paulbestockphotography

When are we going to Utah?

Not this year - it's too far, it's too hot, the
drive will be totally boring ....

But everyone says we have to, and we keep
saying we will.

So we did. Paul researched the routes and
Victoria researched the weather, and after
putting it off for one more year, we went.

We left on a Sunday, and choose to stop first
at Champoneg State Park in Oregon, a park
we had often rejected for being too RV
friendly. We usually go first to Silver Falls,
being mildly addicted to waterfalls. But we had
left even later than usual, furthering our credo
that there were no schedules, comfort was
the rule, we were not going to be in any hurry.
As an omen, the camp was a most pleasant
surprise. It was RV friendly, but there were
few folks there, and amenities are amenable. It
had the Willamette River. There are miles of
trail along the river, and through the woods,
and the river was calm and the cabins across
were most inviting to the camera. The rythym
for the next weeks began to form: a lovely
dinner, a short walk, a pleasant nite, Paul's
early morning walk, breakfast and a major
walk. Then staying or moving on.

We left next morning after a long walk,
stopping at Rogue River State Park. We never
want to stop here. We always stop here. In
the very old old days, when we were pressed
for time and left Seattle at some ungodly early
hour, we would get to northern California for
the first nite. In the not so old days, we left a
little later and Paul couldn't see straight by
the time we got to southern Oregon, and
there was never anywhere interesting that
hadn't closed for the season. Rogue River
was always right there just off the road, and
we could be totally tired and we knew that the
camping would be really easy, no unhooking,
no leveling, easy power and water. With the
right combination of sun and fog it could even
be pretty. It's OK for an early morning walk,
but after breakfast only a short walk because
the next stop is much too inviting.

Next was the Fowler Campground on the
McCloud River, one of our favorites. It is
always close to empty when we get there in
October, and we have our choice of spots in
relative seclusion. To walk west and south
takes you to the Lower Falls in 15 minutes,
where you can hang out forever as the light
and the water keep offering new perspectives.
You can walk past the falls, doing a longish
loop above the river looking down, and
returning along the river looking in. Walking
east you hug the river, going first to the
Middle Falls, walking up to look down at the
falls and river below, and continuing to the
Upper Falls. We walked through the sunset,
did the early morning and major daytime
hikes, spent another night, and another
morning.

We left the McCloud and moved on down,
through the bird santuary, wishing again that
the migratory patterns would shift if only for
one year so we could see more of them. There
were a few more this year, but we didn't stay
long. We continued on to our way station
along the Sacremento, at Woodson Bridge, a
campground filled with gorgeous oaks and
few people. The campground comes at the
right time; we can spend most of the day
along the McCloud, see the birds, get there at
night for an easy pull in, walk at night under
the oaks, and stroll a bit along the river in the
morning. We can leave at a comfortable time
and get to dance camp near Santa Cruz at a
reasonable hour, to set up in the daylight and
reconnect with folks.

Which we did, and then we danced and played
music and hung out with friends.

On Sunday we left the music and went to my
brother's in Los Altos. This is as close as we
ever come to a resort experience. My
sister-in-law is a gourmet cook, the house is
set at the end of a dead end street and a dead
end creek, and the hot tub under the stars
after the weekend of dancing is sheer
pleasure. In the morning my brother and I play
tennis, the oldest singles players in sight,
though neither of us see very well now.

After tennis we started in earnest. We chose
the southern instead of the northern route.
We'd have gone across through Yosemite but
the pass had already closed with some early
heavy snowfall. The northern route was
fascinating, but really really empty, they said.
The southern route was really boring, they
said.

They may have been right about the north,
but they were wrong about the south. The
drive did start boringly enough, and the
tension grew as we looked for a campground.
The most promising on paper was in the town
of ___, but we couldn't seem to get there from
anywhere. Either AAA had it wrong, or we
were even more tired than we thought. So we
went on, and the night came. Red Rock
Canyon was on the map and in the book; it
had a nice sound to it but it was a bit too far
off the road. Still, the next possibility was way
too far down the road, so off we went. The
road was better than we thought, and the
campground seemed empty and had a wierd
feeling to it. But we drove around, opted for
the easiest spot we could find, had a great
dinner, and passed out.

