The Tyranny of Photography - Part 1

I was laid off.

Like so many other companies in the tech industry, mine chose to let a chunk of its workforce go. When I read the email, I had almost no emotional response. I had been struggling with the job, so I suppose it's no surprise I wasn't devastated. But it's hard to feel good about suddenly not having a salary, so I wasn't happy either. I wasn't anything.

If I'd been laid off at any other time, I'd have taken the opportunity to go traveling for a few months. This particular moment in my life, however, finds me dealing with foot issues (plantar fasciitis) that have been unresponsive to physical therapy and every other treatment I've tried. It's hard to walk for more than a few minutes at a stretch. And since the back pain I get from riding in a car is alleviated only by activity, it didn't seem like I'd have very much fun going off on a long trip.

But.

I'd told myself once that if I were ever laid off in winter, I'd go try to photograph Utah's national parks in the snow. I wanted to see the white traces of snow outlining all the mesas and pinnacles of red rock. Why would I want to wait till I was laid off to do this? Why not go anytime? Well, vacation time is limited when you have a job, and if I was going to take some of it, I'd rather go when the weather's nice.

Now my "vacation" time was unlimited. Despite knowing how much it would hurt to drive so far without being able to work the pain out via some hikes, I decided to do at least a little trip. I'd go to Utah hunting snow.

It had indeed snowed recently, though I was late going to see it. At the time I decided to go, I was getting over being sick. (I think having COVID should get you a get-out-of-being-sick pass for the next year, but no such luck.) So I waited a day to get a little better... and then realized I didn't have my drivers' license. I have no idea what happened to it. I never take the thing out of my wallet. I called the two doctors' offices I'd been to in the last week, thinking one of them might have failed to hand me my license back after checkin, but both claimed they didn't have it. So I had to wait one more day for a DMV appointment.

In the meantime, I checked webcams, trying to determine which parks had enough snow remaining to be worth photographing. Then I booked a couple motel rooms, one for the following night in Green River, Utah, and the next for outside Bryce Canyon National Park.

I tend to be some mix of worried and excited before trips, and have always struggled to sleep the night before. In latter years the problem has grown—or I have simply aged into getting less sleep in general—to the point that I sleep barely at all. So it was this time.

But my DMV appointment the next morning was relatively painless (for the DMV, anyway). Equipped with a temporary license, I decided to go rent a knee scooter. My left foot is worse than my right, and this would allow me to get around while keeping pressure off it. I stopped by the medical rental place, picked up a scooter and slid it into the car.

It was a long drive to Green River. Both my back and my heels were killing me as I pulled into a rest stop near the Colorado/Utah border. While I was stretching, I took some photos. That image above is, I believe, the La Sal mountains, just catching the last light of the sun. And snow! Though it was only on north-facing slopes. The sun had completely cleared the rest.

After the sun disappeared it became very cold. I drove the last hour and a half in darkness. Trying to get my bags into the motel using the knee scooter was definitely an eye-opening experience. To my uneducated eyes, the US had always seemed a fairly accessible place. Every business seemed to have those buttons you push to get the doors open, and elevators abounded. Well. The Super 8 had no button. The door threshold was raised, making it hard to get the knee scooter over, and there was no elevator. I had to carry the damn scooter, which weighed 29 pounds, up the stairs with my bags.

This would come to be a theme. In all the businesses I entered, I found only a handful of door-opening buttons. Raised thresholds were common, and for the most part employees would look up to see me struggling with the door then look back down at their phones. I say honestly that I was disgusted by it. I'm only slightly disabled, and (one hopes) only temporarily; the thought that others who aren't as fortunate have to deal with this every day of their lives was horrifying. It made me determined to support whatever accessibility initiatives I can.

When I entered my room I nearly cried. After the trouble of getting there, it would make sense if they'd been tears of frustration. They weren't. It was just such a shock to see the large, clean room, the crisply-outfitted bed, the giant photos above it of the parks I'd be visiting, the microwave and fridge ready for my use.

I am mostly a stranger to hotels and motels. Ninety-five percent of the time I travel, I camp, and that's how I like it. But this time I had tamped down my money fears as well as the subtle, grimy sense of unworthiness that comes from being laid off, and spent the dough. Now I was staring at the conveniences before me and it felt such an unimaginable luxury, too much to bear. All this for me?

Unfortunately, I was too exhausted to stay up and enjoy it. I had to get up early to catch Capitol Reef National Park at sunrise. This is the tyranny of photography. Photos taken in the light of early morning or late afternoon/early evening—the golden hour—tend to look staggeringly better than those taken at other times. And I was here for photography, after all. I set my alarm for 5:30 AM.

