Silent and sturdy, these sentinels stand along the majestic rim of towering cliffs, growing out of solid rock. The author took all of the pictures.
Silent and sturdy, these sentinels stand along the majestic rim of towering cliffs, growing out of solid rock. The author took all of the pictures.
Early in May, I visited the Grand Canyon.
Just that sentence seems to set the stage for breathtaking views and golden light that slopes across interminable abysses. However, I received haze instead. Dense,
Heavy clouds and a thick haze.
This type of light flattens everything, sucks out the color, and covers your plans like a wool blanket.
I had gone there to get some fresh air and perhaps take some pictures. Before the tour buses and selfie sticks, I got there early. There was silence on the roads.
The air is still. However, I realized I wouldn't be taking the typical Canyon photo as I stood on the edge of that enormous area.
That's the problem with photography, and perhaps with life as well. Expectations will cause you to become blind more quickly than fog ever could.
The clouds grew heavier, darker, and started to blot out what little visibility we still had as I made my way across the rim.
Then it started to snow.
Not snow in Buffalo, NY... very tiny flakes that evaporated when struck, yet nonetheless.
I turned my gaze away from the Canyon.
I looked at the rim instead. It was apparent, it was close. It was fascinating.
These gnarled, lone trees, predominantly junipers and piñons, stood alone against the sky, bowed from decades of weather, scattered among the rocks. They weren't impressive. They lacked color. However, they were something.
They looked out over the emptiness like sentinels.
Keep quiet.
Weathered and current.
I therefore made the decision to draw pictures of those trees.
Close. Intentional.
Since color wasn't helping me in that flat light, I turned them to black and white.
All I needed and had to work with was the contrast between bark and sky.
I strive to live by that principle, especially while I'm holding a camera, and that trip reminded me of it. Keep your thoughts and eyes open.
Don't arrive somewhere with a preconceived notion.
The Canyon will act in its own way.
The light will act as it pleases.
Photographically or otherwise, the world owes us nothing.
However, we could just notice what's in front of us if we can clear our minds of what we believe we should see.
Additionally, we may change things up, adapt, discover something new, and perhaps even discover something a little different.
Even while those trees might not be recognizable or "portfolio-worthy," they end up serving as a silent record of the event. It becomes into a marker of how you were as well as where you were.
I view every trip I take, especially if it doesn't go as planned, as a chance to improve my future trip strategy. I remained open enough to see a photo even when the "good" ones weren't accessible, not because I got it.
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