To the Batcave (Ghost town of Ruby, Arizona)

Never in my life had I seen so many bats.  And I was not really prepared for the emotions that would accompany that experience.

I was in Ruby, Arizona, a century-old mining town, abandoned for decades, but with a large number of structures still standing, which was why I was here.  I got an introduction to the site, and to the desert, from the caretaker.  I was informed that everything in the desert pokes, pricks, stings, stabs, bites … and if it doesn’t, then it’s hiding something.  The actual list was a whole lot longer, but this is all I could remember.  It was enough, though.  I got the message.

I pitched my tent in a secluded area, under a flowering mesquite tree for a little shade from the hot desert sun.  I had heard that a migratory nursery colony of Mexican freetail bats spent the warmer months in a cave near the mine, and was happy to learn that they were back already, having arrived a week earlier.  And so as dusk approached, I found myself in the company of the caretaker and a middle-aged couple, near the cave, waiting for the bats to appear.

The first bat came out fairly early, flew around, and went back in.  This was a scout, who would signal to the others when it was time.  Which apparently, it was not yet.  So we waited.  And we waited some more.  And all the while, it grew steadily darker as the sun sank further and further below the landscape.

Eventually we started to wonder if they would ever come out.  And it wasn’t until a little time past that point that we detected the first few bats issuing out from the cave.  They were scattered at first, but then strengthening, came out in greater numbers, streaming out of the opening, flowing like a divergent river over our heads and across the landscape towards the last light on the horizon.  There would be a brief pause after one wave, then another surge would stream out.  Most were well overhead, but some flew quite close.  And these were not the little bats I was used to at home; these were much larger, substantial creatures, and they flew with such speed on their determined course.  Their speed, combined with the increased darkness, made it nearly impossible to photograph anything more than black blurs.  They continued streaming out for a full quarter of an hour.

Flying towards the horizon

I returned the next night, this time the lone watcher, and this time pointing my camera away from the cave but towards what little light was left on the horizon.  That worked a little better.

By the third night I decided to leave my cameras at the campsite and just enjoy the experience.   And what an experience it was.  I was alone again, enveloped by the muffled fluttering of thousands upon thousands of beating wings in the growing darkness.  It was a kind of wonderfulness that even now I struggle to find words for.  And so I sat and let it surround me.

I returned to the campsite for a few hours’ sleep, before rising to photograph the landscape under the stars.  Here and there through the night I would catch a hint of unseen wings speeding past me.  And so I found myself still up as twilight cautiously tinged the night’s eastern fringe.  Knowing what this might signal, I moved in the direction of the cave.  Before long I saw the bats returning, flowing overhead, converging on that one point, and then streaming, swooping into the cave as if being sucked in by a giant vacuum.  I stood and watched for some time, marveling at the sight.  Then I turned, made my way to my tent, and zipped myself into the sleeping bag for just a little more sleep.

Good night.

Yes, it certainly had been.

For Want of a Sock (Artist in Residence, Capitol Reef National Park, Utah)

It’s not every night I’m asked to drive as fast as I feel comfortable down a rocky dry wash towing a stalled pickup truck backwards with my rental Jeep Wrangler.  But here I was.

I was here, because I had been photographing the stars above with the valley below that is the Waterpocket Fold, which runs like a giant geologic spine splitting the landscape.  And I was still here, because the old, thick woolen sock which I used to protect the business end of my tripod did not fully accompany me on the hike out.  And here I was alone in the night back at the Jeep, putting my gear away, minus one old, thick woolen sock.

Twelve minutes of twilight - the last image I took before hiking out

The switchbacks, on another night

This was not the first night during my residency that it had gone missing.  But the previous time it had been lost on a trail not far from where I was staying, making it easy for me to tell myself I would go search for it in the morning, and indeed it readily revealed itself in the morning light not far from that trailhead.  This trailhead, though, was an hour and a half from my bed, and in between were several miles of rocky four wheel drive trail, precipitous dirt road switchbacks descending into the valley, and many more miles of bumpy dirt road before I made it back to the security of pavement, and eventually, bed. I would not be returning in the morning.  So I had set out to search for the sock, retracing and re-retracing my steps in my futile search.  And for the want of a sock, I was still here sweeping my flashlight among the trees when my light attracted another.  And I was no longer alone.

