Go West
The image above was photographed in the summer of 2025 in Canyon De Chelly National Monument, Dinétah (Navajo Reservation), Arizona. I formerly lived and taught school on the reservation and my initial teacher orientation was in Canyon De Chelly. What a magical place it is with towering sandstone cliffs, running river, ancient ruins, and indigenous farms. The Canyon is of special spiritual and historical significance to the Dine’ and is central in their emergence story. To visit the interior of the canyon you need a Navajo guide but the rim (where this was taken) is easily accessible by car (if you happen to be driving through the vast deserts of Arizona and New Mexico).
I arrived at the canyon just after sunrise, but the lighting was already harsh. I took my time and chatted with a couple of Navajo families selling their art at one of the pull offs. I eventually settled on a nice little turtle and stone bracelet for my daughter, because the craftswoman had such a sweet disposition. Really, I was buying her story of how she and her grandmother carved out a simple living by finding little stones and arranging them together. I think there is much to be learned here about art and humanity, but I will save that for another time. As I explored the rim, I found photography challenging but I thoroughly enjoyed my time. At every stop artisans in the back of their truck greeted me with the familiar “Yá'át'ééh” (hello) and their simple kindness.
The massive red walls of the canyons stretched out below me and met the desert floor below, leading down to the narrow green band of trees around Chinle Creek. Crows (I have always called them Navajo spy planes), darted back and forth and the gusts of wind broke through the morning heat. I struggled to find simplicity for a composition but then I looked straight down. It certainly did not capture the grandeur of the place, but to me it captured the tranquility and resilience. The erosional lines through the sand and the sparse but hardy vegetation also perfectly captured the relationships of the high desert, carved by wind, water, and spirit.
Of all the places I have lived, I felt most at home between the four sacred mountains of the Dine’. I do not claim to be Native American, and I certainly approach my time there with great humility, as a visitor should. But there is something about the land and the people that settles my spirit. The environment is so harsh and yet so beautiful, and the people so resilient, yet so kind. I believe Carl Jung was on to something when he talked about how different lands call to us spiritually. At times I feel these lands calling me back for more than just a visit. We shall see.
2/1/2025
Winter Solitude
This photograph was captured on January 22, 2025. We had received almost two feet of snow on Cranberry Ridge over several days and the temperatures were dropping well below zero. My nose and my Eddie Murphy mustache froze over with ice crystals within two minutes of walking out my door. I felt trapped, unwilling to risk going down the unplowed mountain road where I live. I was left with the endless tasks of shoveling snow and roofs so they would not collapse and caring for the wild animals that had come to depend on my corn and sunflower seeds when no ground was visible. Still, there was lots of time to reflect.
I have always enjoyed solitude but after 15 days of almost no human contact (I did manage to make it to the store one day and half a day of work another) I was beginning to get a little stir crazy. Almost all great wilderness writers have come to the same conclusion; solitude is amazing if you eventually have someone to share it with. The reality is that we all need connections. The Internet (it was also not working for most of these days) is a poor substitute for the laughter of friends and family. Our society has pushed us to become increasingly isolated and not in a good way. Certainly, my introversion and the current political turmoil in our country is not helping. Although negative 14 degrees doesn’t support much plant growth, it is still easy for the ivy to grow over the door, metaphorically speaking.
Initially, I struggled internally with this aloneness. It seems that even though I often seek it, when it is thrust upon me unexpectedly, I feel lonely. When I finally began to relax and embrace the rest, I decided to venture out with my camera. Now, this is not nearly as easy as it sounds.
In these conditions, when alone, this terrain can be quite daunting and I take great care not to get hurt or to have my skin freeze to my tripod as it has done before. After getting bundled up and putting on my trusty Cabellas’ boots (I have had the same ones for almost 20 years, since my days as a wilderness therapist in Canann Valley) I headed out. Despite all my caution, on this excursion, I heard the distinct sound of a frozen tree creaking and cracking with increasing intensity. As I urgently searched the canopy, I spotted the large Oak just as it began to fall, very luckily in the opposite direction. Covered with ice and snow it crashed into the surrounding forest and then to the ground with an intensity magnified by the tremors of the earth but even more so by the silence that followed. These are the sorts of things that don’t leave me shaken, just humbled and more aware of the isolation and the harsh beauty of winter. It was then, though, that I decided that I would rather brave the winds of the fields than the forests on this day.
It is hard to set up and work with delicate controls on a camera in these conditions, yet the silence of the winter brings a special beauty. Snow isolated the various subjects around me and provided clarity. As it stood just over the ridge line, this tree was perfectly isolated from everything else. The windblown snow that clung to its bark highlighted the strength of its branches. It stood there alone and unafraid but deeply connected to the earth. Its roots were its strength, and it would endure the storm with beauty and grace. I composed the photograph and felt satisfied to head home to a warm house and a steaming cup of coffee, reminded to remain grounded and connected so that I too could enjoy the isolation and beauty of life.
The Carry
January 22, 2025
Welcome to my blog. This is my very first attempt at blogging so pardon my learning curve. Hopefully, these blogs will help me share with you my process of creating.
I discovered this figure on a lovely hike on the Fairyland Loop Trail in Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah in the summer of 2024. I was on an epic 55-day road trip across America, my first summer off as a teacher. I almost missed this unique outcropping as I had stopped to photograph a rattlesnake (at a comfortable distance) on the opposite bank. It was a special moment to get to watch the creature move through the desert landscape and I was moving away quickly to avoid disturbing it and to keep from drawing the attention of approaching hikers (some people will mess with the snakes which is usually bad for them and the snakes). In any case, I caught a glimpse of the rocks out of the corner of my eye and went around the bend to allow the snake and the hikers some time to pass and then went back to take in the scene.
The outcropping instantly brought me back to the Korean War Memorial in Washington, D.C., and then to Tim O’Brien’s work, The Things They Carried, a brilliant work about soldiers in the Vietnam War. To me though, it represented even more; it beautifully illustrated the burdens and sorrows that we all carry through life. Even when facing an impenetrable-looking wall, with a heavy load, we hold our heads high, feel the sun on our backs, and walk with honor, grateful for all this life holds.
Sometimes for me, art isn’t about finding some grand landscape in the perfect light; it is about
finding meaning where it is least expected. It is about encounters along the path. The ancient rocks certainly held many stories and mysteries and I was excited they chose to share this with me.
I am also elated that two of my very favorite people on the planet purchased metal prints and have them hanging in their spaces Art is a very personal experience but it is always special when someone else connects with it, especially if they are great people.
The outcropping instantly brought me back to the Korean War Memorial in Washington, D.C., and then to Tim O’Brien’s work, The Things They Carried, a brilliant work about soldiers in the Vietnam War. To me though, it represented even more; it beautifully illustrated the burdens and sorrows that we all carry through life. Even when facing an impenetrable-looking wall, with a heavy load, we hold our heads high, feel the sun on our backs, and walk with honor, grateful for all this life holds.
Sometimes for me, art isn’t about finding some grand landscape in the perfect light; it is about
finding meaning where it is least expected. It is about encounters along the path. The ancient rocks certainly held many stories and mysteries and I was excited they chose to share this with me.
I am also elated that two of my very favorite people on the planet purchased metal prints and have them hanging in their spaces Art is a very personal experience but it is always special when someone else connects with it, especially if they are great people.
Kevin
