Special.

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I’ve only been practicing photography for a couple years. In that time I’ve always assumed that subjects, composition, and conditions outweighed the importance of light. In some cases that can still be true for me, but even the littlest amount of light can make a scene truly special. This image spans across two days. In areas of Zion’s east side, patches of ice can be found tucked between the boulders of the washes in the winter months. Those patches tend to fade as more of the water and ice seeps into the sand or simply melts and evaporates on a hotter day. I arrived to a section of the main wash on a chilly day that has the more rare attribute of a pool at a certain bend. The pool was fairly iced over, and the intricacies in the ice patterns were supported by delicate fallen leaves here and there. One leaf in particular caught my eye, a golden oak that bent upwards from the center as the tip and stem were fused into the ice. I sat at that pool for a few hours trying to find the best composition, and eventually found exactly what I wanted. It was such a beautiful scene, I knew that I had to make sure that I got it right before it all vanished.

Foundation.

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Anthony Bourdain’s death strangely affected me. I had just come into work at National Geographic in June of 2018 when a co-worker mentioned that Bourdain killed himself. Since I was a kid I watched him on No Reservations and more recently on Parts Unknown, and I always loved his no-nonsense way of writing and pure voice to whatever opinion he wanted to air out. Having spent most of my appendicitis sprawled out pitifully on the couch watching Bourdain, I would often relate his television presence to the pain I felt then. At the time it didn’t occur to me how much his death meant to me, just another person making a choice for themselves. Soon though, Bourdain’s choice became another piece in the foundation of my mental health. It became a sort of therapy for me rewatching the same episodes where it was evident that his mental health began to take a turn, and how that turn resembled my own. Whether it be Bourdain’s death, the sandstone of Zion, a great blue heron, or a leaf imbedded in some ice; I’m a person that tries to find meaning and connections in anything. It gives me some focus.

Layers.

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I’ve had my eye on this subject for some time. This obvious little tree stands in a small concealed nook in Zion’s east side just a short walk from the road. After watching this tree through the seasons, it was difficult to determine what conditions would let this subject shine. Nothing about the scene seemed to allow the tree to stand out, so it slowly started to leave my mind with only the occasional glance from time to time. One snowy day I decided to focus on the higher elevations of the east side because spring was fast approaching. I wanted to find one last composition that would finish off the wintry conditions in the Zion area. I drove back and forth along the road keeping my eye out for anything, and sure enough this bookmarked subject seemed to fit what I was looking for.

It was a below freezing day, so I decided to take the hike along Taylor Creek in search of ice formations. The creek was frozen over and I don’t own crampons, so the going was slow and slippery. At various points along the creek I would stop and focus in on the elegance of ice. It’s almost as if nature is stopping time long enough for someone to pass by and notice the graceful frozen movement. I made my way further into the frigid canyon, and eventually the ice simply stopped. The creek began to look much like it did in summer or fall the higher I went. The creek’s nature was opposite to what I would’ve guessed in terms of elevation. I turned around and saw that the reflected light from the sandstone walls was also fading. I passed a bend on the journey back and noticed on the creek about 20 feet down was this stunning scene. To me, the scene resembled a small but vast canyon of ice carved and formed by what created it. I utilized a sculpture of ice in the lower right to help anchor the abstraction, but truly the reflected light did all the work for me. Warm tones from the sandstone and cool tones from the blue sky clashed against the brilliance of the shimmering ice, and all I had to do was frame up and hit the shutter. A lovely moment where, much like ice, time seemed to freeze.

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Proud.

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I’ve heard a few photographers talk about the concept of dwelling on what they believe is their best work. About a year ago I shot a photo that I call “Self”. It’s an image of a Great Blue Heron that I shot in Zion at a spot that I call Heron Bend on the Virgin River. To me, that image defines the individuality, adaptation, and lonesome state that the Great Blue Heron represents; while personifying my bad mental state at the time. That image held onto my mind for a long time, and I never believed I would take an image that made me as happy and proud of myself as that one did.

Expectations.

Imagined.

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This is a photo I’ve wanted for some time. For me, a lot of photography is based on capturing natural moments whenever I happen to notice them, but occasionally I obsess on a certain subject and have to wait for the right moment to shoot it. Every time I drove through Zion’s main canyon, I’d look up to this pine tree full of character teetering on the edge of a sandstone wall. On a clear day, an even higher sandstone wall in the background extends upwards behind the pine which muddles the isolation of the tree and makes the scene fall flat. Each time I’d imagine the ideal conditions, and each time the current conditions were inadequate. Finally, on a drizzly spring day the conditions were perfect. Low cloud grazed the top of the cliffs giving an ethereal mood which isolated the pine, and the rain allowed for gorgeous saturated warm tones in the sandstone. A touch of interest was added by a small waterfall cascading down the wall, and all in all it added up to the scene that I had imagined.

