Epilogue.
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Let’s start from the end. My most recent winter trip to Zion was by far my most important of the many trips I’ve taken since moving away from Southern Utah. Back to basics in terms of my gear, near non-existent conditions each day in the park, and a whirlwind of indecision and doubt clouding my mind. At the end of day one, I wanted to stop doing photography altogether. At the end of day five, I had more of a reason to continue. On these trips I take, Zion is the exclusive setting. When I complain of a lack of conditions or ‘doing the same routine’ day to day, I stay in Zion, despite the suggestion ‘why don’t you go somewhere different?’ I get from folks. Zion is a main reason for me being here nowadays, and that in turn is the main reason I feel as if I need to honor it from beginning to end each day of each trip. This trip ended a bit different though.
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After a final day of not much but overcast skies and wind in Zion, I took the suggestion I hear time and time again. Tucked away in the endless horizon at the border of Southern Utah and Arizona is a hidden gem of a place. Coral Pink sand dominates the landscape surrounding a gnarled old friend I met back in the origins of my learning photography alongside depression and suicidal ideation. The wind that day was the strongest I’ve experienced, and would whip up mini hurricanes across the dunes. Sunlight, wind, and sand beat down on me as I snapped a quick shot of my old friend embracing the conditions. A fitting end to a trip in a place that again gave me purpose to not end it all, and keep on going.

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Scratch.
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Woke up early on my wedding day, probably due to the two hour time difference from Rochester, in a cozy bed at my parents house in Southern Utah. I had an itch of excitement to visit Zion, much like I do every morning on my fall and winter trips to the park. I figured I could keep it quick and maybe do a short visit to the east side for sunrise. The routine of packing up of my gear and grabbing my thermos of coffee for the road felt second nature, only this time I had to say goodbye to my soon-to-be-wife Tessa with a kiss. The early morning drive to Zion is a simple commute of quiet and darkness, and one I’ve come to enjoy. After making a promise to be back at the house for setup by 10am, I ultimately decided to cut the lovely drive short and sneak into Kolob Canyons 15 minutes away from the house instead of the full drive to Zion. This allowed for more time to breathe in the atmosphere of the park, and maybe even do a bit of a walk among the landscape.
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The quintessential Southern Utah hike. An absolute favorite of mine among the borders of Kolob. Characterized by wildly pink reflected light, a calming low to high elevation climb, and that cozy feeling of warmth that the canyons of the park provide so well. Getting out of bed doesn’t feel so bad when Zion’s sandstone walls are there to comfort me for the rest of the day. After a few bends in the trail I stumbled upon this scene I’ve studied before, only this time I found a fitting composition. A blue spruce clinging to a wall of scratched sandstone. Simple and worth the time. Hours passed by quick, and soon I descended down the trail happy to have had the morning that scratched the Zion itch.

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Comfort.
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I’m not one to eat all my meals in a day, but I do make it a point to eat lunch in the park on my trips to Zion. As unimpressive as that sounds, wait until you find out that I actually eat three square meals each day when I’m on these trips. Wild, I know, but this is a topic I don’t often talk about. A simple, good thing like a sandwich may seem frivolous to some, but my history of minor eating disorders still controls a lot of my comfort with food. Eating too much, not eating enough. I know full well that my creativity struggles when I’m hungry, yet I still struggle to shake the discomfort in myself when I satisfy that hunger.
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Halfway through my first day of my most recent winter trip to Zion, I found myself done with the main canyon for the day around noon. Up the switchbacks of SR-9 to the east side I went to find a spot for a rest and some sustenance. A goal for me on this trip was to eat out in and amongst the landscape, and not hidden away in the rental car like previous years. It was a simple choice that brought me back to the origins of my time exploring Zion. I used to always use the park as an escape from my brain, and this trip was no different, just now with a better mental state. After a bit of nourishment, I continued along the main wash and stumbled upon an anomaly in a section of ice. A thick frost layered upon layer of itself creating a fluffy texture to the ice. For a few hours I studied the abstracts at my feet until I spotted this humble maple leaf consumed by the intense frost surrounding it, so intense that it appeared as if the frost somehow created the leaf in ice. I felt comfort just observing this scene of two seasons welcoming and embracing each other, and glad I had a bite to eat before finding it.
