.

As far as days go, today was pretty miserable outside. It was windy and very cold, but I found a lovely and verdant little canyon to hike up. In contrast to the mountains just a while before, it still felt autumn-like in the desert; at least the colors of fall were still around me. Several of the wetter spots I passed through must be hotspots for desert bighorn sheep: droppings were everywhere, and with good reason. Water is hard to come by out here. A little while later, underneath a grove of alders, I found the remains of a desert bighorn. Maybe it fell from the cliff above (not likely) or was killed by a mountain lion. Or, maybe it just found a peaceful place to lay down and die. Either way, I sat quietly with its bones for a little while, enjoying a reprieve from the wind, as well as the solitude.

Desert Bighorn Sheep (Ovis canadensis nelsoni)

I hiked a little further up the canyon, exploring mostly, before turning around and walking back toward my car. For the first time in nearly a week, I felt peaceful knowing that hope is not lost. When I got home, I saw reference to Jimmy Carter’s 1979 speech, in which he refers to the nation’s energy crisis as a, “crisis in confidence.” We are getting over something much more visceral than an energy crisis, but those words–crisis in confidence–echo in my head. Events like this, not just at home but abroad as well, shake our confidence to its core. They shake our confidence that hope still exists, and if we are going to continue on, we must find a way to hang onto that hope.

So, I want to thank Guy for his advice, and I want to repeat it as well: unplug yourself from everything and find a way to reconnect with the good in the world.

Desert Bouquet

Posted in inspiration, Personal | 16 Responses »
Tags: Joshua Tree, landscape photography, sense of place

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

On being busy and the creative life

Saturday, November 17th, 2012

It is funny how life can get away from you sometimes. For the past few weeks I’ve been so busy I have not have much time to write and even less time to pick up my camera to make new images. Over the last few nights, we’ve had some amazing sunsets here in southern California, as well as some very welcome winter weather; combined, this has all made me miss my camera and the outdoors so much more. So, a few days ago, when I realized I had an entire day for a hike, I took advantage of it.

A recent storm had given the mountains and foothills a slight dusting of snow; I liked the juxtaposition between the desert ecosystem (one we usually consider to be ‘hot’) and the coldness of the snow. The canyon I chose to hike up felt frigid, with several hours remaining before the sun would find its granite walls. It was nice to feel the cold air on my skin as I moved up the canyon; after what felt like a scorching summer, I welcomed the chill.

Winter in the desert, November 2012

As the day progressed, the long light of fall gave a lovely feeling to the day: autumnal perfection. Although the snow is sure to melt without another storm, it hung gracefully in the shadows while the sun warmed my bones. I couldn’t have written a more perfect day if I had tried; it was exactly what my soul and mind needed.

| |, November 2012

During my hike, my thought process centered on art, photography, and creativity. I had brought my camera with me, and I tried making some images; some succeeded. I went hiking with the intent of getting a good workout and enjoying some time outside, photography was admittedly secondary. I can’t help but feel, however, that natural pattern, light, and beauty are all around us–art is all around us. There is a lot of discussion over exactly what art is. . As landscape photographers, we spend a lot of time (and money) traveling to the “best” locations at the best times of year to make beautiful images…then we try sticking a label on it (and worry about what others think). I wonder if, we are limited only by our ability to see the art that is all around us?

A ponderosa pine tree standing in a fresh dusting of snow

Last rays, November 2012

We are all on a personal journey to create art. How do you go about that? How would you tell someone to embark on their own journey? Brooks Jensen recently gave some of the best advice for creating moving art here; this is the strongest statement I’ve seen on the subject:

Produce your work to the very best of your ability. Send it out into the world. Listen to feedback, but measure it against your instincts. Learn from the feedback, but don’t supplicate yourself to it. Produce more work to the best of your ability. Be honest with yourself. Strive for deeper understanding and expression with all you’ve got. Give your work and yourself time to mature. Finish things so you can let go and move on. As has been so often said, even a fool who persists may eventually become wise. Then produce more work and plunge deeper into the process of awareness and expression. Soon, you will no longer care about the terms used to describe your work — snapshot or “Fine Art.” Do not confuse the map with the territory.

I think, ultimately, the landscape photographer has a choice: to create images that simply are what they are, or to let the “reptilian scales” be peeled from their eyes and truly see what is around them, perhaps in the process creating images that truly move the viewer.

Posted in california, locations | 6 Responses »
Tags: california, fall color, landscape photography, sense of place, snowfall, winter

New ebook announcement

Thursday, September 27th, 2012

Things have been fairly slow here on my blog lately. That’s partly due to the fact that I’ve been working on finalizing a project that has taken up most of this year. Along with my two co-authors–Ann Whittaker and PJ Johnson–I am happy to announce our first e-book: An Honest Silence.

