“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.