Since then, I’ve returned to Zion several times; I’ve hiked the entire length of the Narrows, the classic Virgin River hike, and I’ve been through many of the technical slot canyons in the park.  I feel privileged to have seen parts of the park that <1% of its visitors get to experience.  Most recently, I’ve returned to Zion with my own family, sharing its serenity and sanctuary with them.

Like all heavily photographed areas, Zion has its own repertoire of icons: the Towers of the Virgin, the Narrows, Court of the Patriarchs, the Subway.  Moving past these locations, though, I have consistently found it very difficult to make a compelling image in the midst of the breathtaking beauty.  I should qualify that statement: I find it difficult to make an image that makes me stop and say, “Wow, that’s awesome!”

On our most recent trip to the park, I focused on the intimate details.  Autumn is in its final throes in Zion Canyon right now, with most of the cottonwoods and maples half-naked, ready for their hibernation.  Three weeks ago, this place was crawling with photographers, I’m sure, now these trees have been all but forgotten about.  Still, I find a certain beauty in these vestiges of fall.

Autumn's final vestiges, November 2011

Hanging on, November 2011

Early morning is my favorite time to be in Zion Canyon; deer are peacefully grazing, turkey are out, and the chill is still in the air because the sun hasn’t penetrated the depths of the canyon yet.  There’s often a breeze blowing, almost as if the canyon is starting fresh every day.  As the cliffs begin to greet the sun, the light reflects on to the river, giving it a wonderful tonality.

Cascade, November 2011

I welcomed Zion into my heart and mind years ago.  The fight I have with the place is that I haven’t–until recently–let it drive my creativity.  I’ve been trying to force the park to reveal itself to me in ways it isn’t ready to do.  Letting go of the notions I held on to let me see in a different way, making images I never expected to make, but am happy with.   I will continue making my yearly pilgrimages to the park; I look forward to seeing how the canyon reveals itself to me next time…and I’m grateful my son is years away from that stage of not wanting to be seen with me.  :)

I’ve returned to this area of southeastern Utah for my first significant visit in nearly 15 years.  Growing up, my Dad and I spent many hours backpacking the wild canyons of Cedar Mesa, and for the last several years, I’ve longed to come back for a visit.  My motivations for returning–I suppose–are many.  I’ve returned to slow down, hoping to escape the nonstop movement in southern California.  Similarly, I have returned to revisit my past; as an adolescent, I have suddenly realized that I took many of my early wilderness experiences for granted.  Photographic motivations also played a role–I want images of these places that define me.

Ancestral Puebloan Dwelling, August 2011

I think, ultimately, I’ve returned because this is my epicenter: this is the place I fell in love with the Colorado Plateau.  Light-colored Cedar Mesa sandstone with its bold desert varnish seemed to always be a part of my early wilderness experiences.  Its is part of me–occasionally when I accidentally cut myself, I look closely at the blood, perhaps hoping its become the color of the Organ Rock or Moenkopi shales that top the Cedar Mesa formation.  I’ve come back to pay reverence to the natural and cultural history of this landscape.

Paul Woodruff describes reverence as a virtue; the more reverence you have, the greater your capacity to feel respect, awe, shame.  As a visitor to the canyons of Cedar Mesa, all of these emotions are evoked inside of me.  I feel a deep respect for the Ancestral Puebloan people who settled here, multiple times, to make a living.  Although the landscape was likely different centuries ago, it was still a hot, dry place, but they made a living, farming the verdant canyons and carving out a life on the cliffs.  The work that went into these structures is tangible–look closely and you can see ancient finger and palm prints in the dried mud of their walls.  The forces that shaped this labyrinth of canyons are nothing less than awe-inspring.

Yes, one even can feel shame here, although it isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  I am ashamed I didn’t appreciate my early visits more, that I am just now realizing the full impact of the history available to us up on this small mesa in lovely, remote southeastern Utah.  Indeed, for the individual willing to open his heart and mind (and sometimes to close his mouth), these canyons can speak to you.

Often that makes all the difference in the world.

If you’re a regular reader of my blog, you’ll know that I’ve taken a great interest in the idea of “sense of place” over the last year.  While I’m still fleshing out much of what this notion means to me, knowing where I am (and who I am) has had a positive impact on my creativity and photography.

This is short notice, but I’ll be talking about sense of place and photography at the Lancaster Photography Association’s monthly meeting this coming Tuesday, August 16 (6pm at the Antelope Valley Senior Center).  The LPA always welcomes guests at their meetings–if you’re in the area, it would be great if you could come by.

So, check out Gary’s blog (always worth a regular read–he posts some great images and thoughts), and come to the Antelope Valley next Tuesday.

You can look at the PDF of my Powerpoint slides from the talk by clicking here.

Shifting viewpoints, July 2011

I am slightly groggy still as I arrive at the viewpoint I scouted the night before.  The sun isn’t up yet, but will begin to break the landscape very soon.  I sit on a rock, surveying the sky–no clouds.  The rain had left me hopeful of a dramatic sunrise.  No luck today.  The distant cliffs begin to light up, bright sunlight working its way down the face, highlighting the subtlety in the elegant Wingate sandstone.   Sitting there, I smile…I’m home.