He had questions.  Was that my Jeep?  Was I camping or would I be heading out?  Could I give him a jump-start?  It wasn’t until I heard that last one that the first two made sense.  He told me his truck had stalled out nearby in the rocky wash, the one way in, and was now therefore blocking the one way out.  He had been driving all day long with his wife and child, who now were waiting for him somewhere out there in a tent, and the truck had just decided it had had enough.

He had jumper cables.  So, I gave up on the sock and drove the short distance down the dry wash to meet him at his truck.

We attached the cables by the light of my headlights, and tried to jump-start his truck.  And tried again.  And again.  We were unsuccessful.  It was a disappointing silence that followed, a silence that was broken by an idea, an idea that was worth exploring.  He suggested that if I could tow him a short distance, he could try starting the truck by popping the clutch as the rotating wheels got the engine to turn over.  That is, I thought, if he had a rope, and if I could somehow get by him by driving with two wheels up on the bank to get past his truck.  He did, and I found that I could, and that is how I found myself being asked to drive as fast as I felt comfortable down a rocky dry wash, pulling his truck along behind me, backwards.

I positioned the Jeep so that I could get a good running start before hitting any major obstacles.  The plan was that I would first take up the slack in the rope he had strung between the vehicles, and then go for it.  I followed the plan.

I didn’t get far before I heard a sort of “thunk” from the back.  I wasn’t sure what it was, but it hadn’t sounded right, so I stopped.  And when I got out to look, I saw the rope had been shredded as it ripped off his truck, and now lay piled near the Jeep’s bumper where it had recoiled and “thunked” as it smacked into the bumper.  The rope was done for.  I felt another stab of disappointment.  But as I walked toward his truck to find out if there were any other plans, I heard another sound, too.  And that sound was the running engine of his truck.  Success.

His plan now was to collect his family and drive on to civilization somewhere, while the engine was still running.  And after receiving his thanks, I was off. On the drive back, I thought about how much closer to bed I would have been had I not gone looking for that sock.  And I also thought about how much farther from bed he would have been, too.  It was a fair exchange.

But I never did find that sock.

TO GET TO THE PHOTOGRAPHER ON THE OTHER SIDE (Yellow Dog Village, Pennsylvania)

The woven wire fence appeared to have been erected to keep out trespassers.  It ran along the length of road frontage, running from the corner of one abandoned house to another.  As I walked up the overgrown street, I saw more fencing running in between adjacent houses.  It made sense; I was walking past long-empty duplexes that had been built by a mining company a little over a century ago to house their workers and families, given the poor roads and remoteness at that time.  Even now, the area was hidden by rolling fields dotted with grain silos, although a ribbon of modern highway now ran not too far away.

I had been pausing here and there to take photographs of the now-abandoned buildings, looking for those with unusual character.  One had a jagged roofline, where pieces were missing.  Another had a collapsed front porch, but only collapsed over one half of the duplex.  Snow still held on stubbornly in north-facing shady spots.

It was after about the second or third house that I saw the several dozen chickens on the other side of the fence strolling around what was now one giant back yard.  And it was then that I realized the fence’s purpose was directed at not those without, but those within.  The chickens were gathered along the fence, and appeared to be as interested in me as I was in them.  After a short while, I turned to continue on up the street.  And it was then that I realized that one of the chickens following along was outside the fence.  Perhaps there was a hole in the fence somewhere, although I did not readily see any.  A thought flashed through my mind of whether I should try to get the chicken back in the fenced area, followed almost immediately by another thought of what that might look like, itself followed with the realization that some things just aren’t meant to be.  Then again, perhaps a photograph with a chicken by the front steps of that house would be good.  I crossed the street to the house opposite to get the whole house in the frame.  The chicken followed.  Well, I suppose a picture without a chicken might still be almost as interesting.

It wasn’t long before I saw another chicken on my side of the fence.  Then a minute later, there was a third.  I looked into the camera viewfinder, focusing both my attention and the camera’s on the house opposite.  There were a few more chickens over there in front of the house now; perhaps I had a better chance of getting them in the shot.

After taking a couple shots and checking the focus, I stepped back from the camera and realized I had been surrounded.  There were about a dozen chickens milling around, looking here and there, and occasionally pecking at the ground around my tripod.  One even started to peck at my shoe.  By now, any thoughts of trying to get anyone back inside a fence had long since expired.

Don’t even think about it.