An Honest Silence combines photography and a series of short essays to celebrate wilderness. If you’ve been reading my blog, you are familiar with my writing style; PJ explores the interrelationships between art and science, as well as his experiences along the Boundary Waters canoe area in Minnesota; and Ann takes a very eloquent and poetic approach to honor her beloved redrock wilderness of the Colorado Plateau. We are also very fortunate to have had David Leland Hyde (of Landscape Photography Blogger) write a thoughtful foreword to the book.

More and more photographers are offering books as an ebook format; this format, while getting away from a traditional book, is significantly more affordable. We are offering An Honest Silence for $5 as a PDF download; it will be available on October 12 and a portion of the sales will go directly to the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance.

Please join us in celebrating wilderness.

Posted in exposure, General, Honest Silence | 4 Responses »
Tags: ebook, inspiration, landscape photography, sense of place, wallace stegner

Ethics, Photography, and Archaeology

Monday, June 4th, 2012

Almost two years ago, Kah Kit Yoong published two blog posts on, “Art Appreciation in the Digital Age,” and, “Photographing Art and Museums,” that have been poignant enough to stick in my mind all this time for a couple of reasons. First of all, he raises big picture questions in my mind like, “Why are we so drawn to art?” or “Why do photographers feel driven to make art from art?” However, I find it curious that even though a dusty canyon in the Southwest might feel like it’s a world away from the Louvre or the Met, in some ways it is closer than we think.

Photography of Native American rock art and architecture seems to be a niche that landscape photographers fill somewhat naturally. Perhaps it is because we are already in the field, and taking a photograph of a pictograph panel or ancient dwelling adds a nice element to the image. Or, maybe the reason is deeper. Maybe we can relate to the original artist’s feeling of connectedness to the landscape, allowing our imaginations to wander, trying to imagine what this canyon might have looked like 800 or 1,000 years ago.

House On Fire

I have written before about my early years in the outdoors, backpacking in the Cedar Mesa area, which is one of the most archaeologically-rich areas in the world. A Bureau of Land Management archaeologist once told me that there is an estimated 2,000 sites per square mile on Cedar Mesa and in the Grand Gulch drainage in southeastern Utah. Granted, my idea of a “site” is quite different from an archaeologist’s but there is no arguing that is an impressive number. When I was young I enjoyed pretending that I was the first person to discover these sites since the original tenants left. Today, I enjoy visiting because there is a peacefulness in these places; I feel humbled and placed when I visit them. My youthfulness still lives on, however, as I enjoy the “treasure hunt” involved with looking for a particular rock art panel or ruin.

Regardless of why they are photographed, there are some archaeological sites in the Southwest that are becoming part of the landscape photographer’s repertoire, such as the “House on Fire” ruin in southeastern Utah. If you don’t know it by name, you have surely seen an image of it (you have now, anyway). And for good reason–it’s very photogenic. Others are less well known, but with some research, can be found online or in guidebooks fairly easily. Still other sites are–quite honestly–damned hard to find.

Pictograph on the San Rafael Swell in southern Utah

Ghostly Figures

As the interest in these places continues to grow, it brings up some ethical questions, especially regarding those locations that are difficult to find. For instance, how much information should a photographer share about the location of a site (see here and here for great discussions on this subject)? Much unlike the Mona Lisa, these works of art do not have the protections that would keep vandals, or even an ignorant visitor capable of unintentional damage, out.

Would we want those protections in place?

Being able to photograph and experience these sites untethered is one of the joys of visiting them. Even if a simple cord or chain were to form an artificial boundary, there is no one preventing a breach of that line. In some ways, it seems that keeping quiet about specific locations of these sites is the best way to protect them.

In the former of the two blog posts mentioned at the beginning of this post, Kah Kit Yoong says, “Now I’m aware that tourists are just enjoying themselves and it’s not hurting anyone. Nevertheless it is annoying to see masterpieces relegated to props for snapshots.” I agree. While part of me feels it’s important to appreciate our cultural history, the rest of me hates to see a ruin go unappreciated, or be part of a photographer’s Southwestern image harvest, with no real knowledge of the site.

I hope this doesn’t read like an elitist rant about visiting archaeological sites; I am by no means pulling the ladder up behind me saying that no one else can “come play” in these places. What I am suggesting is that photographers think about the value of an archaeological site to themselves, to science, as well as to the descendants of the people who once lived there. On my website, I purposely don’t give much information on the sites I have images of, but am always happy to talk one-on-one with other interested people about these places.

Whether you’re in the Louvre, the Musee Rodin, or the Colorado Plateau, works of art surround you. Do you think they all deserve the same respect and protection? Why do you think we enjoy visiting these places so much?

Posted in ethics, locations, rants, utah | 12 Responses »
Tags: Anasazi, ancestral puebloan, archaeology, conservation, sense of place

Alpenglow Images

Landscape and Nature Photography by Greg Russell