I’m terrible at shooting good light. It’s one of my many failings in photography. I love reflected light more than anything, but I constantly fail at shooting even that. I rely on conditions and luck to inspire and motivate me. Photography is a tough learning process, but it’s always worth the experience of beautiful moments in nature.

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Signature.

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Some places leave such an impression, it’s hard to imagine who I’d be without them. I had the day off and got an early start up SR-14 to take the long way to Zion. I knew the light in Zion was going to be hit and miss until the later afternoon when the cloud would clear up, so I took my time. I enjoyed a sunrise atop the frigid Markagunt Plateau, continued through the atmospheric conditions around Highway 89, and eventually landed in Zion’s east side. The cloud was thick overhead but that allowed ice that would normally melt, due to direct morning sunlight, to be present. I shot a small scene of scattered maple leaves, but I ultimately felt indifferent about the moment. I continued to scour the washes of the east side until the clear day was dominant. The tricky part of finding ice is knowing what areas are heavily shadowed, yet still experience hot enough temperatures for melt. I stumbled upon this scene of interesting movement. A single maple leaf suspended in ice that seemed to carve its own path much like a signature; the east side signing its own beautiful work.

Lesser.

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On the second full day in Zion for fall color this year I started to figure out what my issue was with the trip; the popularity of the main wash. With the main canyon shuttle requiring tickets to ride, the east side became the only alternative that people could trample over and destroy. Fortunately those same people tend to be the lazy visitors that don’t fancy exploration. As hard as people find it to believe when I tell them; it’s really easy to get away from the crowds in Zion. The main wash also had a deficit in fall color this year. Certain areas boasted gorgeous vibrant tones, but the vast majority of the leaves fell to rotten and brown. I decided late in the afternoon that I’d skip the color and head up into the highlands of the east side. The climb is often a straight up and slippery journey into silence with a tinge of an unsettling feeling. You won’t find footprints, litter, or vandalism here, just the quiet lesser traveled fringes of the park. A truly wild feeling place. As I gained elevation, I visualized the many scenes in this area that I’ve scouted before. Close to the summit I noticed far to the west that the sandstone wall was catching gorgeous reflected light as expected. My eyes fixed to a lone juniper surrounded by desert varnish staining the walls. I moved in closer and found that this scene was extremely cluttered, and that I would need to tweak and perfect the frame in order to avoid distractions.

Stare.

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This was one of those ridiculous moments where I kept asking myself, is this really happening? Am I seriously watching a fox feast on the carcass of a buck at this close of a distance in the middle of a city? And fortunately it wasn’t just a dream, it was actually happening. A couple days prior to this moment I scouted a different side of an area that I’ve visited a few times. I stumbled upon a small fox darting silently across the forest floor which in turn taught me new ways of approaching wildlife. Not only did I find the fox, but also the carcass of a buck sat at a bend in a nearby creek. On this visit I put two and two together and figured the fox must be grabbing the relatively fresh meat off the bones. After a few hours of searching and waiting among the snowy landscape I decided the fox didn’t want to be seen, and I walked back to the car. I took one last glance back to the area where the carcass lay and sure enough I saw the fox trotting through the tree line for a bite to eat.

Listen.

Home.

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I’m glad my first shot of fall color of this year is from Rochester. Very soon I’ll be headed back to Utah for a photography trip in Zion, and honestly I’m having a bit of anxiety about it. It’s the same feeling I felt back in May when I returned to Southern Utah after spending the month of April with my partner here in Rochester. I think my big issue with Utah is culturally rather than nature-wise. Obviously Utah is one of the best places on earth for nature and I’m admittedly addicted to Zion, but I struggle with the conservative mindset out there. New York has shown me how decent and caring people can be. Luckily when I head back for fall color the only people I’ll see are my wonderful family, and a few familiar photographers wandering around Zion. Now to this photo, Mendon Ponds is a place I’ve visited twice. Once in the heat of summer surrounded by overgrown greenery, and the second this recent crisp fall morning. The day was rainy and cold, and I ran around the city all morning chasing fall color. Eventually I wound up at the ponds and I came across this scene from a popular spot.

Discover.

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Photography has been therapy for me, and while I will never discount actual therapy and its overwhelming benefits for so many, I do believe in the power of consistency and distraction. Nowadays my mental health is decent for the most part, and photography still quiets the demons from time to time. I was never one to care about sunrises which not only stemmed from my beginnings in the monotony that is Milky Way photography, but also the constant exploration of Zion which was best to photograph during midday hours on a clear day. A broken mind plus Zion after work everyday equaled a somewhat healed mind, but also in time showed me that beautiful things can still be discovered between the brief light at the start and end of a day. Nevertheless we’re in Rochester now, and I see a sunrise often as most mornings are now the free time.

