Adventure: Long Before the Fire

I was there alone. Head down, working on a project about the American West. You could say it’s still ongoing, but the heartbeat is faint and fading. No time for such things now. I’d been scouring the South Rim, looking for something I couldn’t quite describe. A feeling, perhaps, knowing the story is there but just outside my grasp. There was a rumor of a massive new development, designed to take thousands of people to the bottom of the canyon each day. The project was a bad idea all around, but men with power and money who live in faraway places don’t care about bad ideas. They care about shareholders and maximizing profits. Locals be damned.

This wasn’t fire season. This was the fringe of winter, so fire wasn’t high on my mind.

I loaded up the Leicas and Hasselblad and searched for defining moments. This wasn’t that long ago, but it feels like another life. A life before the umbilical cord of the mobile phone, endless email, text messages, and the numerous other distractions that permeate our lives. Thinking back, I remember focusing. That’s what it feels like. I could focus then in a way that feels nearly impossible now.

I was on foot when the tree exploded. There was no fire anywhere near it, but the burst and showering of embers was undeniable. I ran to set up my tripod as I heard, “Run, run, run, leave the area,” from a bullhorn over my shoulder. A forest service employee trying to keep idiots like me from the mouth of the fire. This shouldn’t be happening. Snow on the ground, but flame emerging from the Earth.

This moment changed the feel of the entire project, as if one of those embers had embedded itself in my mind. A light from the darkness, fading as the gloom began to creep from the edges. It was impossible to see the canyon and the human interaction in the same way. We were the fire. Humanity edging in on all that’s left. Ninety percent of visitors to the Grand Canyon never leave the road. Ninety-five percent never go below the rim.

I returned home and started the edit, sequence, and design. Not for you, just for me. Trying to make sense of what I’d seen. I could not shake the spontaneous fire. The approaching night, and a tipping point. That was it. That’s what it felt like. A tipping point. Invisible to most, but front and center for those with curious eyes. A countdown began.

I returned the next day. Spot fires and smoke. Walking through ash and charred remains. The fire had been contained. Tourism resumed, and the sky cleared. I had plenty of time to explore and think. The images form a massive puzzle in my mind. This was only a single chapter in the story, a single location, but it requires space and thought. It requires print.