You would think it would be easy. I live here, after all. Northern New Mexico, in all its splendor, is right there, outside any door or window, but I can’t remember my last day out. Travel planning, meetings, to-dos, new roof on the house, dishwasher replacement, getting over illness, addressing technical issues, work, and the actual travel itself. It goes by fast, so fast. Scary. I’m still writing last year’s date on my checks, and suddenly it’s summer. Then I see holiday decorations and wonder, what the Hell? Where did it go?
I love maps. I pore over them on a daily basis.
A map of the state hangs on the door to my right. As I look at the map, I think about my upcoming Patagonia scouting trip. I think about whales in Baja. I think about the Wandering Albatross off the fantail crossing the Drake. I think about life out there, beyond the screen and the confines of a working day. I’m happy but restless. I’m curious.
The plan was to get out. An hour and fifteen north. The Caldera. Just get out and up into the hills. I carry a full kit, not just because I think I might use it, but also because I need to feel the weight on my back. I need to feel the extra load in my legs. I need the sweat and the burn. Cold air in, hot on the way out. We start westward and wind up to the burn area, of which there are many. This place is a powder keg, like much of the West, but winter is looming, and the flakes will soon cover this entire area. When we return, it will be on snowshoes.
Turning back toward the vehicle, we see to the south, spilling out of the hills, the legendary elk herd. I saw them on my very first trip here in the late 1990s. Elk love the vast open spaces, good for grazing, but they also love the safety of nearby timber. For the entire time we spend with the herd, they never stop coming. Ones and twos, threes and fours, racing downhill.
Our family history with elk dates back to 1977, when we first landed in Wyoming. My mother made a photograph of a royal bull standing on our back porch. A massive herd hovered near our property, running and retreating across the land. They were eloquent, brutish, and glorious. The only way to get close, real close, was on horseback. Majestic creatures. Watching a bull run through thick timber is the closest to God you will ever be. (Insert whatever deity that suits you.)
As the sun fades, the temperature drops. Cold hands on carbon fiber. Hood up, hat tucked. Arm up and over the lens, balanced precariously on a tripod far too small for the task. The wind buffeting the long glass. I switch from still to motion, still to motion. But mostly I just watch. For a moment, I become a wildlife photographer. A new twist on an old theme. Why not? A glance at the Garmin. Fifteen minutes to closure. A Powerstroke diesel idles by. Fly rods poke from the backseat. Beards and overalls. They too want to stop and take it in. For a moment, just a moment, all is right with the world.
Comments 8
The best times are provided by nature…..no human nonsense just peace and wonder. Thanks for the post.
Author
Totally agree.
Heck yeah Dan. I’ve been trying to cope with the “falll back” that just happened and the dark by 5:30pm that seems to arrive faster every year.
I’m sitting in the waiting room at the VA right now remembering some recent glimpses of interesting light during my morning commutes.
We need to get these current clients moved in, maybe then I can beg a day off.
Heart surgery is scheduled and while that’s an odd relief, it has me re-evaluating some things.
Wow. As far as I know, the heart is fairly important. Take care of yourself.
What’re “checks”?
This ancient script procedure that dates back to the time of the pharaohs.
I live in one of the east cost equivalents of your home, the mountains of Western North Carolina. I’ve stayed here because of my love for THESE mountains, a love that is visceral and often unexplainable. Is it comfort and culture, something I was raised with? Would I feel this way about any old place if I grew up there? But like you I feel the struggle of time passing and not being out THERE. So two weeks ago I loaded up the kids and we went to the Smokies. Oddly enough it was our elk area, where they were reintroduced to the state in 2001. We hiked with no objective and lingered in the woods until the sun slid behind a ridge. That put us back in the car and puttering slowly by the meadow at dusk. What a show! Not the elk, the tourists! 600mm lenses and 200-400mm lenses all bayoneted onto the latest bodies. Carbon and aluminum legs, roof platforms, travel vans and family sedans. All lined up in a row at the shoulder taking the exact…same…shot. I wanted to hate it all but then I watched the people a little more closely. Most weren’t actually photographing. The males started to tussle and bugle back and forth across the valley. The youngest calf wobbled towards the tourists with total naivety. The fall colors were doing their thing and the last vestiges of daylight put on magnificent show. This part of the GSMR was newly reopened from the terrible flood a year prior. EVERYONE stopped when they entered that meadow. We were all caught in the rapture of the moment and it was good. And suddenly I didn’t really care anymore. That moment has inspired a few more days away. With friends and family. Each one has been better than the last. Cheers.
I’m that guy! Z8 and 180-600mm, fussing with buttons that do things I don’t understand. I’ve said this many times, “photography is a curse.”