Better.

Bittersweet.

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This moment filled me with sadness, but also with the understanding that eventually everything beautiful must come to an end. I woke up at about 2:30am on a clear day to head into Zion and get my parking space in line to enter the Main Canyon. With the shuttles down to promote social distancing, this is pretty much the only way to drive past The Grotto up canyon for the day. The rangers truly do an amazing job keeping the crowds at bay and preventing the park from being destroyed by vehicles. I knew this was going to most likely be my last visit to the main canyon for awhile. I’ll be moving to Rochester, New York in a few days to live with my partner and start a new chapter. While I am incredibly excited to experience a new place with someone I love, it’s hard to leave the place that I believe created who I am now. For the past year and a half I’ve probably spent the day in Zion at least 300 of those days. Every time I visit Zion it always fills me with joy, and reminds me of memories both pleasant and painful.

Distance.

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There’s something unique about a spring morning in Zion’s main canyon. It’s a rare thing to experience by convenience of a car this time of year, but those are the times we live in at this moment and for a good reason. The season brings not only a change to the surroundings, but also to the atmosphere. The symphony of bird melodies almost outweighs the roar of the melt rushing down the Virgin. A soft light glows through the low cloud caressing the cliffs and peaks as the canyon wakes up for the day. I went to my usual spot at heron bend looking for my friend. The heron was probably off getting busy in this mating season, but other feather friends bounced between the cottonwoods. A pair of flickers grew increasingly interested in me. They would quickly ascend and just as quickly descend the bark either looking for a home or a meal. I snagged a quick shot of one perched on a cottonwood dotted with lichen, posed against a rosy pink sandstone wall. The hazy sunlight backlit its feathers and summed up a simple moment to remember a beautiful quiet morning.

Ghosts.

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Ice is what I love to photograph most. That love has spawned from countless winter days spent in the washes of Zion’s east side searching for intricate details nestled between the boulders at my feet. Ice is a condition that’s impossible to chase or expect. It’s a beautiful phenomenon of nature that does exactly what it wants to do on it’s own time, you just have to stumble upon it when it’s ready. For me, it’s something about the brief lifespan of ice that I find so special. In one moment it’s frozen in time, but within minutes, hours, or overnight it’ll fade away like a ghost. I found my way into Letchworth on a cold quiet morning, and I had the upper falls to myself. The stone walls were plastered with layers upon layers of ice acting almost as acoustics for the roaring falls. I scanned the walls knowing I wouldn’t be able to work any compositions out of the falling water. I tried my hardest framing a long impressive arch of icicles, but in the end it felt as if I was forcing something that wasn’t possible. Soon my eyes fixed on a small vignette as I moved further north.

Momma.

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When I set out on this recent trip to shoot fall color in Zion, I knew that I needed to find a scene that represented my mother in some way. Her birthday occurred during this week-long trip, and I knew the scene I wanted to shoot for her needed to have fall color in it as well as being shot within the park. Luckily, I was able to find something that I think truly captures exactly who she is as a person. Zion is a place that I often relate to my mom, I think that relation mainly comes from the countless childhood trips to the park and Springdale when we first moved to Southern Utah. Despite my indifference to Zion as a kid, I knew it was a special place to my mom. It wasn’t until these past couple of years that I also saw what was so special about this place. It was my third full day on the trip, and after a rough start I knew I needed to come away with a scene that actually contained some fall color. The morning was fairly hazy due to the wildfires, but the afternoon allowed for clearer skies and better reflected light. I visited a section of the main wash that had a gorgeous long stand of red maples lining the boulders, and soon I stumbled upon this stunning scene. A dominant ponderosa surrounded by a wealth of vibrant red maples. The texture of the bark caught some wonderful ambient side light, and the warm tones mixed with it beautifully. A simple frame that combined all of the elements to put focus on the individual pine. As I waited a couple hours for the right warm light, I watched the afternoon sun creep up the sandstone walls. A quiet and needed moment.

Parallels.

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Photography is a beautiful practice because sometimes I only have a vague knowledge what I’m shooting. The abstract nature of a subject can mesmerize with textures and color, and all I can do is gravitate to it and search for a composition. Some subjects draw parallels to each other either in oddly comparable contrasts, similarities to other phenomena in nature, or in what subjects can represent.

Support.

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I shot this scene this past Wednesday. The day was beautifully clear until some hazy high altitude cloud moved in late afternoon. I decided I’d hit up Zion’s east side in search of intricate dried mud throughout the slots and washes. I made my way to a slot that retains water the longest in hopes of fresh mud to work with. I was surprised to arrive to water in the slots as if it rained recently, but I don’t believe that Zion has seen rain in weeks. I pushed on hoping the slots were dry enough to move through, but soon my boots became cocooned in heavy wet mud.