I picked up my tripod and walked up the street, following it as it ascended the hill.  I continued as it wound around the last house, where ahead I saw a gate in the fence, a gate that was open.  Well, that would tend to explain the propensity for chickens around the neighborhood.  As I continued on, I saw one smaller and rather showy-looking chicken with long glossy black feathers within the fenced area nonchalantly strolling in the direction of the open gate.  I think I know where that one’s headed, I thought.  And sure enough, out it came.  I continued on to the next street.

I passed by the gate again on my way back.  One chicken who had just exited came running after me as I walked by.  What it was planning to do once it caught up with me, I did not know, and I was pretty sure the chicken didn’t know, either.  I was right.

It was only after the owner arrived that the chickens were finally told they weren’t supposed to be outside the fence, and following a bag of chicken feed, they crossed the road one last time and returned to their home behind the fence.

ODE TO UMBRELLA HAT (Cathedral Spires, Custer State Park, South Dakota)

There it was again.  Well, no denying it, that was definitely thunder.  I had just parked at the trailhead, and now I had an unexpected choice: risk it and go now, or wait and see if it improves?  I elected to wait.  After a long while, the thunder seemed to be getting fainter, and I resumed gathering my gear for the evening hike.  But I took my rain jacket and umbrella hat, just in case.

Some distance into the hike, it started dripping.  Just a few drops, nothing to worry about.  And then just a few more, and then more than just a few.  I stopped, covered my camera backpack with its rain cover, and put on my rain jacket and umbrella hat.

The umbrella hat is just what it sounds like.  It is an umbrella, but instead of a central stalk and handle, it has a thin fabric crown with metal spokes that support the umbrella.  It has a chin strap to keep it from becoming airborne, but even light winds can wrench it off my head and turn it into a parachute straining against my neck.

The rain grew heavier as I trudged onwards and upwards into the hills.  By the time I reached the Cathedral Spires rock formations, there was nothing I could do but try to find shelter between two tall rocks, that while still open above, provided some protection from rain from the sides.  And I stood there, with my umbrella hat wedged between the rock faces, and I as unmoving as the rocks themselves, watching the rain run down the rock face in tiny rivulets, watching it run its muddy course across the sloping land.  And then the hail started.

I could hear the little things bouncing off my umbrella hat.  I could see the little things hitting the ground, bouncing a time or two in short little hops before they rolled to a stop in the accumulating whiteness on the landscape. Yes, it was definitely hail.  And after a while the icy whiteness got so thick it even started to look like snow.

After about half an hour or so, the hail started to taper off.  Gradually, but definitely, the weather was improving.  And finally, with the dripping wetness around me, but no longer above me, I ventured from my chosen crevice and hiked further up into the hills for a better vantage point.

It was close to midnight by the time I started the hike out.  I had missed the trail but guided my way down the forested hillside by the gap in the rocks I had been watching all evening which represented the way out.  As I emerged among the rocks, I gazed up into the night sky and it was then that I saw the raw beauty of the rocky spires jutting skyward, silhouetted against the growing illumination from the rising moon.  And it was then that I decided I could stay a little longer, to capture that raw beauty.  After convincing myself that I had the camera settings right, I found a large, rounded and relatively flat rock a little distance back and laid on it for a half-hour rest while my camera clicked away in the darkness, capturing the stars as they trailed across the heavens.

It is that final scene that I remember.  That, and the little things bouncing off my umbrella hat.  And to this day, when I recall those moments, I sing with reverence an ode to my umbrella hat.

A Simple Gesture (Grand Canyon, Arizona)

Past the edge of civilization

It was a dusty sixty miles and several hours past the edge of civilization down a dusty dirt road notorious for flat tires if one traveled too fast, to a small primitive campground near the canyon’s rim.  I had received a backcountry permit to camp there the year before, in April of 2020, for a destination that was soon closed, and a trip that was soon canceled.  Now, I was finally headed there.

There had been no one at the shuttered ranger station, and when I arrived at the campground, I found it almost empty. Well, that at least explained the vacant ranger station.  The first campsite offered an expansive area with several somewhat secluded spots to pitch a tent.  Deciding I could do no better, I backed up the Jeep and pulled out my tent.

Late that afternoon, I walked down the rough rocky road to the overlook.  There was a middle-aged couple there when I arrived, enjoying the view, and we exchanged pleasantries. They walked here and I walked there, with them eventually settling on a large boulder, where they sat and gazed across the canyon for some time. After a while, they left, leaving me alone at the canyon rim as the sun sank and the moon rose.

