utah

...now browsing by tag

 
 

Photo of the Month–September

Thursday, September 1st, 2011

With September arriving, and–in the United States–Labor Day weekend marking the unofficial end of summer, it seems like people are beginning to turn their attention to the arrival of autumn.

If you’ve been in the high country, you’ve probably already felt the first hints of fall: crisp evenings, the smell of dry leaves, and the slow disappearance of monsoons are all things that–for me–mark the beginning of my favorite season.  Some of my fondest memories in the mountains are at this time of year.  And, while fall hasn’t quite come to the deserts and canyons yet, it will.  There’s nothing quite like laying out on a sun-warmed slab of sandstone on a brisk fall day.  Autumn really is the best time to be in the redrock wilderness.

This month’s image celebrates the transition from summer to fall.  A golden cottonwood leaf rests on clay soil that’s drying after a summer rainstorm.

Peaceful scene in Capitol Reef National Park

Transitional, August 2011

They say the sense of smell is mostly closely tied to memory.  For me, the smells of autumn are what mark its beginning.  How are your senses stimulated when the seasons change?

The need for wilderness

Wednesday, August 10th, 2011

Its my fourth morning waking up in the desert.  Red dirt fills my pores, and has combined with sweat to form a sort of “desert varnish” over most of my body–a strangely welcome feeling that instantly evokes memories of summer on the Colorado Plateau.   I climb out of my sleeping bag, fetch my tripod and camera and walk up the ridge.  Below me, a deer moves through the willows, startled no doubt by my heavy feet.  Moving further up the ridge and out of the shaded valley, the air warms, but last night’s rain has left the smells of dirt and sage heavy in the air.

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.

Sunrise on a ridge in Capitol Reef National Park, Utah

Capitol Reef sunrise, July 2011

But I’m Not Dead Yet

Tuesday, July 12th, 2011

Over the last few weeks, family trips, a busy work schedule, and various home improvements have kept me extremely busy.  Of course this would drive any photographer/blogger crazy because I really enjoy writing, and I do have some new images to share.  I’ll be posting more in the latter half of July, but in the meantime I do want to put up some links to new images.

A few weeks ago, I shared an image from a small drainage near the northern border of Kolob Canyon, in Zion National Park.  Kanarra Creek, near the small community of Kanarraville, is such a great place, and despite its small size, it rivals the more popular Virgin Narrows in beauty.  In addition, south of Zion Canyon is a virtually untracked wilderness–the Smithsonian Butte National Scenic Backway.  Both of these locations, although “known” seem to be virtually “unknown.”  However, to celebrate the entire area, and perhaps to emphasize that there is indeed more to photograph that just Zion itself.  You can see my images of the Greater Zion Region here.

The Smithsonian Butte, south of Zion Canyon

Smithsonian Butte, June 2011

Over the Fourth of July, we made a trip out to the Four Corners Region to visit my parents in northwestern New Mexico.  While there, I got to re-visit the Bisti Badlands Wilderness, south of Farmington, New Mexico.  Although I grew up less than an hour’s drive from this amazing moonscape, I have to admit that I never fully appreciated it as a 17 year old (in fact, if I remember correctly, it was downright torture every time I was “forced” on a hike by my dad!).  What a difference several years makes!  I was sad to get only one morning in the Bisti, but you can view the images here.  Finally, in addition to visiting the Bisti, I was able to visit several other archaeological sites in the San Juan Basin; most of these sites were occupied by early Navajo inhabitants in the early-mid 1700s.  While this gallery will grow with time, you can see a couple of images here.

A Navajo pictograph from the San Juan Basin of northern New Mexico

Warrior Pose, July 2011

I hope you enjoy the images, and don’t give up on me…I’m not dead yet!  More to come soon!

