I sit here in front of my Mac and look at the enticing row of applications on my dock. Bright and alluring, they remind me of my old crayon box. I once had the biggest box of crayons that Crayola made. Even though I loved the idea of so many colors I never, ever used them all—not even close. Mostly, I just liked the *idea* of having so many crayons. Eventually, I'd find a couple crayons that I liked and got to work. The fewer colors I worked with, the better the results seemed to be. Lessons come to us early in life. Perhaps the best way an artist can spark creativity is to establish limits. Sometimes we simply have too many creative choices.
Four days before Thanksgiving it hit me. The traffic was heavier and the drivers more frantic. The left-turn signal to the Safeway had a long line of idling cars, exhaust evaporating into the chilled autumn air. The holidays are here. I don't know anyone who looks forward to that first realization. What should be the loveliest, most peaceful and introspective of seasons has become a frantic dash to the finish line.
The summer brings out just about everyone to the Farmer's Market. But once the light is amber with autumn's gilding the crowd subsides. Between fall and spring the market is owned by the regulars again. It's a lazier, more peaceful time. Parking is easy and elbows are rare.
The Grand Canyon is the most unforgiving of place to be a photographer. One could interpret that in myriad ways. I could write about the monsoon downpours that might short-circuit your camera. Or maybe we could discuss the dust, sand or heat that can also make a mess of your most expensive equipment. Then there are the ledges, cactus and rattlesnakes that seem to be around whenever you are concentrating on what's in the viewfinder. The above-mentioned are critical. Beware of all of them. But, the thing that will *really* ruin your photos (other than a plunge off the canyon's edge) is the impossible dynamic range of light.
I have never been without my camera at Grand Canyon. Photography is simply the natural thing for me to practice there. I've made so many images of the canyon that I thought it might be appropriate to share some of the photo lessons that I've learned.
The edge of Nankoweap was coming to an end. We'd hiked along the red-rock traverse until there was no more of it. We were at the end of the side canyon. The only way to go was up a short distance and then out of the canyon. Nankoweap is tenacious and its last grip is filled with boulders and gravel and gnarly brush. But, any final surge out of the canyon is aided with a healthy dose of adrenaline. Soon we were released from the canyon and its exhausting edge.
It is a strange thing to sleep at the bottom of Grand Canyon. Gravity seems more profound down there. The curious attraction that pulls you down into the canyon in the first place seems to have a grip on you and teases you with the notion that you just might never be allowed to emerge from the hot pit. For me, these feelings come out at night, like demons that have been locked in a closet all day.
Not long before the raven caper more boats had landed on the beaches around us. A large group of photographers and their crew were setting up camp for the night about a hundred yards downstream. Life on a river boat is certainly different than that of the hiker. Cots, tables, lamps, and stoves were set up by the crew. A flirtatious, young woman set up horseshoes for a group of men who had gathered around her. She threw the first shoe and the eager men let out a loud cheer of approval for her.
Every journey into Grand Canyon has a transcendent moment that is ineffable. One stands and looks out and up and feels a connection with land and spirit that cannot be described with earthly words. Reaching the Colorado River on our second day of Nankoweap was such a moment. In an instant, the trials of the day before vaporized off into the late morning sun. I stood, transfixed by the sensory feast before me and within me. "This is why I hike Grand Canyon!" I thought.
"Where's the river?"
It was my first ever question when I saw Grand Canyon for the first time. I was fourteen. I strained my neck to pan the expansive vista but the river wasn't there. The waterway was a mystery, a deep and invisible sorcerer. It had done its job of carving the canyon so well that it had worked its way down to the center of the earth—or so it seemed. This added to its mystique.