Lit.

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Las Vegas is an underestimated place when it comes to the outdoors. Often people reduce the city to the lights, the gambling, and the soul that it lacks; but the outdoors are all around. Valley of Fire is less than an hour up the I-15, and vast mountain ranges intermixed with calming deserts border the chaos of Vegas. One place in particular is the Black Mountain Trail right outside Henderson to the southeast. A brutal incline up dark lava rock while the haunting Joshua trees watch over characterize the trail. I've never actually done the hike in full, but it instantly became a favorite for me. Each trudge up brought me about halfway where I would turn around and see this powerful view.

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On this day in particular I saw a healthy amount of hazy high cloud painted across the sky to the west. I knew if I just waited a few hours until sunset, the sky would light up and show the true hidden beauty of the Las Vegas area. I set up a simple composition of a small Joshua tree isolated among the short brush. Rolling hills of lava rock smacked right into a distant range of peaks, and sure enough the sky lit up. To me, the moment perfectly defined what I see in the area around Vegas. When a place is reduced to its superficial look is when the most potential is hidden in plain sight. 

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The red leaves lost a bit of vibrancy, but I loved how the cracks in the mud caught the fallen leaves. I framed up a 4x5 vertical and found a semblance of a main subject in the mass of color. The light that day was ideal, and I simply waited until just reflected light filled the scene. This scene took many attempts, but I’m glad I didn’t give up on it. A simple image of what anchored me in summer, and what challenged me in fall.

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Return.

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I captured this scene yesterday. The day was mostly clear with some clouds dotting the sky here and there. I wasn’t too sure what I wanted to accomplish photography wise, and in turn that affected how I felt mentally. I thought maybe a sunset shot somewhere, but I knew I needed a break from Zion. I decided that I needed some dunes in the hope of shooting something simple, or maybe something with contrast to help my mind. 

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Environment.

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I biked into Zion early on a clear morning when I wasn’t expecting much, but my eyes were open for anything. Fall color was fading quick, and I knew I wanted to do my usual walking route between Big Bend and Temple of Sinawava in search of remaining color. Upon arriving to the quiet Bend I looked up and noticed a dark blot high up on the cliffs of sandstone. I framed up my long lens and I soon knew exactly what was looking at. 1K is the new condor fledgling that is a first for Zion after a few unfortunate nesting tragedies in the past years. I’ve watched this condor grow over the past few months and even witnessed its supposed first flight. 1K is already a behemoth with a 10 foot wingspan, and I overheard it has even surpassed its parents in size. The young condor was bathed in reflected light from the wall to the west, and cool tones from the clear sky above. But the most important thing to me was the environment surrounding 1K. The sandstone plinth that the condor was perched on had a lovely texture dotted with lichen. The wall behind was covered in desert varnish and had a gorgeous half arch that framed 1K beautifully.

Counter.

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This is my first, and might just be my last, image of the Zion glow in The Narrows. The glow is the result of direct sunlight bouncing off the sandstone into the dark bends below, creating an ethereal warm light. Wading through Virgin started at 8am. The next 2 1/2 hours were spent on a linear path as the current pushed against me, and the boulders beneath the water grew increasingly more slippery. Like many visits before, I had a blast hiking the popular trail. Unlike those many prior visits though, this time I was looking for compositions. I hit a stopping point before the backcountry where my hip waders were simply not tall enough to keep out the high waters. I turned around, and at about 10:45am I ran into this bend where the warm glow lit up the walls further down canyon. I framed up, set my simple composition, and pressed the shutter. Not necessarily a gift-wrapped scene, but rather knowing exactly what the gift is with no surprise.

Persistence.

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Seconds, minutes, and hours all amounting to the hope of coming away with something in the end; waiting for a scene to wake up. It could be a wait for an animal’s movements, some light to break through, or weather conditions to move in. The constant thing on my mind is the question of worth. Will it be worth it in the end to wait? Often I come away with nothing, and often that alone pushes me to keep trying again and again. Up early, out the door, in the same position as yesterday hoping that today’s the day it’ll happen. I’ve visited this tree countless times, it sits alone in a vast area of tall reeds on the edge of a local park. I checked the weather and saw a storm moving in from the north. Heavy wet snow was set to arrive early morning, but the timeframe was hit or miss. I woke up at the crack of dawn and made my way to the scene. I arrived to a pitter patter of snow hitting the landscape while the overcast sky didn’t appear to be getting ready for much. I sat in my car just staring at the tree. An hour passed, then two. I started the car and rounded the area, hoping my impatience would cause something to fall from the sky above. I parked one last time and sat looking at the tree from a distance, it had been three hours of waiting at this point.

