Marana: Hope and Beauty in the Desert

It’s been nearly two years since Jane and I took a road trip around the Four Corners region, and nearly three years since our weeklong sojourn in Moab - a long time since I last photographed the austere beauty of the American Southwest. This time, it’s just me, on the road alone in the half-week leading up to attending a professional conference (the AAHPM Annual Assembly) in Arizona. I decide to use these few days to explore a region that had honestly only been faintly on my radar before: the Sonoran Desert around Tucson and Greater Phoenix. The conference organizers have thoughtfully timed the week to coincide with the height of perfect spring weather in the region - clear, blue days that bring fine walking temperatures and carpets of wildflower blooms. For the second month in a row, Jane compassionately shoulders caring for Jordan (and the household) so that I can go off to explore, photograph, and rejuvenate in the desert.

After a busy service week, I oversleep my alarm and nearly (but don’t!) miss my early morning flight. It’s a five-hour trip to the desert megalopolis of Phoenix, during which I watch a movie and read from a book on fiction writing. In short order, I’m leaving the Phoenix airport’s massive rental car complex, heading south on I-10 toward Tucson. Although it’s mid-day on a Saturday, the highway is busy with spring break holiday-goers weaving in and out of shipping traffic. Unsurprisingly, there is a pretty significant backup just south of Phoenix due to a gnarly crash, but fifteen minutes later I am on my way again, bound for the Tucson exurb of Marana, where I’ll be staying for two nights.

Relatively fresh off my trip down the Oregon Coast, it still feels comfortable traveling on my own, and my spirits are buoyed by the lovely, sunny weather and the beauty of the stark desert landscape. My driving jams have been retooled for this trip; gone is the acoustic, melodic soundtrack of New England’s hardwood forests or Oregon’s moody raincoast, and in their place are crunchy guitars, reverb, and atmospheric tracks more fitting for the desert. In the early afternoon, I arrive in Marana and, famished (it’s dinnertime already in Boston), I eat way too much at the local In ‘N Out before stopping into the Walmart next door to buy a gallon of drinking water (a safety precaution for the desert) and a few bottles of orange juice to keep me happy. Then, it’s across the street to my motel for an early check-in and a brief nap to wait out the mid-day sun.

In the late afternoon, I drive out of town and head west along Picture Rocks Road, which climbs from the valley floor and over a pass at the base of the Tucson Mountains. Entering Saguaro National Park’s western unit, I am greeted by a dazzling vista that stretches out across the plains to the west. The roadside is spangled with beds of lupines, fairy dusters, and jewel-flowers, which serve as a stunning color complement to the area’s pale sandstone cliffs and cactus forests. Turning south, I drive a few miles down Sandario Road to the park’s main road loop, first stopping at the visitor center to purchase a pass and a trip magnet. After photographing some of the wildflowers in the desert garden outside, Thinking that the Signal Hill parking area is closed for construction, I return to Sandario Road and leave my car at the intersection with Manville Road, opting to take a slightly longer sunset hike toward Signal Hill.

The dirt path initially parallels the road, winding through stands of verdant, many-tendriled ocotillo plants and gigantic saguaro cacti before turning up a sandy wash. I meander along the wash for the next half-mile, stopping often to the photograph the flora of the desert: globemallows and fiddlenecks flowering in the shade of creosote bushes; and beautiful branching palo verde trees with their smooth, verdant bark. As I near Signal Hill, it becomes rather obvious (from the visible clumps of tourists atop the rock pile) that the nearby parking lot remains quite open, but I am quite glad to have had the solitude of my little walk in the arroyo.

At the top of the hill, I set up my tripod and scout around for compositions including the nearby petroglyphs (backed by the Red Hills, lit by sunset light); wide-angle shots including petroglyphs, wildflowers, and distant mountains; and telephoto compositions compressing the saguaro forest, desert roads receding into the horizon, and the Silverbell Mountains. I am joined throughout the golden hour by a variety of tourists and photographers - hobbyists shooting with professional telelenses and smartphones alike. It’s a fun, judgment-free atmosphere (except for one guy who climbs over a barrier and practically stands on the petroglyphs, whom I scold); we trade compositions, share travel stories, and marvel at the fine weather and the even finer sunset. As I lean against the guardrail waiting for dusk, I feel the fatigue of the travel day evaporating off my body under the warm embrace of the sunset. After the light disappears, I descend the hill and jog back to the highway along the arroyo; then, it’s back to Marana for dinner (takeout from Chipotle) and a night of reading, writing, and resting up.

The next morning, jetlag once again has me up before dawn; I get dressed for a morning of desert hiking and eat a quick motel breakfast before getting in the car. My objective for the morning is the summit of Wasson Peak, at the heart of the Tucson Mountains: a nontechnical but unrelenting climb from the desert floor along the Sendero Esperanza. Driving back west along Picture Rocks Road, I am unable to resist pulling off roadside to meander into the cactus gardens. I photograph the first light of sunrise hitting the nearby clifftops, as well as the nearby beds of wildflowers backlit by the morning sun. Back on the road, I re-enter the national park boundary and navigate along the Bajada Loop, a dirt-and-gravel drive that circles the northern part of the park, eventually making my way to the trailhead for the Sendero Esperanza (“Trail of Hope”). Here, I don my sun protection, take a big swig of water, and set off along the trail. There is no one else around at this early hour of the morning.