New Mexico Images (Bisti Badlands & the San Juan Basin)

Greater Zion Region Images

Persistence

Friday, June 24th, 2011

The ability of nature to persist and overcome challenges is something that continues to amaze me.  I remember, when I lived in Wyoming, driving to the Medicine Bow Mountains for the first time, and seeing the wind-battered pines that have been successful despite decades of cold temperatures, howling gales, and heavy snowfall.  Many of them seemed to grow (albeit somewhat crookedly) out of solid granite.  We read all the time about organisms that persist in some of the world’s most hostile environments (see here and here).

I just returned from a fantastic trip to southwestern Utah.  High on the wall of a slot canyon, I noticed these trees–a maple and a piñon pine–clinging to the rock, about 60′ in the air.  Surely, these trees have not had an easy life.  While they probably never see flood water, they must deal with howling winds, freezing temperatures, and despite the creek beneath them, probably a paucity of water.  Yet, they survive.

Redrock walls of Kanarra Creek, near Kanarraville, Utah

Persistence, June 2011

This sort of persistence becomes an instructive metaphor for photography, too.  Although it may not be the easiest way to survive, these trees hang on and dig in with their roots, making a life for themselves.  In much the same way, it is all too easy for a photographer to get caught up in making images of scenes that have been photographed many times before.  The real art comes from years of persistence, when the image-makers dig deep into themselves, ask the tough questions about inspiration and creativity, and follow their heart.  After all, your art should be about you.  In much the same way as these trees have created art, the photographer does so…with a little persistence.

 

Shelter from the Storm

Thursday, April 21st, 2011

All rocks are not created equally; not only do they vary in surface characteristics like color and shape, they also vary in properties that aren’t immediately visible.  Rocks erode at different rates, and the elements that make them up oxidize differently, giving rock formations different colors as time passes.  These characteristics are what gives the Colorado Plateau its uniqueness–there really is no other biome on earth quite like it.

Any visitor to the southwest should become quickly acquainted with hoodoos–rock spires usually found protruding from a drainage or badlands.  Hoodoos are typically formed when a rock or boulder from a newer (therefore stratagraphically higher) layer of sandstone falls onto an older layer.  The boulder erodes more slowly, but it also protects the rock underneath it from eroding, leaving the characteristic spire with the cap rock on top of it–in this way the cap rock almost shelters the underlying rock from erosion.

On my recent trip to Utah, I made a couple of sunset visits to the Toadstool Hoodoos, located in the extreme southern end of the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.   Like other hoodoos, the Toadstools were formed when boulders from the Dakota Formation fell onto the older rock of the Entrada Formation.  Dakota Sandstone erodes more slowly, leaving vibrantly colored hoodoos in a stunning badlands setting.

(Click on the diptych to view it large.)

Toadstool Hoodoo, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument

Toadstools , March 2011

A large part of the draw of the Colorado Plateau is the interesting geology.  For me, its one thing to marvel over a beautiful formation; its another, more fulfilling, thing to marvel over how it formed.

Rimrock Badlands, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument

Hoodoo Garden, March 2011

The Paria, part III: mud

Friday, April 15th, 2011

In addition to its immense, subtle beauty, another overriding theme of the Paria River is mud.  The river bed has a high clay content, and if you’ve ever been in clay soil when its even a little wet, you know it can be a disaster–its slick, sticky, and vehicles can get stuck in it in a moment.

In the spring, runoff from high elevation prevents some mud (by way of keeping from drying enough to reach that sticky, goopy, phase), but its always a factor.  What I like about clay is that it always forms beautiful patterns as it begins drying out.  This little patch was reflecting the red rock cliffs on the opposite side of the river early in the day.