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Stifle.
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I need to begin photographing for myself again. I think honestly and humility are key in moments like this, and I’m no stranger to being open with my emotions. I unfortunately throw my heart and soul into photography competitions, and at this point I’m feeling as if it has stifled something in me. In my origins of learning photography while suffering from suicidal depression and exploring Zion for the first time, photography was purely for me and me only. That pure nature to learning and being creative made me the photographer I am today, but nowadays I chase the recognition and notoriety of competitions. I do still have two prominent goals still remaining that I’d like to achieve in my photographic career. One is to win a competition, and the other is to judge a competition. It’s these goals that almost feel like they’re impeding me and my creativity, so much so that a major point of taking two trips to Zion in fall and winter is to come away with ‘award-winning’ images for competitions, despite the subjective nature of judging photography in general.
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I took this image on the second to last day of my most recent fall trip to Zion. In a quiet side wash of the east side on a chilly afternoon sat a pool of water still with a frozen surface from the colder temperatures of the night before. The litter of fall scattered across the ice hid a solemn understanding that life is sometimes stifled and beautiful things are often either restrained or simply die. A butterfly fused into the ice sat among carcasses of other insects surrounded by a symphony of fading leaves of a departing season. A humbling moment of realization.
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Acknowledge.
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Photographing good light has always been a failing for me. I obsess over subjects and composition, filling the frame, and making sure the borders and corners of an image are as perfect as they can be. Often the thing that falls out of focus in the end is the importance of light. Zion is known for its evocative reflected light and while I do utilize that as much as I can, my images don’t seem to acknowledge that light. Recently, I feel as if I’ve become a ‘one-note’ kind of photographer taking the same unvarying humdrum collection of images day by day on these trips. This past fall trip to Zion in particular has shown me that I truly need to branch out from the more simple small scenes, and embrace the bigger picture.
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I was searching for images that would transport me back into a memory, and often the best way to find those images is to put myself in areas of the Zion I seldom visited in the past. After a beautiful morning spent picking up litter around the main canyon, I was due for a short afternoon adventure on the east side. I made my way to a side wash that evokes mystery and suspense due to multiple difficult albeit maneuverable choke stones and the overall feeling of being watched as I climb. I call this area the ‘mountain lion housing project’ due to the sheer amount of nooks and caves that make for perfect spots for big kitties to rest. The bones of bighorn and deer scattered throughout the length of the wash really add to the unsettling ambiance. Eventually, I found myself face to face with this beautiful maple basking in the warm reflected light as the walls narrowed to the end of the canyon. Height and framing was key, but most important was the light. The strength of the light was almost palpable, and slowly crafted a memory as I acknowledged the warmth around me.
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Attraction.
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Watching the warm morning light creep down the towering walls of Zion's main canyon is a pleasure to witness. I made it a point on this fall trip to slow down, and remember what made me fall in love with this place years ago. Sure depression forced me to find an attraction to this place when I desperately needed a lifeline and something to obsess over, but Zion’s many charms quickly seeped in and embedded into my mind. The peaceful atmosphere of reflected light, the comforting feeling of coarse cold sandstone brushing against my hands, the solemn nature between the walls; Zion is good company and an old friend. I biked into the main canyon on the first two days of the trip; an early start, and a chilly ride. While the first day became more of a reunion for the park and I, the second was more fruitful for photography. I’d stop at my usual spots, mainly to catch my wheezing breath and rest my incredibly out-of-shape body. I’d peer down from the fringes of the road as the bike creeped along looking out for anything that seemed unique and interesting. The natural oils were out in full force this year presumably due to the recent rain and flooding. I dropped the bike and walked along a game trail until I hit the edge of the Virgin River. Stumbling over the boulders, I approached a wealth of oil suspended in small pools at an outcrop and began studying the small abstract landscapes at my feet.
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After a few failed attempts I finally settled on this celebration of light, oil, and nature’s blemishes. A natural frame filled to the brim with warm reflected light confining the stunning motion in the cool toned oil. A wonderful attraction between color and movement at the ground beneath my feet. I thanked the scene for being there, and continued on not knowing another surprise was waiting just around the bend.