We awoke in Wonderland. The campground
was in a desert valley surrounded by
magnificent walls of beautiful rock. Desert has
never held a strong fascination for us; the
notion of strong sun, heat, dust, and overlay
of brown did not attract. But we had never
immersed ourselves before. The sun was
strong; what that meant was that the sunrise
and sunset were incredible. On the ocean and
in the Cascades those times have always been
my favorites; here they took on totally
different dimensions. The land became a
kalaidescope, the color of the rock would
change every five minutes, and the powerful
shadows were constantly shifting. I found
myself photographing shadow as much as
color, always somewhat frustrated that when I
stood here I was missing the color and shape
there. The early walk in the sunrise was a joy,
and we spent the day walking and driving and
walking, and deciding to stay another night.
We planned where we'd need to be at sunset,
and loved being in what seemed the most
beautiful spot on earth with literally no one
anywhere in sight. The truck in that empty
parking lot never looked so splendid.

The next morning we decided to stay for a bit
longer. There was this trail on the right that
seems to go around these rocks in front of us,
and that trail way over there on the left must
be where it ends. How far, how high, could it
be? The long and short of it is, of course, that
it could be quite long, quite high, quite
unmarked, filled with spider trails leading
nowhere - and presenting some spectacular
views as well as challenging terrain. We got
lost, got found, got back, and the stress level
rose but stayed within bounds.

One of the most fun moments of the trip was
learning that if we had found the campground
we originally sought, not only would we have
missed the glory that we did find, but we
would have been stranded a while because of
a major dust storm that had closed the
highway! But it was reopened in fine sunshine
the next day as we headed toward Utah.

Timing is all, and the right place at the right
time seemed to be Valley of Fire State Park, in
Nevada. After a Red Rock Canyon, could we
pass up a Valley of Fire! Again we got there an
hour too late, and this time there was no
empty campground. It was close to full - what
did people know that we did not? We found
out the next morning - looking out the window
at dawn, it was clear that this could not be my
usual alone-walk time. Victoria had to see this.
I won't describe it - but the dozens of photos
we took do little justice to the red red red rock
that was surrounding the campground,
blazing in the sunrise.

So we spent the day and another night. The
park has a sense of vastness, while at the
same time we could do almost all the trails
that were within our range in little more than a
day. So we walked all day, scoped out the
best sunset spot, arose for another sunrise.
We had found two magnificent parks along
this supposedly boring route, and of course
heard about several more that we simply have
to visit the next time. But this day we really
were going to Zion.

It was easy to bypass Las Vegas, and every
other oasis strewn along the freeway in
Nevada. Each one had a more ludicrous
gambling resort than the last. Then Utah, then
Zion. Zion is as splendid as they say, maybe
more so. The outstanding feature is the
Valley, the long fabulous valley with the river
cutting through. It was designed by the gods
as a tourist and hiker mecca, and some of the
more intelligent humans built upon the design.
The river goes up the valley, and now the road
goes up the valley. At a half dozen or so
places along the river and road are minor
valleys leading into and up the walls of the
canyon, and now there are trails going up
these canyons. Some are for tourists,easily
accessible, others are for hikers, and less so.
All are uniquely spectacular. Autos had once
choked the road, and now the cars have been
replaced by mandatory shuttle buses. They
run from an hour before sunrise to 2 hours
after sunset, every 7 or 8 minutes. And thus
we spent one full day starting early, riding to
the furthest point, and hiked the trail upriver
as far as we could. (But not as far as those we
envied who had mostly rented their wet suits
and sticks and boots and walked into the
river, upriver.) Then it was the shuttle to the
next stop, and the next hike. We stopped at
every stop, doing at least one piece of the trail
up one side of the canyon or the other. We
played both tourist and hiker.

The canyon has also been designed with
photographers in mind. In the morning you
stand behind the museum, a short distance
from the campground, and look west as the
sun rises and the shadows descend.
In the evening you go to the bridge, a
moderate walk from the campground and the
second stop for the shuttle. On the bridge you
hang out with the other tripods and look
downriver to the Watchman, or look up river
to the walls being framed by the burning
clouds. And you keep clicking away as the
light keeps changing.

There is more to Zion than the canyon, and we
spent a day driving to the eastern end, in
search of some red to augment the mostly
yellow that marks the transition to Fall here.
Four nights in Zion, cold, clear, splendid. It
was unique, and yet there was still a sense of
familiarity. The rocks were wonderfully
colorful, but they were rocks and we have
hiked in rocks. And the valleys had their
unique creeks and waterfalls, but we know
creeks and waterfalls. It was hard to leave, but
we knew that when we were back home in the
Cascades there would be rocks and creeks
and waterfalls that would remind us of parts
of Zion.

