A Glance at Failure
Sometimes, in pursuit of one thing, we discover something else that is unexpected and extraordinary.
I finished up a week on a project in Salt Lake City, Utah and was supposed to fly home on Friday night. Instead, I extended my stay and drove down to Bryce Canyon National Park. I couldn't leave until 5pm and it was a four hour drive. The sun set over the mountains as I drove, a hazy pink and orange, and then I was surrounded by total darkness.
The last hour and a half of the journey consisted of a narrow view of road that was lit by my headlights, and a black sky pierced by a million stars. As I neared the hotel I would stay in for the night, I caught quick flashes of large rocks near the road, illuminated briefly by the beams. There was almost a total absence of color - the world rolling by in black and white.
I made it to the hotel and found my room. After a quick meal at the restaurant in the main building, I called my brother on the walk back to my room, which was in a building at the back of the property. I remember remarking on the number of stars that were visible in the great expanse overhead.
I awoke extremely early the next morning and drove to the park entrance with my camera, ready for a full day of photographing. Never having been to a national park before, I wasn't sure what to expect but I had seen a lookout spot called "Sunrise Point" on the map of the park and was determined to get there for the namesake event. The booths at the entrance station were empty and the gates all open. I knew I needed a day pass but there was no one there to sell me one, so I continued through and promised myself I'd return on my way out. Parking my car at Sunrise Point, I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and trotted along the path to the overlook. About a dozen eager photographers were already there, some with tripods erected to mark their territory.
Not having brought my tripod, I wandered around on foot snatching photos from different angles and keeping out of everyone else's way. The best thing about Sunrise Point is that you can see the sunrise head-on from nearly any part of the overlook. About ten minutes before sun-up, the commotion began: clicking shutters, shuffling feet, murmurs to companions.
It certainly was a sight to see.
The horizon seemed a deep, blackish red rimmed with a rusty orange and the sky a spectrum of golden orange, yellow, baby blue and navy. Reaching toward us from the horizon were strings of white, wispy clouds lined in silver criss-crossing the sky. Magnificent. I swear the sun was audible when it finally arrived, yawning with a sigh as it bubbled up from the earth.
Have you ever seen the sunrise through a viewfinder? The great ball of fire appears first as a tiny gem sitting on the horizon. Then it seems to multiply, beading up and then melting together and repeating that cycle until it breaks free from the world to float across the sky.
Once the yellow orb was high enough so as to be not quite so spectacular, the landscape was aglow and I was able to see what all the fuss was about. If you have never been to Bryce Canyon, I recommend that you visit. I hiked and snapped photos and drove along the park loop to various scenic overlooks to take even more photos. As much as I wanted to continue south to Zion, I had booked a hotel in Salt Lake City and my flight was leaving in the morning so I headed out around mid-afternoon. As promised, I stopped at the entrance station (now teeming with rangers and regulating the arrival of a good number of visitors) and asked about my fee.
"Oh well, if you arrived early enough that no one was here to check for it then you don't need the pass," replied the female ranger with a nod. "I hope you enjoyed your visit." She smiled and waved me out of the park.
I smiled too, as I passed through the gate, and reflected on the wonderful day I'd had while mentally preparing for the four hour drive back to Salt Lake City. Flat, open road with distant mountains. Sort of monotonous.
I hadn't been driving for half an hour yet when I turned a corner and was faced with the most stunning view of vivid vermillion rock against the blue and white sky. What was all this? And why hadn't I seen it coming? It felt as if I had arrived on an alien planet. Dark green pines dotted the scenery, looking almost black, while giant, ribbed rocks loomed over the highway. Amazing. I had driven through all of this in the dark and would have never known about it had my return route not been a retracing of my arrival.
There was no way I wasn't going to stop and take some time to enjoy this surprise - I had no time schedule or intended stops for the rest of the day. I pulled into a parking lot with a sign that read "Dixie National Forest" and walked across the road to the towering red rocks. There didn't seem to be a trail anywhere that I could see, just a ridge of red gravel impaled by tall spires of rock with horizontal grooves and larger, cliff-like rocks fanning out to each side. Well...a photographer's got to do what she's got to do. I headed for the middle of the gravely ridge with camera in hand.
The ridge was more like a hill, and not a very high one (or so it seemed). I wandered up, walking through towers of rock and taking photographs, feeling like a rebel. Come on - there were no signs that said I was allowed to traipse all over that area (although, technically there weren't any signs that said I wasn't allowed either). My objective was the top of the ridge but I hadn't counted on the gravel - which upon closer inspection was actually rather large chunks of the red rock - being so unstable.
I wobbled a few times and then my feet went out from under me. I fell forward onto my forearms and knees - saving my camera - and felt like a complete idiot. Of course I thought I could spontaneously and easily march up the side of this rugged landscape and stand victorious at the top, feet wide with fists on my hips and staring into the sunset. Pft. Tourist. Instead, there I was on my hands and knees, all scraped up and clearly not in a position to continue my trek. I laughed at myself and turned my head to send one more longing glance to the summit.