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Reverence.
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Day one of what turned out to be quite the trip to Zion. I started the day with coffee and breakfast at a favorite viewpoint of mine simply watching the morning light creep down the canyon walls. It’s the little things that Zion does well in my opinion. Sure the grandeur of the park is breathtaking, but the details nestled between the cozy sandstone walls speak with more volume. My belief is you have to enjoy the park just a little bit sad, but more of a respectful sad. It’s that tinge of reverence that mirrors the park so well, and allows for a deeper viewing. I sat there looking into my coffee with a strong belief that I wasn’t going to come away with many photos from this trip, oh how wrong I was. As the light continued to fall into the canyon I noticed plenty of green trees, and a distinct lack of fall color. I rounded a few bends of the Virgin River and found myself in an area I explored in fall the year before. A wealth of natural oils from decaying plants, animal, and bug carcasses dominate this area and provide ample opportunities for photographs. It’s an area I would come to focus on more and more as the trip went on.
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A simple leaf in oil among all the majesty of Zion around me, but it was more than that. I sat with this scene for a couple hours watching how the light affected it. Opposite me was a massive sandstone wall providing warm reflected light with cool toned ambient light from the clear sky above. I angled the camera low to bring the leaf into the cool, and allowed the warm to embrace the top of the frame. More concentrated oils around the leaf took on the warmth and gave a look of flames coming off the leaf. I thanked the scene for being there and continued to bask the reverence of this special place. 

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Soothe.
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‘Well enjoy yourself, I used to do the same thing you’re doing. Now I use my IPhone. About the only thing that (pointing to my camera) is good for is timed exposures.’ As I was photographing this scene, a man walked up to the side of the creek opposite me said only these words and walked away. Not only is it a misguided and unsolicited statement, but it didn’t help my already shaky mental state on this most recent winter trip to Zion. There was a bitter resentment behind his words, almost as if he experienced some hardship in his photographic career. That or he simply felt the need to attempt to bring another photographer down to his level of thinking. I really wanted to take a jab at him for saying ‘timed exposures’, because every photo is a timed exposure, but I’m assuming he meant ‘long exposures’. The people I ran into on this trip really were putting on a clinic on how to not shut up. On so many occasions I would stumble into people and they simply felt the need to utter statements akin to this. I get it though, I’m here for peace and quiet and to avoid people, but how are they going to know that. 
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Now I spent hours with this scene of ice and bubbles caught in a seemingly impossible path over a flowing creek watching how the light affected it, and how the freeze would transform over time. I stood there with my camera atop my tripod, and appreciated this small scene at my feet. Could I do this with an IPhone? Of course. Would that be at all enjoyable to do for hours on end? Probably not. Scratch that, it would be horrible. There’s something to the process of photography through the combination a camera, lens, and tripod. It’s soothing for me, and it helps put my mind at ease. It’s an extension of myself, and my creativity. As the kids say: ‘don’t yuck my yum’.
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Care.
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Back in 2019 I was exploring Zion for the first time while my mind was eating itself. I’m a broken record about it at this point, but my depression is pretty central to who I am and how I approach photography. I wouldn’t be a photographer without both my depression and suicidal ideation guiding the types of scenes and compositions I look for. I sadly have a lot to thank my suicidal depression for. I remember back then the only scenes I cared about finding were fleeting light kissing areas of the canyon as the sun creeped across the sky. I never got that photo I was after back then, and the simplicity of just exploring a place for the first time soon took over the images I was coming away with. Everything was new, everything was exciting, and everything helped distract me from putting a bullet through my head.
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I was bored. I know I shouldn’t be bored on like the second day of my most recent winter trip to Zion, but I was bored after eating lunch at a bend in the Virgin River that I call ‘heron bend’. I looked up at the massive sandstone walls above me to find the afternoon light grace a pine tree that I’ve photographed what feels like forever ago. The sheer timing and angle of light on the scene felt like a one in a million chance. In the moment I realized what I was photographing. An image of something I cared to get so deeply, yet never attained in the origins of my work. I thanked the walls and this lonesome pine for looking out for me and comforting me when I needed it most.