Then we went to Bryce, and entered a world
we had never before encountered.

From the outside and even from topside,
Bryce seems mostly wierd and out of place.
Getting there, you go through desert. Flat,
brown, plain. Rocks and mesas stick up, but
they rarely seem integrated. Bryce is another
of these outcroppings, randomly placed. The
entrance is through Ruby's Inn, a few acres of
Great Western motel and store and fake
frontier village and RV park. Then the park
begins, and the campground is close by. It's
very pleasant, looks like many national park
campgrounds, empty enough, but with
nothing to indicate Bryceness. We set up, and
drove the road (the shuttle system is here
also, but shut down for the season) to its end.
We parked, walked out, and looked over,
lloked over to some other world. Whoever
designed this one had a very different
aesthetic than the designer of Zion. Bryce is
set down there; from above, you see it, but
beyond you still see the rest of the world, the
desert, the flat and the brown, even a town 5
or ten miles away, and of course more mesas
and rocks strewn about. But what's down
there is bizarre. As kids (of any particular age)
you go to the beach, pick up some wet sand,
stand up, and let the sand dribble down.
When it dribbles to some uncertain height it
stops growing tall and grows randomly
sideways. Some of these shapes are intesting,
some not, some ask to be reshaped into
castles or faces or walls. With enough time
and other kids, the shapes can be
transformed into elaborate structures, and
communities.

As gods, of some particular manifestation, you
go up to some equivelent of Olympus, look
down, and find the right combination of
sandstones and rock. Now, however, instead
of dripping sand down, you get some rivers to
flow over the sandstone. You essentially drip
the rock and sand up by washing the less
strong stuff down. The effect is the same as
the beach, but bigger. Much, much bigger.
The sand bugs can walk through the beach
sandcastles, and we can walk through the
Bryce sandcastles. And while the tide will
wash away the beach stuctures in a few
hours, at Bryce it takes somewhat longer to
build and longer to wash away.

Looking down into Bryce is an experience of
ooohs and ahhhs. At sunset and sunrise the
colors and shapes change, over there is the
sense of grandeur, over here the sense of the
unique particular. Walking into Bryce and
facing down and up and across, seeing
nothing of the world beyond, is to have
walked through the closet into Narnia. This is
a world disconnected to any other. The
animals are there too; every third hoodoo is
another beast, some close to human.
Surprisingly, there is some green, trees
scattered here and there, and enough dead
trees to help me feel somewhat in familiar
territory. But sand becomes what snow
seems to be for Eskimos; i comes in an infinite
number of colors.

So we stayed a while. Every sunrise, every
sunset, what seemed like every hoodoo.
Photographing here is absurd; you want to
see it all, but there is no all. You can look at
one hoodoo for ten minutes or ten hours, and
it is always changing. And the next one is
exactly like the other one, but what can it
mean, to be like the other one. I have
hundreds of hoodoo photos - let me show you
this, no, that one. Good grief: I don't want to
show you any. They all look exactly alike. And
is this photo any better, or even different,
than any others of mine or for that matter any
others of anyone else's. The best way to
photograph Bryce is to close your eyes, point
the camera somewhere, and press the button.
It's also the best way to experience it. Choose
a trail, any trail, start walking, and every
random 2 minutes or 6, stop and focus your
eyes.

We had one more thing to do. We had driven
past yet another Red Rock Park before
entering Bryce, and we needed to spend a
day. The Ranger said "this is the hike for
you...". It wasn't. The weather was perfect,
the views were perfect. And the trail was
disastrous, too much shale, too steep in
parts. The climax was the staircase, up the hill
to ... We never found out. It was our only
turnback of the trip. We went to another area,
this one for folks of all ages. The folk to which
they referred must have been mountain goats.
But this one we did do, at sunset, in the midst
of real red reds, and if the footing was
slippery the views were solid. We celebrated
with a lovely dinner at The Pines, our first and
only restaurant meal of the trip.

We left the next day, finishing with a morning
hike that we had done during the day, doing it
in reverse direction. Which meant of course
that every hoodoo was in a different place in
different light at a different angle - which
means an extra few dozen photos.

And then it was over, but for the 2 1/2 days of
driving. One night in a sterile RV campground
because it was very late, and another at a
beautiful park, empty in the bitter and clear
cold.

On to the next: Yosemite in the early spring?
The coast? Do we stay in central California so
we can do Monte Toyan and the Oakland Ball?