Cycles.

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The day was warm and crystal clear. It was a much needed day off, as my mental health has been extra shot lately. I took the long way around to the east side of Zion. I stopped at River Rock for coffee and editing then headed east on SR-59 to 89 via the Coral Pink Sand Dunes backway. The east side is so beautifully quiet at the moment with the SR-9 switchback closure. Passing cars are more of a rarity, the wildlife are relaxed and more present throughout the washes and highlands, the silence is deafening.

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Relation.

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The day was crystal clear and hot in Zion. I wanted to keep the day simple by putting more of a focus on wildlife, but my eyes were glued to the slots. In the past few weeks there have been scattered storms over the east side of Zion. Normally these slots are fairly inaccessible for days after a good amount of rain. Luckily, the scorching clear days dried up the slots quickly and made for some gorgeous cracked mud. I made my way into a slot that I’ve shot many compositions around, and this time it was transformed. The entire floor was covered with a delicate yet rough texture bathed in warm reflected light bouncing off the sandstone walls.

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Isolation.

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It was a cold, almost wintry day across Southern Utah which is a little strange for the middle of May. I decided to head up Cedar Canyon into the mountains in hopes for some fog or a whiteout. I passed this tree in a meadow near Cedar Breaks that I’ve had my eye on for a few months now. The reason I couldn’t get to this tree until now was due to the massive snow banks on either side of the road throughout the winter into early spring. The banks can easily reach over 10 feet on SR-14 and pullouts are rarely plowed until later in the season due to snow drifts. Access to subjects in this area during inclement weather is slim to none, but luckily the banks were low enough that day to park and explore. 

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Drawn.

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Some subjects don’t reveal themselves immediately, but often show a glimpse of future potential. I visited a corridor of the main wash in Zion’s east side that struggled with fall color this year, but tends to offer more intimacy. The area of the wash is dominated by maples and towering pines with walls of weaving sandstone. The feeling between the walls is cozy and welcoming, and often bighorn and hawks find shelter in this area. On a prior visit to the area, I was drawn to a large slab of stone that has a unique cool tone that compliments its stunning texture among the landscape of warm tones. I took record shots that day, but I knew it required more of a main subject to anchor the abstraction. Upon this later visit, I found that some fallen leaves had also found shelter on a shelf protruding from the slab. A single golden elm leaf surrounded by rusty oak leaves. The wind was blustery that day so I knew the scene could disappear any second. As expected after a few initial shots, one of the oak leaves fell from the shelf but caught in the nook slightly below. Another moment of nature frozen in time just long enough for me to capture. 

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Unassuming.

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I’m terrible at planning photos. That’s probably why I’m awful at shooting sunrise and sunset, and why I’m often drawn to places like Zion that shine during the middle of the day on a crystal clear day. It’s a combination of a lack of skill and motivation on my part, but I tend to enjoy subjects that are often hidden in plain sight that don’t necessarily require decent light. Zion is a goldmine for subjects like this, and is a helpful place for photographers like me trying to practice and learn.

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Intersect.

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My last day on the fall trip to Zion. It was a bittersweet and crisp morning much like my last day in Zion before I moved away from Southern Utah to Upstate New York. I biked into the main canyon and spent the morning saying goodbye as a storm quickly moved in. The cloud overhead would switch the light from strong reflected to dull in an instant, so I mainly spent the time breathing in the landscape around me. There’s nothing quite like walking alongside the Virgin as the towering sandstone walls give a cozy, warm feeling. This was a tough trip from the start. I craved shooting the vibrant fall color, but I also wanted to embrace the quiet and shoot more muted scenes away from the hustle and bustle of the park. Soon the storm blocked all light, and cast a dreary mood over the main canyon. I made my way up into the higher elevations to say goodbye to the east side, and see if any color was left after the roaring winds. I parked off at a corridor of the main wash that I know well and moseyed over the boulders poking out of the sea of fallen leaves. I passed by this scene that I’ve had my eye on for quite a while. I never knew how to make it work because it almost seemed too abstract, but after this trip I knew exactly what it was trying to tell me. Vibrant red maple and sandstone; a simple frame of intersection that showed the stark contrast between these two in the landscape, and how I struggled with each subject during this week.

Follow.

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The day was moody and stormy in the mountains, and my mental state was rocky in the morning. I felt I needed to just take a drive and decompress. I passed Duck Creek and spotted the Night Heron from the side of the road. When the weather moves in, wildlife tend to be more present. I’m not sure if the dark, dreary landscape emphasizes their presence, or if they stay low to avoid the conditions. I parked and carefully moved in on the spot where I saw heron, but from about 50 feet away the heron spotted me and took off to the west. I decided to follow it by staying close to the creek. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the advantage of the road elevation to help spot it. Any time I got within its range of sight, the shy heron flew to a further bend down the creek. 

