(c) 2022 by Michael L. Utley
(#211)
the empty cistern
my poetry garden dies
in this wordless drought
…..
(#212)
that cur depression
skulks on the periphery
hyper-vigilant
…..
(#213)
thoughts bereft of words
prisoners inside my head
silent penitence
…..
(#214)
desiccated soul
slakes its thirst from murky meres
roams my sunless mind
…..
(#215)
mental exhaustion
I can no longer pretend
everything is fine
…..
(#216)
parts of me have died
that no one will ever know
nor will ever mourn
Lisbon Valley is a red rock desert region in southeast Utah which lies a few miles northwest of the farm on which I was raised. Compared to other nearby desert areas such as Canyonlands and Arches National Parks, it’s rather nondescript, lacking the dramatic deep canyons, arches, pillars and rivers of its neighboring kin, yet it holds a special place in my heart. To me, the valley’s stand-out feature is Big Indian Rock, a blade of sandstone reaching above the sage- and boulder-strewn floor below. During my first visit there with my camera, I was fascinated by a huge, angular slab of red rock which had apparently broken off from Big Indian Rock in the distant past and tumbled to the flats below. This boulder was covered in an incredible array of pits, gouges and mottled patches of lighter and darker tones. My first reaction was to juxtapose this weather-etched pattern with the rock tower in the background. A 24mm f/2.8 wide-angle lens was used to exaggerate the distance between the boulder and the tower, and allowed me to get close enough to the boulder to record its dramatic textures while keeping everything in sharp focus. A polarizing filter was used to eliminate glare from midday rock surfaces in order to better record the colors of the stone, as well as to darken the sky for a more contrasting effect. This image was made in late-March of 1996 and there were patches of snow below the tower (barely visible in this shot), but I recall the day being delightfully pleasant, not just because of the weather, but because it was my introduction to Big Indian Rock and this intriguing “illustrated” boulder. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)
Lisbon Valley is located in southeastern Utah and lies a few miles north of the farm on which I was raised. It’s a dynamic landscape of red rock desert and snow-capped mountains that rise incongruously out of nowhere. It’s a place of canyons and sandstone formations, sage brush and rabbit brush, cactus, cheat grass and fox tails, pinyon and juniper trees, as well as coyotes, foxes, mountain lions, jackrabbits and cottontails, mule deer, antelope and elk, hawks, rattlesnakes and other typical desert-dwelling fauna. I photographed this scene from a ridge where the landscape drops off into the desert valley below. Upheaval thrusts are visible, and the La Sal Mountains cling to spring’s last remnants of snow. This image was made in April of 1996 on a bitterly cold late afternoon, where the chill made for numb fingers and frosty exhalations. Metal tripods act as heat sinks during cold weather and freeze hands and fingers. Still, I’m fond of this image as it represents the varied landscape where I was raised. I’ve explored Lisbon Valley numerous times and felt at peace in the vast silence, surrounded by the scents of desert vegetation, warm breezes and clean air, as well as the stark, harsh environment of rock and sand and life that struggles to persist. Lisbon Valley is also home to a large open-pit copper mine (not visible in this image, fortunately) that is extremely unsightly and environmentally hazardous. Local ranchers are rightfully concerned about the high likelihood of contaminated groundwater, but corporate profits are all that seem to matter. Aquifers, habitats, wildlife and natural beauty are no match for some faceless company’s bottom line. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)
Silver Falls State Park lies about 24 miles from Salem, Oregon and is home to ten waterfalls along the Trail of Ten Falls loop, with South Falls being the most visited in the park. While exploring near the bowl of South Falls, I came across a particular cluster of western sword ferns which had some of its fronds flipped over by a recent rainstorm. I was immediately fascinated by the multitude of yellow-orange spore pods on the frond’s underbelly. I was raised in an arid region of the southwestern U.S. which was too dry for ferns, so my experience with them was extremely limited. This frond presented both a learning experience and a compositional delight. The long, flowing diagonal line separates the image into lighter and darker halves, and the warmly hued spore pods seem to glow against the cool green background. I always carried a couple of nature guide books in my camera backpack in order to properly identify various plants and animals I’d encounter, and these guides came in handy that day as I’d never before seen a fern with spore pods. This was one of the joys of my nature photography days—discovering things I’d never seen or had never paid attention to before. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)
BL1-1(S)–Cape Meares Lighthouse at Sunset, Cape Meares National Wildlife Refuge, Oregon Coast
Cape Meares National Wildlife Refuge sits along the northern Oregon Coast near the town of Tillamook (Tillamook is famous for its cheese). Besides providing a habitat for old-growth forests and breeding seabirds, it’s also notable for beaches loaded with driftwood. Cape Meares lighthouse is perched on the end of a finger of land that juts into the Pacific. The lighthouse isn’t tall—many lighthouses on the rugged Pacific Northwest coast aren’t, due to the elevated headlands upon which they stand), but it provides a wonderful view of the ocean, with a trail that runs behind it offering a perfect perspective of the lighthouse and the sea. I visited Cape Meares one late-autumn afternoon in 1995 and found myself at the lighthouse at the day’s demise. This image depicts what I experienced at that moment. A customer ordered a large print of this photo, and the resulting 16”x20” image was glorious. I mentioned to a friend recently that when I saw the sea for the first time in my life in 1995, I felt as though I had finally come home. That feeling has never changed, and this image is a good reason why. Nothing compares to the sea, a lighthouse and a sunset. (Canon gear, Fuji Velvia ISO 50)
Silent Pariah 