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Hold.
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This most recent fall trip to Zion was meant to be a lesson in taking my time and letting the park lead the way. On previous fall and winter trips to Zion, I’ve felt that I tend to rush and fail to really take hold of the landscape around me. Luckily over the course of this trip, I surprisingly did succeed in taking moments slowly and savoring the subtle solemn beauty of the park. Day one began as it often does on these trips, watching the morning light slowly creep down the walls of the main canyon before exploring the Virgin River and eventually finding my way to the quieter higher elevations on the east side of the park. I took it easy and moseyed around each bend of the main wash with more of a daydreaming-esque calm pace. Eventually I found myself hugged by the reflected light given by the close walls and stands of fall color around me. I was focusing on the ground below me when a quaint scene of care and love entered my view.
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I initially dismissed this scene and continued down the wash, mainly due to the thought that this might’ve been placed by another photographer. I did return and find that the type of leaves, placement, and amount of sand covering the leaves was not consistent with a manipulated scene so I decided to give it a go. Two leaves of an oak and a sapling of some sort taking hold of each other within a circular nook of a boulder gave a feeling of safety that I was looking for. Reflected light was almost palpable around me, and brought all the elements together while spotlighting such a beautiful moment of tenderness and warmth.
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Reminiscence.
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This past winter trip was a good trip. I was actually surprised at how well it went. I went in with low expectations; I figured there’d be no ice, temperatures would be far too hot, and Zion would be infested with people. I’m glad I didn’t get my hopes up, because it gave my mind a bit of a breather when I arrived. It was a Zion reminiscent of those cold winter days when I was just beginning to explore the park for the first time. Day one was exhausting to say the least. I woke up early and ran between different areas the park erratically until the sun set. Chasing the fear of missing out on something, and that was a problem. Nothing seemed to be enough, and I figured there’d be something better around each bend. While I was thrilled to find the snow melt freeze into ice, most of the ice was pretty awful. Sun-blasted hard snow dusted with red sand engulfed the boulders of the main wash on the east side, and ice was struggling to form. By the end of the day the lack of good ice began to sting a bit. Despite the exhaustion, I rounded one more bend and found what I was chasing.
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A moment reminiscent of another special moment. At my feet laid a scene of stunning movement directly influenced by another scene I shot in the past; a scene I was hoping for. Back in the beginning of 2020 I photographed a scene I called “Special”. It was an image that won multiple awards, and ignited my love to photograph small details particularly with ice. Concentric lines in various freezes sweep across the frame all anchored by a single oak leaf caught in the motion, and frozen in place as it breached the surface. This scene shared many similar elements that made “Special” so special, and ignited a drive in me to push myself harder on this trip.
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Definition.
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I was surprised with the amount of scenes I photographed on this past fall trip to Zion. It was almost non-stop photography, and that in turn meant that I wasn’t breathing in the park as much as I wanted to. It’s a give and take in times like that because of course it’s nice to come away with photos, but also a bit painful to not fully embrace the place I love most. It was this photo that changed everything I thought I knew about these trips to Zion. I pretty much shot zero fall color as the main subject across the days of exploration, and mainly focused on the subtlety of fall color affecting the landscape around it. This is a photo I’ve always wanted from Zion. This is a photo that defines a trip, or rather defines a place. They’re photos that are not necessarily favorite photos, but rather definitions of what a place represents.
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I had just finished my first morning in the main canyon chasing scenes of natural oils in order to get my appetite going for the coming days in the park. Up I scurried the switchbacks of SR-9 to the east side for a bit of lunch, and to see how the color was looking in the higher elevations. I stopped at my usual fork between the main wash and a well-known side wash. Once my boots hit the boulders of the wash, I turned and immediately spotted this rather special scene. A storm blew through Zion the day before thus providing wonderful movement in the form of wet mud gracing the ground of the washes. Strong reflected light teamed with the cool ambient light from the sky above amplified the simplicity of a fiery maple leaf hanging out with its striated rock buddy among the defined waves of mud. A scene that instantly became a memory, and a photo that to me defines Zion and this trip so well. 

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