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Movement.

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The weather was a mix of heavy rain and snow with persistent low cloud across Zion. I started my day in the main canyon, but soon payed for that mistake. The shuttle system is already rough for photography, but it’s worse in heavy rain. I took my soaking wet self back to Canyon Junction, hopped in the car, and made my way up to the east side. The initial snow of the higher elevations soon turned into lighter rain with partly cloudy skies. It was a pleasant shift of conditions that made the east side a little more calm.

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Something.

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Kolob Canyons is a unique place that’s difficult to photograph. The landscape is reminiscent of a mixture of Zion’s main canyon and east side, but something all its own. The short scenic drive gives a superficial view of what’s possible through exploration. For a few months now I’ve visited a smaller canyon about 10 times, and each time I’ve failed to come away with anything. To me, the hike into the smaller canyon is the most quintessential Southern Utah hike. The southwestern landscape soon turns into a rather cozy atmosphere between pink sandstone walls. This year, fall color in Kolob was strange. The lower elevations saw fall color first and the higher spots in the back of the canyons seemed to fade without much color at all. I took yet another hike into the smaller canyon way past peak color just to enjoy nature and look around. At the crest of the hike the trail dips down into a meadow area before leveling out for the rest of the hike. The golden tall grass of the meadow drew me in and caused me to look upwards to the stands of maples near the north wall. The maples had such vibrant color, but we’re on their last legs. As if they were all that was left of fall color in Kolob.

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Time.

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The day was mostly cloudy with on and off snow, and occasional sun. My mind was doing okay throughout the day. I think even the idea of getting outside helps me mentally. I initially tried to head up Cedar Canyon into the Ashdown Gorge Area to catch some snowy conditions, but I felt so uninspired to do photography. I think it might be because I just don’t find the mountains nearest me beautiful in the winter. So I headed right down the road to Zion, my second home. I was walking through a wash on the east side that I know well. The smell of pine is so potent throughout this wash, it calms me down so much to just walk, breathe in the pine, and listen to the ice crack below my feet. 

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Transparency.

It was a strange day in terms of weather as well as my mental health. I initially shot rainy conditions in Zion’s east side, but eventually moved on to the snowy passes near Cedar Breaks in search of satisfaction. That was the thing, I left Zion that day unsatisfied. I shot three compositions that I’ve shot before, just this time in different conditions. I felt something from that outing that I hadn’t experienced before, and that held onto my mind for days afterwards. Almost like an irrational, premature defeat even though I went outdoors that day and came away with something.

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Joy.

The day was rainy with persistent low cloud, and my mental health was struggling for the day mainly because I was craving sun. The weather report for the first few days of the week called for snowy conditions in Zion. Even though my mind wanted sun, I couldn’t resist shooting the conditions. I arrived to rain and low cloud throughout the park. The higher elevations were dusted with snow which contrasted beautifully with the wet sandstone of the lower elevations. I decided I would drive the length of the main canyon and keep my eye out for compositions

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Muted.

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This isn’t the photo I necessarily wanted to start off this trip with, but I feel it’s the one that needs to start it off. Fall 2020 in Zion for me was more about finding quiet than finding photos. I wanted silence and something I knew well so I could simply exist in it for a short while. A lot of this trip consisted of avoiding people and remembering why Zion is special and important to me. The foundation of my newfound decent mental health is mainly thanks to this place comforting me by distracting me. I spent plenty of time in the main canyon and the east side on this trip looking for fall color, but what I mainly found was muted scenes full of character which focused on subject’s connection to the many different forms of Zion’s landscapes around them. Each scene seemed to have it’s own season, and wasn’t based entirely in fall color. None of the photos from this trip came easy, and each have their story rooted in what they represent to me.

Context.

I rarely talk about the photos I take. Most people enjoy a picture, but I think some people enjoy a story. While it’s definitely not a groundbreaking story, I think context surrounding photos can be calming and nice. It’s something I want to do more of.

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It was a clear day, and I drove up and down the main canyon chasing a composition of side light casting on a cottonwood tree with a background of sandstone in shadow. I kept missing the light because it moves so fast in the canyon, and I don’t know Zion well enough. I decided to park the car and head across the river for potentially a more intimate scene, and as I crossed, a small herd of deer popped up their heads to see what’s going on. The wildlife in Zion is comfortable with human traffic for the most part, and they live their lives among the popular hikes and sights. I walked with them as they made their way deeper into the canyon, and finally snapped a shot of one that loved to pose for the camera.