Describing the Colorado Plateau has always been incredibly difficult for me.  I think this is largely because we all know of its immediate beauty, but the subdued details only reveal themselves with time, after you’ve developed a relationship with the place.  Putting the place you love into words for someone who has never been there (or has been there) is not easy, whether its redrock wilderness, the Oregon coast, the brooks of Massachusetts, or the San Juan Mountains in Colorado.  The only way to experience it is to coat yourself in dust, sit there, and ponder the land.

The clarity and peace of mind that come out of a relationship with the land is the very reason we need wilderness.  Looking around, we see the world changing, at a rapid pace.  It dismays me but the fight to save wilderness will begin soon, if not in our generation, certainly in our children’s.  Not only must we fight to ensure proper the legislation is in place now, we must also foster this sense of place and belonging in our kids.  Thus, to quote Edward Abbey:

It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here.

So get out there and ramble out yonder, and make every moment count.

Capitol Reef sunrise, July 2011

Indeed, its true.  It feels like just yesterday, we were celebrating the arrival of a new year, now, many of us are baking in summer heat, enjoying the cool climate of the high country.  Time does fly, but its been an incredibly productive year so far, not only photographically, but professionally; in addition, my year has been incredibly enlightening on a personal level too.

I’ve been taking the time over the last few days to review some of my images from the year so far.  There’s no real purpose for this, nostalgia I suppose.  However, in selecting my July image of the month, I decided to re-introduce an image that’s already been featured on my blog.  I know it won’t appeal to everyone, but I keep coming back to it as one that’s very special.  Its definitely one of my personal favorites.

Subtle Beauty, March 2011

As I said previously, the Paria is one of those rivers that isn’t for everyone, and its surely not as sought after as the Green, Colorado or Dirty Devil, but its gorgeous, and I think the simple beauty of it is what moves me so much.  Like so many of you, I feel safe and comforted when I’m in a canyon, and the way the walls of the Paria sweep overhead, sheltering the hiker, only adds to the effect.  Katie Lee describes a friend’s reaction to Navajo Sandstone (1):

I have licked sandstone so many times, just gotten on hands and knees and passed my lips right over the surface, either the smooth on narrow canyon walls, or the sandy-rough up on top.  And Navajo Sandstone…that rock has gotten inside of me…whales and thighs and water and moons.  MY GOD, ITS SHAPES!!!  SHOULD WE EVEN BE ALLOWED TO SEE SUCH THINGS?  I started using the word sensual all over the place.

Without getting too risqué (this is a family-friendly blog after all), I’ll agree with the author of that passage.  The redrock wilderness of the southwest moves people in special ways, and I think that’s why this image moves me so.  I hope you enjoy it too!

(1) In her essay, Sandstone Seduction.

A few weeks ago, we were driving to the mountains to attend a party my wife’s boss was throwing.  Due to a couple of wrong turns on the way up there, I noticed more and more Pacific Dogwoods (Cornus nuttallii) that were in full bloom.  I’m well aware of the huge flux of photographers into Yosemite Valley and Sequoia National Park for the spring Dogwood bloom, but I had no idea they bloomed so close to my home.

The next morning, a friend and I headed back to the mountains to spend some time with these lovely flowers.

In Bloom, May 2011

Also, I wanted to mention that I’ve put up a gallery of some of my images from the San Bernardino Mountains (click the image, or here).  It really is a pleasing mountain range that continues to surprise me.

On the mountain above Hardburley we stood and looked at the first working strip mine I ever saw.  It had never occurred to me that people could destroy land with an indifference that perfectly matched the capability of their technology.  The big machines were following the seam of coal around the mountain, leaving a high vertical wall like an open sore on one side and on the other the “overburden” of earth and rock thrown regardlessly down upon the forest and streams below.

This past weekend, and into today–Valentine’s Day–a small group of Kentuckians, including Wendell Berry, are sleeping at the Governor’s office of that state to protest the practice of mountaintop coal mining (which is different in practice, but not destruction, from the strip mining Berry describes above; link here).  Their protest leads up to “i Love Mountains” Day, which is meant to bring awareness to this practice.

Earlier yesterday evening I was trying to come up with a post to help commemorate Valentine’s Day.  Despite my better efforts, inspiration did not come (not for lack of material, mind you).  As I read about i Love Mountains Day, inspiration struck: I have a Valentine’s Day post!  So, what does mountaintop coal mining in the Appalachian Mountains have to do with me, and what could it possibly have to do with Valentine’s Day?

You see, even here in southern California, some of my electricity is supplied by coal that was mined in this fashion.  I bet some of yours is too (click here to find out).  When I was in Wyoming in December, I was able to see first-hand some areas of strip mining taking place near the town of Gillette; Berry’s description of the process is fitting.  All of this serves as a perfect reminder of how we are all interconnected, sometimes in the most nonintuitive of ways.  Often, this interconnectedness is pushed to the back of our minds, whether by accident, or for convenience’s sake.

