Ad Libitum (And A Little Mustard)

From fuzzy snapshots fastened to the world's refrigerator doors all the way to Robert Capa's accidentally damaged D-Day images, the best efforts of photographers frequently fall short of what is expected. Circumstances differ, but we all feel the same “if only” pangs of disappointment.

Yet it’s these photos—marred, some would say, by being out-of-focus, under/over-exposed, or hurriedly composed—that often linger in the mind after our editing is completed, teasing us with “what ifs.” Perhaps all is not lost when we make a mistake in the field.

Consider Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico, arguably Ansel Adams’s most well-known photograph. From his account we know he worked feverishly to get one exposure—the evening light disappeared from the cemetery crosses before he could flip his film holder for a second shot. As a consequence the resulting negative, improperly exposed, proved very difficult to print, even for the skilled Adams. What prompted him to keep working, instead of dropping the film into a trash bin?

I believe the sensations surrounding us as we take a photo—whether the laughter of a child, the fury of ocean waves, alpenglow, or that fading long-ago light in New Mexico—are fixed to the images as surely as any darkroom chemical or pixel cluster. When these are sharp, and stimulating, we’re going to pursue the photo’s potential for all it’s worth. Never mind a blemish or two.

I thought of this while editing pictures from Utah's Horseshoe Canyon. The day I was there was beautiful, with strong light bouncing around the high rock walls. When I came around a bend where a group of cottonwood trees grows close against them, I stopped in my sandy tracks. “Dancers,” I thought, “set free in a grand, restored theater.” I could hear music.

I took their photo with a new-to-me Zeiss 35mm manual-focus lens, and in my visual excitement missed critical focus on the largest tree. Not by much, but I can tell. This was a disappointing realization, but I didn’t reflexively hit Delete because my enjoyment of the picture wasn’t (and isn’t) diminished by the technical error.

What I did instead was adopt an old lemons-to-lemonade axiom—when you’re given sauerkraut, put it on a bun, add bratwurst and mustard, and call it a hotdog. For my dancing cottonwoods I discovered that converting the image to monochrome in Photoshop, and then adding a measure of graininess, displayed the spirit I’d felt while capturing it—nothing more and, because I didn’t give up on it, nothing less.

On The Surface of Things

Waiting For A Friend

Best Seats In The House

Tumbleweeds II

I haven't posted this past week and it's not because I was out furiously shopping for Christmas gifts—I only do that for my wife, and I waited until yesterday to start that in earnest. No, I believe my inertia stems from the time of year, a general feeling of disconnectedness I get in the middle of December that carries into the new year. Calendars and clocks are abstract objects, without meaning, and I'm genuinely shocked to learn that today is Christmas Eve. Hey, it IS!

So that's my excu reason for being AWOL, if I needed one. I hope your holiday celebrations, whenever they are, are all that you wished for.

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Getting back to the road…

I didn't title this post Tumbleweeds because I've already used that, in 2007, and it's no coincidence that I was coming into Hanksville at that time, either. For whatever reason I think of them when I'm there.

They're an Old West icon, and like wild mustangs and barbed wire they were brought in from Somewhere Else—in this case stowing away in sacks of flax seed imported from Russia in 1877. If you travel in North America's high deserts you're likely to cross their paths—I often spy them clustered under front bumpers on used car lots, or loitering in abandoned doorways.

They are the drifters of the plant world, "the above-ground part of a plant that, once mature and dry, disengages from the root and tumbles away in the wind" (Wikipedia), always ready to move on with the next breeze.

Sometimes, when they're snagged by a strong fence line, they're content to spend their days in one place, and that's how people in Hanksville strike me. Most I've talked with relocated after bouncing from various jobs, or former lives, looking for a new start, a different horizon, a place apart. Utah Highways 24 and 95 intersect in Hanksville, creating the perfect fence.

Ulrich and I enjoyed our stay, as usual, whether walking around with our cameras or driving out to Destinations (Goblin Valley, Horseshoe Canyon). We've always found something to photograph, if merely to interest ourselves. It's a friendly place, comfortable (I haven't been there during winter, so can't speak to that), but whether I could live there—I don't know.

The answer to that question, as Bob Dylan once said, is probably blowing in the wind.

Boulder

The picture above shows a guide on muleback leading a saddled tour in Bryce Canyon's undulating terrain, and provides a clue to this trivia question: How did residents of Boulder, Utah, get their mail before 1940?

No, that's not a typo—nineteen forty. Well after wagon trains and Indian wars, the U.S. Mail came to Boulder by mule train, and the follow-up answer to "Why?" is simply that it took a while longer to figure out (and build) a paved road in this remote part of the planet Utah—Boulder is said to be the last place in the U.S. to get automobile access.

It still requires careful driving to reach the small hamlet—there are sections of highway with steep drop-offs on either side and no guardrails, but great views—and although we left Bryce Canyon late in the afternoon we'd checked into Pole's Place before sundown.