I was out at the canyon rim again early the next morning while the stars were still up.  Alone in the darkness, I heard a boulder of unknown size tumble down somewhere on the other side.  I guessed it had only made it part of the way down, as the sounds stopped several seconds later.  It was soon followed by several boulder friends, hesitant at first, then gaining in number.  I was glad I was not on that side, nor at the bottom.

Debating how to share

That evening, there were a few more people at the overlook.  Two were photographers, whom I overheard discussing how they could both equitably share the same coveted spot for a sunset photograph.  I thought about suggesting “Rock Paper Scissors” but decided to let it be, and spent the late afternoon and evening shooting infrared images elsewhere as the light fell across the scattered vegetation.  I already had my sunset shot.

Early the next morning, I made my way up-canyon in the darkness to catch the sunrise, to a spot I expected would be “Rock Paper Scissors”-free.  I was not disappointed.

After that second day, I packed up my tent and headed back out the same dusty road I had taken coming in.  After a while, I stopped on the empty dirt road and assembled a sandwich from the contents of the cooler in the back seat.  As I sat in the driver’s seat eating the sandwich, an approaching motorcycle pulled up alongside me and stopped.  As I turned towards him to wave, I saw his thumbs-up gesture, asking are you OK?  I was, so my wave transformed itself into a returned thumbs-up, and with that, he was off down the road.

We don’t recognize the significance of our bond of humanity when we’re constantly surrounded by each other.  It is only once we’ve removed ourselves to these places of isolation that we realize how precious that bond is that unites us still, no matter how far apart we’ve wandered.

PLANETARIUM FOR ONE (Hanksville Badlands, Utah)

Looking back up at the way down

I had planned to stay only long enough to get some photographs of the arch once the stars came out, and then make my way back along the cliff edge while the way down was still somewhat fresh in my memory.  I had looked back, while there was still twilight, reassuring myself that it would be a simple matter of following along the shelf just over there as it wound around the cliff edge and then finding the points where I had climbed down.  But as I sat there behind the camera, with my back resting against a weathered fold in the the gently-sloping slickrock (that eventually accelerated into steeply-sloping, and then point-of-no-returning, if one wandered too far), I watched the faint band of light that was the rising Milky Way opposite the arch.  As I waited for the Milky Way to rise into position behind the arch, I glanced around.  The way back was now lost in darkness, as was the perilous drop which I knew still lurked far to my right.  I lay back on the slickrock, with eyes to the heavens.  I was surrounded by stars, more than I could ever hope to count, in every direction.  It reminded me of when, as a child, I had visited a planetarium, with stars projected on the dome around me.  Only this time, there was no laser pointer, no narration, and my seat, while having about the same incline, was definitely not as cushioned.  But it still retained some heat from the late summer day, which felt good now in the cooler night air.  And so I lay back, and marveled at the beauty that enveloped me.  It was then that I promised myself that I could skip the sunrise the next morning and sleep in, just so I could stay here longer.

A chance meteor flashed across the sky and was gone.  I  hoped the camera had captured it - its life had been so brief, but it did seem to be in the direction the camera was pointing.  It was not the first meteor I had seen on this trip - I had seen one on another night, but it was outside the camera’s field of view.  While meteors can happen at any time, it is rare to see them outside of the known meteor showers.  I wouldn’t find out until later that yes, it had been captured.

A chance meteor briefly streaks across the sky

There are moments that stay with me - and that was one of them.  The splendor of the heavens, surrounding me, holding me, and just the sheer wonder of it all.

A WINTER’S WALK (Bryce Canyon, Utah)

I don’t usually walk down the middle of the road.  But there was no chance of traffic today, or even this month, for I knew the cars would never find the road now, its form obscured by several feet of snow, and its way revealed only by the slowly winding ribbon of treelessness through the winter forest. The road had long been closed for the winter, and the snow allowed to pile up for those on skis or snowshoes.  I had snowshoes, and I followed where the trees weren’t. 

One foot in front of the other. Then the other foot in front of the one.  My gait was slowed with the snowshoes, as I sank in a little with each step, but not as much as I would have without them.  A light snow was falling, and the only sound was the crunch of the snowshoes on the snow. 

