Desert Abstract

Photos by Trina and Greg

Narrow Minded

Words by Greg
Photos by Greg and Trina

We live in the wide West in a wide valley with wide views. It has become an easy habit to look up from our daily lives, to scan the distant horizon of mesas and cliffs, to let our eyes sweep across the sky and clouds, to note what surrounds us, and by that to note our own position within the expanse of changing light, shadow and weather. We like to think we take the broad view.

But the wide landscape that surrounds us is rich with smaller, more hidden places. Places where the slide of gritty water has carved away stone over time and left passageways where walls tower above. Some of these passages are the large canyons where rivers flow, where we often float or wander. Others are smaller and only graced with water infrequently. A very few are so tight that they reduce our view to nothing more than the closeness of walls and a slim stripe of sky above. Close enough that our eyes can narrow and we can use other senses. The coolness of shadowed stone. The cathedral crunch of gravel under foot. The muddy smell of puddles in close places, of dust rising slowly . The intimate touch of crowding walls, one hand on one wall, one hand on the other.

The virtue of narrowness can lie in a focus that brings out otherwise unnoticed details. Or in a clarity of direction, since choices are reduced to either forward or back. Or in a boost to determination, as obstacles must be confronted directly since there is no easier way around.

We spent two days exploring the undulating curves of narrow canyons, the pulse and squeeze of digested stone. Perhaps we were focused. Perhaps decisive. Perhaps determined. And after, we emerged again into the wider world, an open sky above. The spinning planet turned our faces toward the night and spiraled the stars above the red coals of our campfire.

We sat between the warmth of that tiny fire and the cold, distant heat of those burning stars. Perhaps we exist in a harsh world of too many tough choices. Yet we try to take the broad view. We try to realize that our time is limited. Our influence small. The directions we choose may lead us around dark corners into places where we'd rather not go. Or lead us to moments of clarity and happy surprise. And that it's unlikely that we will know which choice will lead where.

That night we chose the simple pleasure of snuggling together, small dogs between us, sand under our backs, and a wide, open sky above. It was easy to note our position within the changing moonlight and shadow around us. Yet no landmark could hold us there for long.

Putting the Garden to Bed

Text by Greg
Photos by Trina and Greg

The autumn of the high country has slipped down the slope to find us in the garden. We've been harvesting bright tomatoes and the last of the outdoor herbs. We've gathered the last peppers, greens, eggplant, grapes and apples. Soon the nights will freeze hard, and soon after we'll bring in the last of the root crops.

The hardy greens have been banked with compost and leaf mulch where they may keep feeding us into the early cold weather. But the summer plants have been pulled out and Trina has cleaned out her water gardens -- the water lilies prepared to go dormant in the cold.

There is still work to do. But for the most part, the garden is finished for the season. Tucked away. Put to bed.

Inside the warm house, in jars, in the freezer, as sauces, as pickles, the garden bounty remains to remind us of the warmth of summer in each precious bite.

High Fall

Words and photos by Greg

The sun is swinging further southward through the sky each day. Morning and evening are marching toward each other, shortening the daylight hours by minutes from one day to the next. The season is sifting downward from above. High peaks have worn -- and shrugged off -- their first winter white. The shoulder mountains are warning of the change in blazing colors of caution as leaves flash and fall, showering the trails with golden payment on the path toward winter.

It is a fleeting season, and some years, more fleeting than others. To stand in one place and watch it pass makes it seem to pass more quickly. So we keep ourselves in motion. We install ourselves in a transitory moment with the hope that our speed will somehow draw out more of what we seek: to linger in a moment while moving through it.

A paradox, of sorts. Yet in this instance it may be possible. These autumn colors, high on the mountain slopes, are spilling downward. Tumbling along creek beds and pouring toward the valleys below. Color will spill from the aspen trees, through the slopes of oak brush, downward to willows and meadows, then pour along the cottonwood edges of rivers that carve themselves into desert canyons.

It is a season in motion, from high to low. Right now we revel in the high fall of aspen trees and pointed pines. But if we're clever, we'll be able to follow the moment, follow the motion, and linger in the colors of fall as they move forward into the weeks ahead.