The trail heads southwest toward the bulk of the Tucson Mountains, initially climbing very gradually, almost imperceptibly. Despite this, I’m initially moving at a snail’s pace, distracted as I am by the beauty around me. I find myself stopping constantly to take in the scenery, and to shoot macros of the lush wildflower beds that lie nestled at the base of the cacti. Along with flowers such as the ubiquitous bristly fiddlenecks, spreading woolystars, Coulter’s lupines, and fiesta flowers, I see fruiting barrel cacti, prickly pears, and ocotillos (“little torches”) beginning to flower, the slender red petals erupting from their tips like flames. The desert is serene; there is a cool morning breeze lingering in the air, and almost no sounds save for my footsteps and the fluttering of an occasional startled cactus wren.

Further along, the path begins to zigzag up the mountainside; the elevation brings with it new varieties of flora, including carpets of desert poppies, marigolds, and dandelions, and stands of zinnias and beardtongues. Turning back to gaze down the valley floor, I try my best to photograph the landscape together with a foreground of beautiful orange-and-gold flowers; it’s a tricky compositional challenge, what with the chaotic tangle of ocotillo arms and palo verde branches in the midground. Trying to keep in mind my time constraints (due to the heat of the mid-day desert, I’ve resolved to stick to a turnaround time of 9:30 AM), I stop photographing, stuff my outer layer into my backpack and press onward with the climb.

Many switchbacks later, having gained the ridgeline, I take a water break at the trail’s intersection with the Hugh Norris Trail. It’s 8:30 AM (I’ve done a pitiful 1.7 miles in one hour - and the easiest stretch of the walk, at that), but not to be dissuaded, I decide to make the left turn toward Amole and Wasson Peaks, to see how far I can get before my turnaround time. This turns out to be a marvelous decision; even though the soaring sun makes both photography and mountain walking less and less appealing, the ridge walk along the mountains is painted in an absolute profusion of wildflowers. Having gotten my fill of macro shots, I keep my camera down and forge forward, covering nearly 2.5 miles in the next hour. After a steep series of switchbacks, I reach the top of Wasson Peak at exactly 9:30.

After taking a brief break and signing the summit register, I retrace my steps, essentially trail-running my way back to the car with some intermittent breaks for photographing the scenery and the flowers. I am wearing my relatively brand-new trail runners (my first time hiking in anything except for cheap boots), and it feels absolutely glorious to go soaring back down the ridgeline, with breathtaking panoramic views and colorful wildflowers accompanying every step. I must make quite the impression (awkwardly glissading down the mountain with my full photography backpack, including attached tripod and camera-in-hand), as quite a few walkers comment as I pass: “Oh, to have your limbs!” Oh, my limbs will certainly regret this later. “In a rush for lunch?“ Yes, very. “Is there a bear behind you?” There are no bears in the Sonoran Desert, but despite this I cover the return 4 miles in an hour, arriving back at the trailhead well earlier than intended. Back in the car, I rehydrate and make the return drive to Marana, where I get another takeout lunch (a Panda Express with a drive-through; seriously, who the hell designed this gargantuan shopping plaza and why does it have all my favorites?) before retiring to the motel to shower and nap.

After a long break and pretty deep sleep in the afternoon, I head back out to catch sunset. My destination for the evening is on the outskirts of the Ironwood Forest National Monument, a massive wilderness area northwest of Marana, encompassing the Silverbell Mountains and the surrounding foothills and desert plains. Instead of going along the interstate, I choose to take a series of desert backroads to reach Avra Valley Road, the highway that runs westward into monument grounds. A few miles to the west, I pull off Avra Valley Road onto a dirt track; here, I leave the car and set off on foot toward a knoll to the north, from where I hope to gain panoramic views of the mountain ranges to the west, and the hallmark silhouette of Ragged Top to the northwest. Picking my way carefully through stands of saguaro, cholla, and desert ironwood trees, I am cognizant of just how lonely this place is; the nearest housing communities may be just a few miles to the east, but that represents an enormous distance out here, where one wrong step into a cactus or one turn of the ankle could prove to be genuinely problematic.

Turning toward the knoll, I cross a little gully and find an open hillside from which to watch the sunset. Sitting down on a large stone between two palo verdes, I take wide shots of the nearby trees and lupines, and telephoto compositions of the distant mountains and plains; the sidelit saguaros cast lovely, long shadows in the late afternoon night. Surprisingly, I have cell service at this particular spot, so I send Jane a quick video of the sunset - both to share, and to let her know I am doing okay out here in the middle of nowhere. As the sun falls below the horizon, I keep working my handful of compositions (eschewing the tripod completely) until it’s nearly dark. Then it’s back (carefully back, weaving between cacti in the growing dark) to the car. Along the way, I hear a loud, rumbling sound that is unmistakeably the growl of a large animal, and my heart skips a few beats before I remember that a mountain lion would be quite unlikely to announce its intentions so loudly. Instead, around the corner I come face to face with a grazing steer, who thankfully decides to leave me alone, turning tail and bounding off into the brush. Back in the car, I maneuver over a dirt ditch and back onto the highway, making the long drive back to town. The desert roads are pitch-black and desolate but for the high beams of distant cars; they move as if they are comets in the inky darkness of cosmic night.