Signs of a parking lot

While the way may have curved slightly left, or right, or not curved at all, it was all the same, trees and snow, snow and trees, with no hint of progress save my lonely tracks behind me, and no hint of company in the untrodden snow ahead of me. 

Eventually, though, the view changed. Up ahead I spied a sign for the buried parking lot, and all of a sudden, I was here.  I soon approached a bus shelter, filled with scalloped snow drifts, marked with last year’s shuttle bus schedule.  Picnic tables, directional signs, all now shrouded in a heavy blanket of snow.  It was somewhat eerie, like coming upon the remains of a lost settlement. 

I brushed off a section of wall at the overlook, and sat surrounded by beauty, bathed in solitude, with nothing but the faint sound of the snow falling all around me. And I sat, and marveled at the sight spread out before me, for me alone. 

After some time, I turned to go. There was still no queue for the shuttle bus, but I already had decided it was a beautiful day for a walk. 

A WELL-TRODDEN TRAIL (Ah-Shi-Sle-Pah Wilderness, New Mexico)

I had seen the hoof prints earlier that day.  I wasn’t sure at first what was attached to the hooves.  Cattle seemed the most likely, but out here, in the wilderness?

I had been exploring, walking among the hoodoos and eroded mounded hills.  But when, off in the distance, I caught sight of a small herd of horses - well, that explained the hoof prints.

The area, as it had eroded down in rills and gullies, and eventually a broad plain, had left behind a series of interconnected, flat-topped hillocks, where one could traverse on what remained from one to another without descending, as if in an elevated maze, and eventually make it to another point farther on, as long as one chose the correct path.  As I now ascended one of these hills for a better view, I came across a trail, worn into place by the passage of many feet going up and across.  That seemed so odd here in the wilderness.  Certainly there were footprints here and there from other visitors, but not in such concentration of singular direction.  As I gazed at the landscape about me, I spied the line of horses down on the plain, steadily approaching.  It was then that I guessed, and confirmed, the source of the trail on which I stood as the lead horse started the climb along that trail.  I had not yet been observed, but I knew that by remaining where I was on the trail, I would be in the way, so I moved off to the side and a little on the backslope of the hill.  The lead horse, now seeing me, hesitated, but then continued after observing my retreat.  As they passed, their ribs showing through their taut sun-bleached hides, I snapped a few pictures, and they went on their way.  I did not try to follow.

On the trail

Much later, as evening twilight steadily faded from the landscape, I found myself again on the horse trail as I made my way back to my tent.  After boiling water for my meal, I set my camp chair up on top of the highest hillock, and ate, surrounded by the gathering dark, and the absolute silence of the now-empty night.

STRAW SUN HAT (Elephant Canyon, Canyonlands National Park, Utah)

On the trail

I watched from my campsite as the straw sun hat approached and passed below me on the canyon floor, and proceeded up into the canyon.  Wonder where she’s going, I thought.  The trail’s the other way.  

It was a nice-enough campsite, well off the trail that crawled down the canyon edge, crossed the sandy floor, and then climbed back out again.  I was well up from the canyon floor, out of reach of flash floods, but those passing on the trail as they reached the canyon rim above were visible to me, and I to them.  Nothing to do but just wave and be waved to, as I rested there in the shade of a scrub tree.

Above the canyon floor, but below the trail above

The sloped canyon wall gently curved away from view of the trail a short distance past my tent, and making my way around on the slope I had located a grouping of trees with various roots and branches that would serve as a privy.  I had now headed to this spot with its purpose in mind, and was just about to make preparations, when I spied the straw sun hat returning.  Obviously that task would have to wait.

I returned to the campsite to wait for the straw sun hat to pass.  But instead of passing, it turned and climbed up the slope towards my campsite.  When the young woman underneath the hat had neared enough for conversation, she paused.  Did I know the way to the trail?  Yes, it is that way.  And with a thank you, she headed off. 

Day had turned to evening, and those hiking in had turned to those hiking out, becoming ever less frequent.  She was one of the last.

After dinner, I hiked a bit farther along the now-deserted trail myself, curious if there was a change in scenery.  Deciding that the best scenery was to be had at my campsite, I returned, and spent another night of solitude under the stars.

Scenery, stars, and solitude

Strangers in the Night (Big Bend National Park, Texas)

When you are alone, in the darkness, it is not the sights, but the sounds that bind you to the landscape, and imprint it on your memory.