At the small store/gas pump down the street I enjoyed chatting with the owner, a friendly woman who relocated from the Midwest many years ago. Like other people we'd spoken with since leaving Las Vegas, weather was on the tip of her tongue. Bad weather, mostly, including several inches of rain, and I realized that my hope of driving up to (and through) Capitol Reef National Park on dirt roads—the Burr Trail, and later the Cathedral Loop—would have to wait until another time.

This was certified the next morning when I inquired at the Anasazi State Park Museum (next to the store)—it would be some time, they said, before the roads were repaired, and so there was little else to do in Boulder except have breakfast at the justifiably well-reviewed Hell's Backbone Grill and move on.

It was odd—here we had a bright, blue, sunshiny day, and yet couldn't go too far off the pavement without risking getting stuck. There were a few red ruts marking where others had tried, if I'd needed a reminder. We parked a couple of times as we passed through Capitol Reef, but didn't walk far—perhaps it was the lateness of the day, or disappointment at being denied a landscape we'd anticipated for months, but our pace quickened and we were soon leaving the park, and as the mileposts counted down I don't believe either of us cared. I barely noticed Factory Butte as we passed by.


And then, up ahead, Hanksville came into view.

Bryce Castles

I gave Bryce Canyon National Park a second chance.

During my first stopover there, in 2005, the weather was hot, it being late August, and I was merely one of thousands of tourists crawling over the park. I won't make any ant-like analogies, but I surely felt crowded.

This year the park wasn't on our itinerary but, as we were unable to follow any gravel northwards and would drive within five miles of the entrance, Ulrich and I opted to stop, arriving close to sunset. And where better to go, after securing a room for the night, than Sunset Point?


A seasonal park ranger and several people she'd been leading on a walk were also there, and as that group broke up I asked her about the next day. Where was a good sunrise vantage point, and did she have a favorite short hike? Hands down, she said, Bryce Point was the place to be for sunrise. And if we so chose, the Peekaboo Loop trail was a fine walk afterwards.

She was absolutely right on both accounts. I'd forgotten how many people arise early to greet the sun at Bryce Point, but regardless of the number they're quiet—no roosters in this group. Watching the first sunlight spread across the reddish-orange rock spires induces a reverence that's missing later in the day.


The Peekaboo Loop begins in the parking lot at Bryce Point, so after taking the requisite photos from the point we headed downward. The trail is mostly wide, and did I mention it goes down? Which meant it would eventually go up, leaving us both tired and satisfied after six or so miles.

The views here are extraordinary. Walking among the same fascinating rock formations you've just peered down at from afar offers a truer perspective of how extensive this landscape really is. The colors and contrasts were nearly mind-numbing, the photo possibilities endless. (I've already snuck a trio of shots in in an earlier post, here).

In the cool, shadowy morning light, it was easy to imagine castles in the air.

Set In Stone

Only one thing is impossible for God: To find any
sense in any copyright law on the planet. —Mark Twain

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Forget The Map & Just Drive

All journeys have secret destinations
of which the traveler is unaware. —Martin Buber
You got to be careful if you don't know where you're going,
because you might not get there. —Yogi Berra

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The day after visiting White Pocket, Ulrich and I drove westward to Kanab, Utah, where we'd stayed overnight a week earlier. Normally we don't backtrack, but with unimproved roads washed out in so many places the choice wasn't ours. And besides, I never mind pausing for a day, or even two, in Kanab. Folks are friendly, there's a retro diner that makes a great chocolate Coke, and if you're a photographer you owe yourself a look inside Terry's Camera Trading Company. Especially if you're a film photographer—you'll be amazed by what lies under glass in this tiny shop.

Terry's probably the most honestly enthusiastic photographer I've met—with little or no provocation he'll tell you about the stunning country he lives in and the area's rich history (especially as it relates to the Western movies and TV series filmed near Kanab), and how great the light was yesterday morning when he was out hiking. I was glad to see his Jeep parked in front of the shop when we arrived.

While Ulrich debated whether to buy a new photo backpack, I checked nooks and crannies for any temptations I'd missed before—this is windy country, remember, and things move around. But that day there were no surprises for me, which isn't surprising since the D-word isn't spoken too loudly in the shop. Terry is a 110% film shooter—if he worked for Apple Computer he'd be called an evangelist—and the only things digital he stocks are batteries and memory cards (and not too many of those).

Ulrich finally said good-bye to the venerable Lowepro which had carried his gear around the world, stuffed everything into a well-appointed Tamrac, and we left Terry on the sidewalk where he'd begun discussing printing with another photographer who'd walked up. Just a quick stop for snacks and we were driving north out of Kanab.

While I'd hoped to be cruising lightly over gravel that day without eighteen-wheelers and RVs for company, traffic turned out to be well-spaced and mannered—a perfect fit for tourist photographers like us who will stop on a dime anywhere along the road. This happened more than once, and as the daylight shortened led to another change of plans—Bryce Canyon.

Made In The Shade