My view at that moment is what is captured below. Perhaps even in failure, if we change our perspective, we can find something beautiful.
I finished up a week on a project in Salt Lake City, Utah and was supposed to fly home on Friday night. Instead, I extended my stay and drove down to Bryce Canyon National Park. I couldn't leave until 5pm and it was a four hour drive. The sun set over the mountains as I drove, a hazy pink and orange, and then I was surrounded by total darkness.
The last hour and a half of the journey consisted of a narrow view of road that was lit by my headlights, and a black sky pierced by a million stars. As I neared the hotel I would stay in for the night, I caught quick flashes of large rocks near the road, illuminated briefly by the beams. There was almost a total absence of color - the world rolling by in black and white.
I made it to the hotel and found my room. After a quick meal at the restaurant in the main building, I called my brother on the walk back to my room, which was in a building at the back of the property. I remember remarking on the number of stars that were visible in the great expanse overhead.
I awoke extremely early the next morning and drove to the park entrance with my camera, ready for a full day of photographing. Never having been to a national park before, I wasn't sure what to expect but I had seen a lookout spot called "Sunrise Point" on the map of the park and was determined to get there for the namesake event. The booths at the entrance station were empty and the gates all open. I knew I needed a day pass but there was no one there to sell me one, so I continued through and promised myself I'd return on my way out. Parking my car at Sunrise Point, I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and trotted along the path to the overlook. About a dozen eager photographers were already there, some with tripods erected to mark their territory.
Not having brought my tripod, I wandered around on foot snatching photos from different angles and keeping out of everyone else's way. The best thing about Sunrise Point is that you can see the sunrise head-on from nearly any part of the overlook. About ten minutes before sun-up, the commotion began: clicking shutters, shuffling feet, murmurs to companions.
It certainly was a sight to see.
The horizon seemed a deep, blackish red rimmed with a rusty orange and the sky a spectrum of golden orange, yellow, baby blue and navy. Reaching toward us from the horizon were strings of white, wispy clouds lined in silver criss-crossing the sky. Magnificent. I swear the sun was audible when it finally arrived, yawning with a sigh as it bubbled up from the earth.
Have you ever seen the sunrise through a viewfinder? The great ball of fire appears first as a tiny gem sitting on the horizon. Then it seems to multiply, beading up and then melting together and repeating that cycle until it breaks free from the world to float across the sky.
Once the yellow orb was high enough so as to be not quite so spectacular, the landscape was aglow and I was able to see what all the fuss was about. If you have never been to Bryce Canyon, I recommend that you visit. I hiked and snapped photos and drove along the park loop to various scenic overlooks to take even more photos. As much as I wanted to continue south to Zion, I had booked a hotel in Salt Lake City and my flight was leaving in the morning so I headed out around mid-afternoon. As promised, I stopped at the entrance station (now teeming with rangers and regulating the arrival of a good number of visitors) and asked about my fee.
"Oh well, if you arrived early enough that no one was here to check for it then you don't need the pass," replied the female ranger with a nod. "I hope you enjoyed your visit." She smiled and waved me out of the park.
I smiled too, as I passed through the gate, and reflected on the wonderful day I'd had while mentally preparing for the four hour drive back to Salt Lake City. Flat, open road with distant mountains. Sort of monotonous.
I hadn't been driving for half an hour yet when I turned a corner and was faced with the most stunning view of vivid vermillion rock against the blue and white sky. What was all this? And why hadn't I seen it coming? It felt as if I had arrived on an alien planet. Dark green pines dotted the scenery, looking almost black, while giant, ribbed rocks loomed over the highway. Amazing. I had driven through all of this in the dark and would have never known about it had my return route not been a retracing of my arrival.
There was no way I wasn't going to stop and take some time to enjoy this surprise - I had no time schedule or intended stops for the rest of the day. I pulled into a parking lot with a sign that read "Dixie National Forest" and walked across the road to the towering red rocks. There didn't seem to be a trail anywhere that I could see, just a ridge of red gravel impaled by tall spires of rock with horizontal grooves and larger, cliff-like rocks fanning out to each side. Well...a photographer's got to do what she's got to do. I headed for the middle of the gravely ridge with camera in hand.
The ridge was more like a hill, and not a very high one (or so it seemed). I wandered up, walking through towers of rock and taking photographs, feeling like a rebel. Come on - there were no signs that said I was allowed to traipse all over that area (although, technically there weren't any signs that said I wasn't allowed either). My objective was the top of the ridge but I hadn't counted on the gravel - which upon closer inspection was actually rather large chunks of the red rock - being so unstable.
I wobbled a few times and then my feet went out from under me. I fell forward onto my forearms and knees - saving my camera - and felt like a complete idiot. Of course I thought I could spontaneously and easily march up the side of this rugged landscape and stand victorious at the top, feet wide with fists on my hips and staring into the sunset. Pft. Tourist. Instead, there I was on my hands and knees, all scraped up and clearly not in a position to continue my trek. I laughed at myself and turned my head to send one more longing glance to the summit.
My view at that moment is what is captured below. Perhaps even in failure, if we change our perspective, we can find something beautiful.
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