I had hiked across the desert landscape in the middle of the night to photograph some rock formations.  And as I was searching for a spot to set up my tripod, I heard something I had never heard before, but unquestioningly knew what it must be.  My head swung around, trying to capture the sound in the beam of light from my headlamp, and there it was:  a rattlesnake, letting me know I was too close for his comfort, and mine.  I backed away, yielding the trail to him, and he passed into the darkness.

I spent some time there alone in the night.  The wind whispered here and there across the lonely desert plain, and I could have sworn there were faint voices out there riding on the wind, although I knew I was completely and utterly alone.  I tensed, but there was no sound of movement, no approaching lights, nothing and no one.  Of course there was no one.  It was the middle of the night.  The nearest road was an hour away.  But still …  the voices had seemed so real.

At times, the wind bore other sounds.  There were plaintive cries from some far-off creature, calling to its own kind, perhaps something feathered, but what, I knew not.

Clouds streak overhead in the darkness

Night led to dawn, and by then I had hiked out and moved on to another location, trying to capture what I could on my last night of the trip.  It was a productive, but exhausting night.

From time to time, I return to that night, and though I now have the safety of several years’ distance, it is when I recall the voice of the wind, that I truly feel the aloneness, and the darkness, that enveloped me that night.

Road Block (Red Canyon, Utah)

It was the soft grinding sound that first drew my attention.  Lowering my camera, I turned towards the sound and there, just down the road, with snow-melt mud freshly dripping from an angular corner, was a new boulder that had rolled onto the road, completely blocking the approaching lane; a boulder that hadn’t been there but a few moments before.  Good thing I parked over here, I thought, that would be hard to explain to the rental company.  While Utah’s rock formations have taken geologic lifetimes to form, here it was, erosion in action, measurable in seconds.

A second car pulls over next to mine, safely parked on the other side of the arch

I warily walked toward the boulder, scanning the hillside as I went.  I could see the path it had taken, splintering a poor tree on its way down; I wondered if it had boulder buddies who would be tempted to follow.  A car soon approached in the blocked lane, and came to a stop as surprised European tourists emptied out, marveling at the size of the rock.  Had I seen it come down?  No, but I had heard it.  One climbed up on the boulder and posed while his friend took photos. 

After a few photos, I returned to my car and continued down the road, pulling in at a gas station to call the police.  Being the off-season, though, the gas station was closed down.  Discovering I now had a cell signal, I called it in, and was informed officers had already been dispatched.  

When I passed by days later, I saw that it had been pushed roughly onto the shoulder of the road.  I did do some hiking there in the hills, although not without keeping a watchful eye on the slope above me, just because, well, you never know.

***

When I returned that summer, I expectantly scanned the shoulder of the road as I approached the spot where I had last seen the boulder, but it was gone.  I suppose I knew it wouldn’t be allowed to remain there, just off the pavement, but I felt a certain unexpected sadness at its disappearance just the same.  We had shared a moment, that boulder and I, and now that boulder, and the moment, were gone. 

Anthem of the Everglades (Florida)

It won’t be a problem, I thought, there really weren’t any mosquitoes at that location the day before.  But it was 3 am, and I was in the Everglades, during the wet season, at night.  And it was about to be a problem.

The chorus of mosquitoes greeted me not long after I exited the car, hungrily whining all around me in the dark.  I put on a thick sweatshirt, and my headnet.  Every time I checked an image on the screen on the back of my camera, its illumination revealed two or three mosquitoes dancing around in the screen’s glow.  Distant flashes of lightning punctured the horizon, but I didn’t dare change to my telephoto lens out here, for fear of trapping a mosquito inside the camera.  And inside the car was no better; the mosquitoes were in there already.  I would have to put down the windows and drive away at highway speeds when I left, hoping the wind would suck out more mosquitoes than it would suck in.

Distant flashes of lightning illuminate the horizon

I was better prepared than when I had visited several years prior.  On that occasion, after several hours each on two nights, I had counted over 40 mosquito bites on my right hand alone.  Tonight, I was armed with net mittens, which seemed to serve their purpose well.  Even with the headnet, though, I still got a few bites on my head.  Apparently, the mosquitoes had been so prevalent that I had inadvertently trapped several under the headnet when I put it on.  And indeed, much later back in Miami, I found three mosquitoes trapped on top of my hat under the headnet, where they had been resting when I had flung it over my hat, and where they had now baked to death under the hot Miami summer sun in the passenger seat of my closed car.  That’ll teach you, I thought.