I was halfway to Capitol Reef the next morning when the sun began to illuminate my surroundings, which had been a mystery. But there wasn't much to see. The road was lonely, the distant mountains patchworked with snow. The land was empty. I snapped a shot anyway, above.

By the time I got to the park, the golden sunlight was painting the tops of the sandstone bluffs. It was 20 degrees and windy. Taking photos required a certain fortitude.

But where was the snow? Mostly melted, sadly. A little bit remained on the north-facing slopes here, just enough to tease a person with thoughts of what it must have looked like some days ago.

The good thing is, southeastern Utah is pretty even without snow on it.

I saw some petroglyphs.

Incredibly, I also saw a rockslide. I was taking some shots when a strange noise made me turn my head. Rocks were tumbling down a steep face, sending up a huge plume of dust.

Very cool. And a wonderful illustration of a cherished commandment from guidebook author Gerry Roach: "Geologic time includes now."

I saw another interesting thing at that particular stop, this time in the vault toilet: a needle disposal box.

Utah, are you okay?

While I wanted to continue exploring Capitol Reef—I had been there only once, with KT, over twelve years ago—I wanted to photograph the sunset at Bryce Canyon more. So I headed out on a very boring (and what felt like very long) drive past tiny farm towns and over snowy mountains. Once more my back was in agony by the time I arrived.

Thankfully I'd have a place to hit the floor and do my physical therapy exercises. I'd booked at the Best Western Ruby's Inn, which turned out to be extremely fun. The entire town of Bryce Canyon City was pretty tourist trap-y in general, filled with shops that had an almost cartoonish Old West architecture, rock shops, campgrounds where you could rent a teepee, etc. You know the deal. Ruby's Inn had its own general store and restaurant, both of which were about as old west as you could get.

Once again, on entering my room, I felt like I could cry. People made these beds so crisply just for me! Free soap! Hot water! It didn't help that I was completely exhausted, between the lack of sleep the night before my trip and the early rising that day. I wanted to collapse. Still, I found the energy to go out and take some pics of Bryce Canyon.

This turned out to be more difficult than expected. Most of the overlooks were not right off the parking lot, but required going down a trail. I had the knee scooter, but the trails were all iced over. So I left the scooter in the car, put on my micro spikes, and limped out to have a look. It didn't feel very good, but this was why I was here.

The good news is that Bryce Canyon does indeed look very pretty in the snow.

I took a little break, bundled up more and returned for sunset. I didn't time it right and missed the golden hour, but the blue hour is still pretty magnificent.

At the overlook I chose, my only company was a couple who were as bundled up as I was. The man had a big camera on a tripod to occupy him but the woman and I chatted on and off. When we weren't chatting, the silence was remarkable. The moon floated in a completely clear sky. Blue suffused the air and the landscape, and between the hush and the beauty it felt rather spiritual.

I was reluctant to leave, but I was extremely cold. Two shirts, a hoodie, a down jacket, and a wool overcoat and hat were not enough. Finally I gave in. But I enjoyed the thought of the lovely scenery sitting out there all night beneath the stars,by itself, simply being beautiful. Doing what nature does when we're not around.

I needed a lot of sleep, but I would not get it. Sunrise was coming. And so in what felt like only a few hours I was bundling up again—this time with snow pants, and a balaclava under my hat—and heading back out. I reached my chosen overlook to find myself utterly alone. Slowly the sun rose, and being there in the silence and beauty was just wonderful.

I was much warmer this time. I was so comfortable, in fact, that I began to rethink winter camping. Wasn't this nice? Couldn't I do this at any time? and come out when the crowds were much less, the air was brisk and clean, the landscape covered with sparkling snow? I felt invulnerable, and it was thrilling. But it also reminded me of a passage from Watership Down: "Many human beings say that they enjoy the winter, but what they really enjoy is feeling proof against it."

It's true. Coziness is seductive.

When the sun was fully up, I returned to Ruby's Inn, because the breakfast buffet was included in my stay. The hotel restaurant turned out to be just as committedly old west as the rest of the place, with knobby wood posts and old-time country music on the sound system. I ate two full plates and two bowls of food.

Between the glorious park and the fun of the hotel, a big part of me wanted to stay longer. But I'd already booked a nonrefundable reservation for a motel outside Zion National Park the next night. And anyway, there's only so many pictures a person can take of the same orange pillars, especially when that person can't walk very far from the car.

I went back for a little while before heading out, just to capture a couple more pics in the changing light.

It had been a wonderful visit to Bryce. My time at sunset and sunrise, especially, turned out to be a couple of my favorite experiences I've had in nature in recent years. But now I was off for Zion—one of my most beloved national parks—with the faint hope of fresh snowfall tingling in the back of my brain. To find out if that hope was realized, check back soon!