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This is not the image I went to Zion for that day, yet this image speaks for the experience of photography rather than the final image to me. The experience is what matters, and I wouldn’t have experienced that moment if it wasn’t for the excuse of being out which is the camera. An image I’m happy with is really just a bonus.

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Spark.

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Re-focus.

It was a clear, cold day in Zion. My mind was doing okay for the most part, but for the past week I feel as if I was stuck in a photography rut. I’ve been going out regularly trying to capture the snowy conditions in Zion and the mountains closest to my home, but ultimately I failed at producing images I was happy with. While the point of what I do is to appreciate moments in nature and practice photography, it’s still difficult to deal with consistent disappointment in myself and the images I’m taking.

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Carving: Intention

The day had what seemed like a perpetual storm over the east side of Zion. I decided to head into the park and keep my eye out for waterfalls and saturated rock while checking on compositions I’ve shot in the past. Ever since I printed my series on this past winter in Zion, there was one image that didn’t fit with the rest. “Carving” was the title of that image, and it focused on how Zion was becoming a habit for me, and how I couldn’t seem to get enough of Zion’s beauty and natural calming powers on me. It’s my mental happy place. “Carving” fell short on the series’ intention of intimate scenes in conditions that don’t always exist. This image is the same composition as “Carving” just this time with saturated rock to help emphasize the sweeping line of sandstone leading into the weathered pine. The fact that every time I come to Zion I’m carving out a simple moment for myself; much like how Zion was carved by simple things like water, ice, and wind.

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Moments.

I remember the day was gorgeous, warm, and clear. The east side of park was quiet because the switchbacks of SR-9 were still closed. That day was a day where I moseyed through some washes and slots checking in on the spring bloom, and enjoying the peace. Eventually, I ran into a small group of 3 bighorn and I spent most of the time with the lamb. It was a moment of silence where time seemed to stand still.

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Emulate. 

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Guidelines.

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Essential.

The day had a lot of high cloud, but light did poke through occasionally. I had lunch and coffee at a bend in the river near the Temple of Sinawava, and took time to relax my mind. I wasn’t too sure what I wanted to accomplish photography wise for the day, but I knew I at least wanted to wade through the river in search of wildlife. I made my way closer to the entrance of The Narrows, but with no real intent to enter. I’ve never done The Narrows in winter, and I thought my simple hip waders probably wouldn’t do the trick. Visitors hiking The Narrows in the winter are usually outfitted in neon waterproof jumpsuits, a bandolier of lights, and an iconic wooden walking stick. Despite my seemingly underprepared self, I still felt compelled to head in.

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Reward.

The day was fairly cloudy with scattered thunderstorms in the more mountainous areas of Southern Utah. I made my way up Cedar Canyon to 89 and then onto the 9 that leads to the east side of Zion. I was almost to the east entrance when I made the decision to turn back. Zion was just partly cloudy, and I thought it best to stick to the shooting the conditions in the higher elevations. I drove all the way back the way I came until I hit Duck Creek Pond. I looked up to the sky and saw no ospreys, hawks, or eagles. I knew something would eventually come to catch a meal, so I set up my tripod and waited.

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Final.

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Elevation.

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Access.

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Force.

I went to Zion in rainy conditions with the intention of shooting compositions of saturated landscapes, or maybe some moody conditions. I decided that I wanted to stick to the east side, and avoid the main canyon shuttle during the downpour. While the shuttle is great for parking congestion in the canyon, it’s not necessarily photography friendly. Hauling a bunch of gear in wet conditions with less options for stops isn’t the most ideal. I made my way up the switchbacks of SR-9 past the Mt. Carmel Tunnel into the east side. The carved sandstone glistened in the soft light poking through the layers of grey rain cloud.

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Self.

It was a sunny, beautiful day and my mental state was calm. I relaxed with some coffee and lunch on a boulder around the bend in the Temple of Sinawava area where this heron is often perched. I made my way to the riverbank and saw the heron in one of its usual spots. I made my way closer and closer and felt as if the heron remembered me in a way. I planted my tripod on a boulder about 15 feet away from the heron and set up this composition. I opted for this composition because I love the way the sandstone walls catch the direct sunlight. To me, the light clears up the muddled landscape of the background and adds depth. I mainly wanted to try and get the closest shot I could without making the heron uncomfortable, and I feel that this was the prime distance for both of us.

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Outliers.

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Structure.

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Growing.

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Rush.

