The first afternoon and early evening on the South Rim was tempestuous. The Arizona skies were heavy and swirling. This is never a good sign in the monsoon season of early September, especially for a hiker about to descend into the enormous gash that is Grand Canyon. When stimulated, monsoon season means a heavy diet of rain, wind, thunder, and lightning. It means clear skies that turn to into an apocalyptic fury that can curdle the blood of the most fearless of campers. One look at the sky upon our arrival and I knew it was going to be an interesting week.
Karl, Tom, and Mark are off again on a wild, Grand Canyon adventure—our seventh annual trip! So, La Macchina Fotografica will be on vacation as well. We'll have some great new photos and stories to tell when we return later this month.
Happy Trails!
A couple stands at a street-corner intersection. I am on the other side. We both wait to cross the same crosswalk of the same street. If my calculations are correct, our paths will cross in about thirty seconds. At the point of our meeting mid-street, perhaps we'll exchange glances or maybe we'll pretend that we can't see one another. Maybe our eyes may dart to the side to catch a glance as we pass by to the other side. And then, within moments our positions will be reversed. I will be over there and they will be over here. It will be a slight shift in the cosmos, an exchange of space and energy.
One of my first ever discoveries as a young boy was the vision out of the corner of my eye. It was a murky and mysterious perspective when looking at things from the fringes of my field of vision. I'd try to perceive as much of the world as I could without staring directly at it. I'd practice, practice, then practice some more—as hard as I could—trying to make things clear out of the corner of my eye. I suppose my early love of photography had something to do with this; my very first lens was my eye and I was fascinated with it.
"Not yet?" I asked.
I'd thought this would be the week. It was early March and I was eagerly awaiting asparagus season. I'd turned the corner towards a long row of stalls at the farmer's market. My favorite vendor became visible. My heart sank as I saw only potatoes displayed at his stall. Asparagus season was not yet to be. It would be another long week before the lovely spears would trumpet the true arrival of spring. Forget the calendar, fresh asparagus in Northern California tells me that spring is here. But, it wouldn't be this week.
August in the Marin Headlands means a heavy dose of wet, white fog. It is my favorite time to hike here—a rare chance to climb way up into the sky. They say that the hills here were formed by the tensions of the San Andreas Fault. It is here that the invisible stress of Mother Earth is made visible for all to see. The hills are gentle reminders of the grumbling that's going on far below the surface. And with this strain and with this fog we're allowed to scrape the heavens. That's why I so love August in these Marin Headlands.
It was one of those deep sleeps that is rare for me these days. I awoke not quite knowing where I was. Moving my eyes from side to side, I sat up. The ambient noise of a Monday morning told me that the rest of the world was already doing its thing. That meant that I had to get up. Planting my feet upon the floor, my grogginess slowly gave way to a nagging, low-level grumpiness.
The Golden Gate Bridge was shrouded in fog on a recent July morning. This pleased me as I drove across it, for it is my favorite way to see the bridge. Actually, I couldn't see very much of it on this summer day. The bridge was there but mostly invisible. My imagination was needed to complete the picture. The very best thing about the bridge is how it constantly changes in the light and weather. And the best bridge weather for the bridge is thick fog.
The only way to get to New York was to drive past the dump. We knew this as kids as we rode along Route 46 in New Jersey. The dump was in Pine Brook and you could smell it about two miles before you got there. “Ew, Pine Brook!” we'd screech, holding our noses. Back then they would burn the garbage right there in the open air. The mingling of acrid smoke and rotting garbage created an odor like no other. Although we pretended to hate the smell of the Pine Brook dump, we secretly anticipated it—looking forward to the peculiar odor added a little drama to the otherwise boring ride. Ever since then I've always loved garbage dumps.
An old weathered sign stands as sentinel in a San Francisco marina. I stand and look at its wrinkled surface and bits of playful graffiti. Its edges are frayed and worn. Tiny bits of lichen sprout from its sides, reminding me of the hairy ears of an old man. I figure that the sign has been performing its duty of quite some time.