Next time, though, the headnet goes on before I get out of the car.

Blowing in the Wind (Canyonlands National Park, Utah)

It wasn’t so much the sound of the wind that woke me, but the sound of the wind trying to wrench the rain fly from my tent.  I had left it open when I went to bed so that I could see the stars as I lay in my sleeping bag.  That opening was now a sail that was madly straining against the guy lines.  All tent stakes were weighted down with sizable rocks, although where the ground itself was rock, they were not driven into the ground.  No time to put on pants; I had to secure the fly before it ripped away.  I grabbed my shoes but before I could get them on, the nearest guy line ripped out from under its rock, the rain fly peeling off that half of the tent, flailing in the wind.  I scrambled out into the darkness, and managed to pull the rain fly back over the tent, zip it closed, and temporarily secure the line under the rock, but I was unable to find the stake.

Now that the immediate crisis was under control, other priorities emerged.  I walked some distance away from the tent, farther than usual due to the strong wind, in order to “use the bathroom” prior to returning to bed.  Upon completing that task, I realized I had gotten turned around in the darkness and could not readily see the tent.  Well, this is just great, I thought, I’m out here in the cold blowing wind, and my pants, with my GPS clipped to the belt loop, are secure in the tent.

It was probably less than a minute of wandering before I detected a distant glint from the guy line reflectors, but it felt much longer.  I also found the missing tent stake, thanks to its reflective pull rope; it had been catapulted over the tent when it was ripped from under the rocks, landing fully fifty feet away from the tent.

The morning after … with bigger rocks

That left just one last thing to do before returning to bed: look for bigger rocks for the guy lines!

The Right Place (Bryce Canyon, Utah)

“Are you a quilter?”

There are a number of questions any photographer could reasonably anticipate being asked.  This was not one of them.

Several seconds passed as I struggled to understand what had prompted the question.  I was standing in line at the breakfast buffet after an early winter morning’s shoot, still clad in down coat, waterproof pants, gaiters sealing pants legs to boots to prevent intrusion of snow, with GPS hanging from my belt loop, and topographic maps with notes stuffed in pockets.  I could infer no logical reasoning, and could manage nothing beyond a simple “no”.

“Well, you’re in the wrong place, then” came the reply.  I had traveled to the gateway to Bryce Canyon National Park, for the singular purpose of photographing the grand vistas in their snow-clad majesty, yet somehow I was in the wrong place.  It was clear to me that if someone was in the wrong place, it was not I.  Knowing that explanation would probably not be understood, I simply responded that well, I was here for the scenery, and left it at that.

The quilters attending their winter retreat were set up in one of the event rooms, sewing machines on the tables, with the cold winter’s snow being something that one only sees through the window.  I looked in as I passed by each morning on the way back to my room, shaking the snow from my boots and peeling off gloves and hat as I thawed, as they compared patterns and techniques.  I must admit it seemed attractive, to be so warm and cozy, while the numbing cold, biting wind, and waist-deep snow drifts stayed out there. 

But in the early morning hours, while the sewing machines still slept, I slipped out again into the frigid darkness, and gazed with wonder into the star-filled heavens as they faintly illuminated the snow that draped heavily across the land in pure white folds, more perfect than any pattern, purer than any quilt.

And I knew, without question, I was in the right place.

Like Stars ascending to the Heavens (Mt. Fuji, Japan)

Clouds were what the weather report called for when I climbed into bed, so I had not intended to do any shooting that night.  Momentarily waking in the middle of the night, though, I found the skies had cleared considerably. I grabbed my gear and made my way to the location I had scouted the day before. When I arrived, I was greeted by an elderly Japanese gentleman who was already shooting nearby. I set up my tripod, and we shared the silence, punctuated only by shutter clicks.  He was still there shooting when I finished.  He asked was I done already?  Yes, I was. 

The next morning I learned that the lights I had seen curling up the side of the mountain were lights from the climbing lodges and from the climbers themselves, ascending in the darkness to reach the summit before dawn. And when I looked back at the photos in sequence, I indeed could see the little dots of white slowly climbing up the mountain. 

The climbers don't know it, but even now, they ascend that mountain still.  I check the picture on my wall, and they are still there, frozen by two lenses sharing the silence of the night.