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The morning started just as everyday on this fall trip; an early rise into a pitch black Zion. I parked halfway up the switchbacks to the east side for a bit of coffee while I watched the Towers of the Virgin in the distance begin to appear with twilight. Soon after the park began to wake up, I packed up with no real plan for the morning. I drove to the start of a more remote location in the higher elevations, and met up with some company. It was hard to tell if the haze from the wildfires would be hit or miss on this day as the morning light slowly descended down the sandstone. After some deliberation I started the uphill scramble hoping that it wasn’t too late of a start. The main thing against me apart from the fast approaching light was that I didn’t even scout the scene up close. A couple days prior I noticed a simple dance between a juniper and the wonderful sandstone ripples supporting it in the background from about a half mile away. Between me and the scene was a long chasm, and I wasn’t even sure if I would be able to cross it. With 30+ pounds on the back of my unfit body I ran across the sandstone as fast as I could. Every other step was a slip, but eventually I rounded the end of the chasm and booked it to the scene. I ripped off my pack, slammed down my tripod, framed up a simple comp, and dialed in some basic settings that might work. The light just barely graced the tree when I hit the shutter.

Vulnerable.

It was partly cloudy to the north and more overcast weather to the south, so I avoided Zion. Plus with SR-9 closed, there’s no access to the east side. I decided I’d head up Cedar Canyon to Duck Creek Pond, with my main focus on Highway 89 to try and find some wildlife. Just as I was passing the pond I noticed a large bird that looked like a Great Blue Heron from afar. I parked, grabbed my camera, and moved in closer to see white feathers on the bird’s head which can only mean one thing for this area.

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Navigating.

It was a perfectly clear, warm day in Zion and I decided to hit up the east side for some exploration. I parked and made my way into a wash that appears from above the road to be inaccessible. Sheer sandstone walls are connected only by a narrow wash that is cluttered with cottonwoods and pines. Most visitors just drive right on by. Once down in the wash, it’s a pleasant hike to a rather cozy set of slots. Each of the slots had a floor of quicksand, and at one point I thought I might have to turn back due to steep walls and slick ridges. I pushed on up the muddy ridge, and descended into this carved area of sweeping rose colored sandstone. It was a place that seemed so unique to the east side, yet all the elements made it familiar and defined its beauty.

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Elements.

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Retain.

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Giddy.

It was a strange day mentally and weather wise. The day was clear, cold, and exhausting for my mind. I felt I needed Zion, but I was unmotivated to make the journey that day. I needed a more immediate route to the outdoors in order to calm down. I decided to head up the canyon that leads into the mountains closest to me. I wanted to explore the back ways hoping to find a way to enter the locations I generally shoot from spring to fall. I failed to find a back way as I found that all the roads into the locations were closed for the winter. I was disappointed, but still happy with the time I spent out exploring and learning from it. As well as that, my mind found peace from the simple journey made into the outdoors.

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Start. 

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Lonesome.

The lonesome, isolating nature of winter is what I find so addicting. Every other season seems too chaotic, overgrown, and busy from both the overwhelming human and natural elements. Maybe I’m drawn to these solitary subjects because they don’t seem so alone when I’m with them, and neither do I in their company.

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Complexities.

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Process.

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Relaxed.

Quaint.

The day was perfectly clear and on the warmer side. My mental state struggled heavily in the morning, and it was difficult for me to remain motivated and inspired. I started out in Zion, but made the quick decision to leave due to a lot of little things going wrong. I made my way to Highway 89 and headed north towards Bryce Canyon right down the road. My main goal was to shoot one of the many bald eagles in the area. On this stretch of highway it’s easy to spot a few, but difficult to capture them. While I did grab a quick shot of one, I still want more practice on their behavior and movement.

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Shifts.

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Notion.

Rest.

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Company.

View.

Crave.

Disrupted.

Distract.

Grounded.

Vignette.

Tranquil.

Gaps.

Subdued.

Further.

Familiar.

See.

Revisit.

Communication.

Alternate.

Fleeting.

I shot this image in Zion long ago. The east side was just waking up for the morning, and it was looking to be a beautiful clear day. I felt pretty relaxed heading into the park via the east entrance, knowing exactly where I wanted to explore for ice before the sun had a chance to take it all. The main wash was dappled with small areas of a thin layer of ice caught between the boulders. I rounded a bend and for a moment I stood there just appreciating the calm, quiet park that I knew and loved so well. I stumbled upon this wonderful little scene on the ground beneath my feet that was defined by it’s stunning movement. A grouping of leaves caught in layers upon layers of lines imprinted in the freeze weaving through the frame. I had no idea how to make a composition work then, but I thought I’d give it a shot. I glanced to my right and immediately lost any semblance of calm I had. The morning light was within feet of the scene at my feet, and it was approaching fast. Every second I was losing shadow to the light, and I had to move quickly if I was to come away with anything. I threw down my bag, grabbed the long lens, planted my tripod, and picked a frame that might work. I took one photo and just like that, the morning light intruded and the ice began to fade away. Just a single photo.

Potential.

Parallels part/2

Embrace.

Tools.