Beautiful mud formations on the Paria River, Utah

Mud & Reflections, March 2011

I also ended up finding a few areas of quicksand, involuntarily, on my hike in the Paria.  I felt the area with my hiking pole, and feeling solid, I stepped, only to be swallowed up to my thigh almost instantly.  Fortunately, it was easy to pull myself out.  People who haven’t dealt with it have a misconception about quicksand.  It can’t really suck you into oblivion like childhood cartoons and TV shows lead you to believe.  But, as Ed Abbey writes,

Ordinarily it is possible for a man to walk across quicksand, if he keeps moving. But if he stops, funny things begin to happen. The surface of the quicksand, which may look as firm as the wet sand on an ocean beach, begins to liquefy beneath his feet. He finds himself sinking slowly into a jelly-like substance, soft and quivering, which clasps itself around his ankles with the suction power of any vicsous fluid. Pulling out one foot, the other foot necessarily goes down deeper, and if a man waits too long, or cannot reach something solid beyond the quicksand, he may soon find himself trapped. … Unless a man is extremely talented, he cannot work himself [into the quicksand] more than waist-deep. The quicksand will not pull him down. But it will not let him go either. Therefore the conclusion is that while quicksand cannot drown its captive, it could possibly starve him to death. Whatever finally happens, the immediate effects are always interesting.

Finally, the most beautiful effects, in my opinion, happen when the mud begins drying.  Because clay expands so much when wet, it cracks in beautiful, wonderfully stochastic patterns.  You can find little pockets of dried mud all along the bases of the sandstone walls.

Cracked Mud, Paria River, Utah

Sandstone and Mud, March 2011

Mud is a major component of the landscape in the Paria, as well as throughout any ephemeral drainage in the southwest.  While it can be viewed as a nonphotogenic nuisance, sometimes, its helpful to look at it in a new light.

The Paria, part II: immensity

Tuesday, April 12th, 2011

In my last post, I talked about the subtle beauty along the Paria River in southern Utah.  It doesn’t take one long to realize just how big this place is too.  You begin hiking in the river bed, but at this point the canyon is broad, maybe half a mile across.  However, as you hike downstream, the walls narrow and swell upward, leaving you in a canyon of literally inescapable beauty.

Near the confluence of the Paria River and Buckskin Gulch, you reach Sliderock Arch.

Sliderock arch, Paria River, utah

Sliderock Arch I, March 2011

Sliderock is hardly an arch in the way we normally think about an arch.  Rather than being eroded by wind and water, Sliderock Arch was formed when a large piece of sandstone fell from the wall above, hit the river bed, and leaned up against the wall.  Let me give you a sense of scale.  The opening of the arch, on the left, is about 20′ × 20′.  The righthand “arm” of the arch is about 40′ wide.  This is one big piece of rock.

Although the Paria Narrows may not be as narrow as other canyons in the southwest, they rival any canyon in immensity.

 

The Paria, part I: subtlety

Friday, April 8th, 2011

In the spirit of David Hyde’s travelogues (read the most recent here), I’ll present my recent trip to southern Utah in three parts.  However, rather than document the trip, I’ll write about three themes that came to mind as I hiked, and photographed.

Although I visited other locations (like Valley of Fire State Park), the primary purpose of my recent trip was to hike a portion of the Paria River, between the White House trailhead, and its confluence with Buckskin Gulch.  I think the Paria was one of those rivers I was meant to spend time with at some point in my life.  As a teenager, I remember reading about some of the “classic” rivers of the southwest: the Dirty Devil, the Escalante, and–of course–the Paria.  Unlike most of my peers at the time, I found a certain draw in that lovely, beautiful, muddy water.  The hike all the way to Lee’s Ferry, Arizona is considered to be one of the finest backpacking trips in the region.

Last week, I spent a day in the canyon, which starts out broadly, and narrows down after about 4 miles.  One thing I immediately noticed about the Paria is that its gorgeous–beautiful–but that beauty isn’t as in-your-face as other locations in the Southwest, like Zion, or the Wave.  This subtle beauty becomes apparent as you sit watching sandstone walls and erosions as the light passes, playing on it.  Or, as you contemplate the effects of thousands of years of wind and water on the stone.

The Windows on the Paria River, Utah
Windows into the past, March 2011

Once you enter the Paria narrows, the canyon turns from a broad, meandering line to a series of twists and turns.  However, the overhanging sandstone walls to give occasional views of the “outside.”  Again, subtle beauty is key.

