Living in Southern Utah, I get antsy and angsty waiting for the stagnant summer to transition to autumn. It always seems like we’ve been forgotten by the fall season–its relief in temperature and color. When October comes and nary a leaf has turned in the desert, it can be difficult to hear tales and see photos from folks in higher elevations, in other parts of the country, in other ecosystems who are enjoying the beauty of the season. And it’s HOT down here. It’s still so hot. It was this disquietude that drove my desire to head north this past fall during my only two days off in a row.
After back to back weeks of leading hiking tours perhaps it would’ve made more sense for me to rest and recoup at home; to hide away in a hole. However, if there’s something true about me it’s that I like doing things and I like going places. Even after a long string of responsibilities and “doing things”, doing more things that matter most to me refreshes my heart and soul. And I needed that reset.
When I heard that aspens were still vibrant in Fishlake National Forest and the forecast suggested weather moving in, I knew there was a chance for exciting conditions. At the very least I’d get a break from the heat! Most of the gear I needed for a spontaneous adventure was already packed in my Jeep, so off I went, rising well before the sun to hopefully catch first light at a lovely subalpine lake.
I got to my destination shortly before the sun crested the hill. The crisp clear air was a welcome change from the stiff dry heat I had left behind only a few hours earlier. Ripples skated across the lake’s surface as bald eagles soared overhead, riding the soft and steady breeze. I was enraptured by the moment, happy to be present in this place and happy for the chance to be creative. The landscape blushed in anticipation of the sun popping over the hills and kissing the tops of the trees.
Have you ever encountered a scene that was so sublime, had so many attention-grabbing details–large and small–that you weren’t sure where to direct your attention and focus? If I had any problems during this trip, that was it. I was a kid in a candy shop–entranced by the quaking leaves, as vibrant as lollipops, and the cotton candy clouds above.
Peace found me quickly, as it usually does when I’m out in nature on my own, and enveloped me in its familiar embrace. Camera in hand, I sipped on the cool fresh oxygen and let it clear my head and cleanse my heart. I was fully in the moment. Photography was working as medicine.
Soon after, with the soft glow of early morning gone, the light became too harsh and the reflection pool too glaring for my liking. It was time to move on and see what else the day had in store.
I had no serious plan other than to drive through the mountains, an area new to me, and stop whenever the light or scene called. I enjoy this type of travel–free from expectations, curious and unhurried.
As I wound through wooded roads, up towards higher elevations, the expanse opened and I could see weather moving in. The wind hastened and pushed storm clouds across the landscape, resulting in beautifully dynamic and quickly changing light. The terrain, too, shifted, from forests and lakes to rugged cliffs and rolling foothills. Gusts of wind assaulted me as I tried to capture what was certain to be the last of the year’s fall color, if the darkening storm clouds had anything to say about it. Snow was falling in the distance, creating hazy layers of blue, and eventually the chasing storm caught up with me.
Slowly I made my way down the eastern slope before rounding north.
On the back side of the mountain I drove through a region scarred by fire.
In the summer of 2024 this area was struck by lightning and set ablaze. The fire reached 18,000 acres of destruction before it was finally contained a month later. I actually hesitated before driving up the road and considered taking a different route. I was hoping for fall foliage, not a devastated landscape. For whatever reason I ignored that moment’s misgiving and decided to continue a little further. Imagine my surprise when I laid eyes on the abundance of new growth, coming back in a riot of color. Hours later, I was still playing with compositions up and down the dusty dirt road, finding beauty in the dark lines of burnt trees and variegated hills.
Eventually, after 12 hours of shooting and driving and marking places to visit “next time”, I made it full circle, back to the lake I visited that morning, and I set up camp. Even as the land glowed in sunset hues I could barely stay awake. No matter. I had worked my creative muscle to fatigue and fell asleep with a smile.
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The next morning I awoke in my frosted Jeep, wiped condensation from my window, and peered outside to see steam slowly rising from the glassy lake. I hopped out of my sleeping bag and within minutes had my tripod and camera set on the scene.
It was a beautiful calm morning, but bitingly cold. As much as I love the conditions and moods that cold weather provides, as stunning as it objectively is, I am not a cold-weather person–I live in the desert, after all, and even that can be too cold for me at times.
It’s my Raynaud’s, really. If it weren’t for my suffering from this inconvenient phenomenon, where I lose circulation in my fingers and flirt with frostbite, I could last a hell of a lot longer in the frigid elements. I have electric gloves, warm mittens, and an abundance of handwarmers, but even so…using a cold metal tripod and camera immediately robs me of the little warmth I have in my hands. And it can hurt, giving an entirely new meaning to “beauty is pain”.
I kept my car running so that I could take breaks and thaw my fingers against the heaters between shots, bracing myself for another round of art-making every time I saw the scene unfold in a new and enticing way. As the sun began to gently heat the earth, the fog shifted along with the light. The reflections were too captivating, the steam too dreamy. I was flowing and never wanted it to end…but I also couldn’t wait for the conditions to stop being THIS good so I could move on and find relief.
Finally, the steam dissipated and with it the magic of the morning; mercy was given. My hands were stiff from the abrasive cold, I was running on very little sleep, but my heart and soul were replenished and at peace. I could go home happy and refreshed, in my own way.
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Now, this area is gone as well. The hillsides that were ablaze in color last fall succumbed to the blaze of the Cottonwood Fire, which has scorched over 97,000 acres.
I feel a lot of gratitude that I was able to experience the beauty of this place before it was forever altered. I know that new growth will come in and life will eventually come back to these forests and mountains, and it will be captivating in its own way, but my heart still breaks for what was lost–the lives, the habitat, the beauty–and the people affected. There was magic out there.
It’s frightening to think this is the new norm. Friends and I chat about how it feels like it isn’t so much a matter of “if”, but “when” we lose beloved places–to fires or bad actors. It’s a helpless and hopeless feeling…but it also fuels us to get out and explore, to not push things off to “someday.” When you aren’t sure what more you can do, be present, be grateful, and practice pleasure as resistance. Don’t forget to fill your soul’s cup – through rest, creativity, laughter, and play. These things, too, are important.
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