I’m somewhat hesitant to post this as a one-sided, know-it-all, environmental rant for a couple of reasons.  First, I can’t claim to be an expert on any type of coal mining, and although it hurts my heart to think about the earth being destroyed in such a way, I’m also a hypocrite.  I happily use the electricity generated from that coal (I’m using it to write this blog post right now).  Should I (we?) look for alternative sources of energy for our homes or communities?  Absolutely.  Again, that’s one of those things that often gets neatly swept under the rug when we’re too busy to deal with it.

Second, many of the people mining in Kentucky and elsewhere probably have a connection to the land rooted in many generations who have done just what they’re doing now.  If, in fact, this practice is stopped, someone (many someones probably) is going to face the challenge of feeding his family.  Is that a reason to continue with the status quo, with no opportunity or effort to find an alternative?  Of course not.  But it illustrates how few, if any, environmental issues are one-sided; they’re often multifaceted with no clear-cut solution.

Although I don’t have a solution, or even a suggestion for one, two points are clear to me.  The first is that every action we take has far-reaching effects, often beyond our awareness.  The second is that if we’re going to sustain of a quality of life for our future generations we absolutely must be cognizant of the ramifications of our actions.

Happy Valentine’s Day to you and yours.  Despite my doom and gloom today, there’s much to be happy about!  Make sure you tell your favorite mountain you love it today.

Tuolumne Meadows, August 2009

]]> http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/2011/02/i-love-mountains/feed/ 2 http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/2011/01/those-who-passed-before-me/ http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/2011/01/those-who-passed-before-me/#comments Mon, 24 Jan 2011 22:50:20 +0000 Alpenglow Images http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/?p=765 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.

Petroglyph Diptych, January 2011

tiptoeing the tightrope between modesty and shameless self-aggrandizing.

Yup.  That about sums it up.  Over the last few days, I’ve been working on a rewrite of my own bio and have felt like I’ve been walking a tenuous line the entire time.  My biggest goal was to make myself sound real, that the images I make and the places I visit are important to me.  I owe many thanks to my wife and friends (including David Leland Hyde) for reading drafts and offering suggestions for improvement; I hope you read the finished product by clicking on the ‘About’ tab at the top of this page, or by visiting the ‘About‘ page on my main website.

Why did I have a sudden desire to write my own bio?  There are a couple of reasons.  I wrote my original bio very early in my photographic career, and while I didn’t write what I thought people would want to read, I also didn’t have a clear vision for my work.  Now, several years have passed, and I’ve evolved.  My photographic focus is becoming somewhat narrower–I want to make images of scenes that give me a sense of belonging to the environment.  The new bio reflects that desire.

My second reason to rewrite now sprouted from my most recent trip to the Southwest.  Being back in a small town, close to slickrock and the fantastic sunrises and sunsets that help characterize the area really crystallized the need to realign my life–to simplify and focus.  I doubt any big changes will happen in my life soon, but I’m happy to have a “bigger picture” goal in mind.

Luminous, January 2011

What obstacles have you run into while writing your bio, or while trying to describe your vision?  How have you overcome those obstacles, and where have you found inspiration?

]]> http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/2011/01/writing-an-artists-bio/feed/ 13 http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/2010/12/finding-solace/ http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/2010/12/finding-solace/#comments Tue, 21 Dec 2010 21:16:52 +0000 Alpenglow Images http://www.alpenglowimagesphotography.com/blog/?p=728 “We Americans are great on fillers, as if what we have, what we are, is not enough. We have a cultural tendency toward denial, but, being affluent we strangle ourselves with what we can buy. We only have to look at the houses we built to see how we build against space, the way we drink against pain and loneliness. We fill up space as if it were a pie shell, with things whose opacity further obstructs our ability to see what is already there…”

–Gretel Ehrlich, The Solace of Open Spaces

It wasn’t until I left Wyoming to live in southern California that I read these words by Gretel Ehrlich.  Although there are some beautiful open spaces left in southern California, and some communities have progressive open space initiatives, you’re still surrounded by ~5 million people.  Still, they provide an escape, if only for a few hours, from everyday life in southern California.  However, having returned to central Wyoming for a visit earlier this week, I now realize just how much Ehrlich’s words resonate with me.

Standing on the prairie north of Cheyenne with the cold December wind blowing in my face, I knew I could look for miles across the bunchgrass, knowing I was one of very few people for almost 100 miles.  I took a deep breath and smiled.  Yes, perhaps we do build against space (are we afraid of what we might find if we explore that space?), but sometimes that space brings a very special kind of solace.

Happy Holidays to you and yours.  Thank you for reading and participating on my blog this year; it really does mean a lot to me, and I appreciate it more than you know.  I’ve got a few blog posts planned for the rest of this year, but am looking forward to a productive and creative 2011!

Solace, December 2010

A critic would criticize this image for having nothing interesting in the foreground.  But, that’s sort of the point.  :)