The Paria River, in southern Utah
Subtle Beauty, March 2011

Grand, subtle, nuances prevail in the Paria River canyon.  What areas do you find these qualities in?

Ephemeral

Tuesday, March 22nd, 2011

In the desert, rock is ubiquitous, and seemingly everlasting.  Wind and water, however–the forces that carve rock–are not so permanent in the desert.  Water especially is ephemeral, coming in bursts throughout the year.  Winter’s snowmelt feeds the rivers, but many are reduced to a small flow by summer.  During summer, thunderstorms feed canyons, washes and rivers–anything that drains a watershed–in violent bursts.  The spring water works to carve the landscape and sustains life; summer flash floods finish the job.  Finally, any remaining water freezes during winter and expands in cracks, working to part rocks.

I made this image in Buckskin Gulch in southern Utah in January.  Buckskin, combined with the Paria River, makes for an accessible backpacking trip through one of the nicest slot canyons in the southwest.  I noticed the brown “bath tub ring” in my RAW images, and thought there was something going on with my lens, but then I realized that’s a high water line, probably from years of flash flooding.  For scale, its about 6 feet off the ground.

 

Buckskin Gulch in the Paria River Wilderness, Utah
Buckskin Gulch, January 2011

Incidentally, this is my 200th blog post here at Alpenglow Images.  I’m grateful for several things.  First, I’m grateful for the participation, both from people who comment and those who don’t.  Thank you for commenting, and for sharing your ideas.  To that end, I’m also grateful for your inspiration, because you all have been with me on a continuing journey to define my vision in photography.  Finally, I’m just plain happy this blog hasn’t been ephemeral.  Thank you again for a great 200 first posts.

The Value of Being Wrong

Friday, March 11th, 2011

How do you find your landscape photography locations?  We’re in an age where many of us own at least one guidebook to an area; indeed, there are a lot of photography location guidebooks out there, and some of them are excellently written.

A few of you have heard my story about “Bob,” another photographer I met in Joshua Tree National Park one afternoon a couple of years ago.  I was photographing some boulders late in the day, and Bob came up, asking if he could shoot around me.  No problem.  I watched him pull a few folded up sheets out of his pocket–they were images he’d printed off the internet of other photographers’ images from the area.  He went through each one of them systematically, moving his tripod to exactly copy each photograph.  I confirmed with him that this is what he was doing.

Contrast Bob with who I call the “Wanderer”.  The Wanderer explores areas that may not necessarily be famous, but when done well, can come up with unique compositions and subtle beauty just about anywhere.  Bob and the Wanderer are the two extremes of a continuum.

Most of us, I think, lie somewhere along this continuum.  Most people are constrained enough by time (i.e. other commitments in life) that they can’t always wander as much as they’d like.  Personally, I do rely on guidebooks and word of mouth to help guide me to pretty locations, but once I’m in the area, I very often will wander, looking for unique compositions.  Fortunately, most of these locations are really conducive to letting creativity flow.

Despite relying somewhat on guidebooks, sometimes serendipity can strike in really sly ways.   In January, I followed vague directions to what is supposed to be a charming set of hoodoos in southern Utah.  From the parking area (a cow pasture), the directions I had told me to “walk up the canyon for an additional mile to the hoodoos.”  The problem is that there were two canyons.  Which way to go?

It turns out I chose wrong, and the hoodoos were nowhere to be found, even after more than a mile of walking.  I ended up at the head of a canyon that I would bet only ranchers and cows have been in for a very long time.  However, I was able to find some badlands, and one hoodoo, and I ended up really loving this image–not a bad “consolation prize” at all.

Hoodoo near Church Wells Badlands in southern Utah
Church Wells, January 2011

I guess all of this is a roundabout way of saying that even though its okay to follow directions to beautiful places, don’t be afraid to wander up the wrong canyon now and then.  You might just be delighted with what you find.