Apache Junction: Storm Light and Superstition

On the third day of my desert roadtrip, I decide to scrap my original plan of catching sunrise in the heart of Ironwood Forest National Monument, opting instead to sleep in (this is vacation, after all). This buys me a leisurely morning: waking up late, having the hotel breakfast, and spending most of the morning reading, writing, and journaling. At checkout time, I pack the car and head out on the road again, shifting my base of operations from Marana north to Apache Junction. Back on the interstate, I head toward Picacho Peak, turning off onto a long and desolate stretch of road that heads north through the desert. I’ll be doing some navigating along backroads today, meandering my way through the sprawling farmlands and bedroom communities of Pinal County. In Coolidge, halfway through my drive, I stop for gas and drinks at the local Safeway before visiting nearby Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. Here, I tour the grounds, which contain a group of Hohokam structures dating back to the 14th century A.D., centering on a large, four-story adobe-stone house. After circling the structure and photographing some of its impressive doorways and windows, I stop at the gift shop and am back on my way toward the north.

After another hour driving north through an all-too-familiar desert suburbia (familiar except for the Superstition Mountains, which loom ever larger as I continue north), I wind up in the town of Apache Junction, where I’ll be staying for the next two nights and spending two days shooting in the nearby mountain ranges. I stop at Arby’s for lunch (along with some sandwiches-to-go for dinner), and check in with Jane and Jordan via videocall before checking in at my motel nearby. In the late afternoon, I head ten minutes north of town, to the foothills at the base of the Goldfield Mountains, where I’d hoped to do a sunset hike up to Bulldog Saddle. Unfortunately, a series of afternoon thunderstorms has blown in from the mountains to the east; a tall canvas of cumulonimbus clouds descends over the range, and I watch as lightning whips around in the sky beyond the distant peaks.

With a few hours to go until sunset (and thinking of Jane and Jordan at home, and not wanting to do something stupid in the wilds), I decide to try waiting out the weather in the safety of my car. In a brief lull between weather fronts, I manage to step out a few hundred yards along the trail to photograph the desert gardens and the view of the Superstition Mountains to the east. This proves to be a temporary respite, however, as another incoming storm forces me back to the car. It is already clear that I won’t be climbing to the saddle this afternoon, but after big chunks of hail start to pelt the car hood in addition to the driving rain, I decide to call off the evening altogether and beat a hasty retreat back to town. It’s pouring in earnest by the time I park in front of my motel room: a genuinely rare and frighteningly beautiful desert thunderstorm. I wind up having an evening of relaxation to equal my morning, and go to bed early in preparation for an early start the next day.

The next day, I’m up and in the car before dawn, headed a few minutes out of town to Lost Dutchman State Park to catch sunrise in the Superstition Mountains. Though I’m normally far from a morning person, sunrise photography comes easily to me, especially with help from east-to-west jetlag. The reward for getting up early in landscape photography is immense: some of the best light of the day, along with the nearly-guaranteed solitude of being one of the first ones out on the trail. At the park, I park in the day-use area and head out on the Treasure Loop Trail, an easy way that climbs a short way into the base of the mountains. As I walk eastward, the sun begins to crest the mountain ranges beyond, and the clouds in the sky, the last remnants of yesterday’s clearing storm, begin to take on brilliant gold and lavender hues. Along my way up into the foothills, I turn back frequently to watch the day’s first light begin to fall upon the peaks and sandstone bluffs of the Goldfield Mountains. This daybreak has an ethereal quality to it, and I become aware that (my favorite part of any photography outing in the wild) my inner feelings are beginning to take on the serenity of world around me: the cool breeze in the dawn air, the silence of the plains and hills around me (but for the occasional chirps and flitters of cactus wren), and the play of light rays across the distant, cactus-covered plains and mountaintops. Traversing this beautiful place, I feel positively radiant. To the north, the summit of Browns Peak is shrouded in an orographic cloud formation throughout my entire two-hour walk, lending a mystical look to the entire northward scene. After clambering up to the craggy redstone walls of Superstition Mountain, I turn and complete the loop with a steep and rocky descent back to the car.

I spend the rest of the morning and mid-day having breakfast at the motel, catching up on some work, going to the market for food and drinks, and taking a comfortable nap. In the late afternoon, I head back out to Lost Dutchman State Park to photograph the Superstition Mountains at sunset. Similar to yesterday, there’s a clearing thunderstorm to the north, but this time it moves onward and passes beyond the mountains; aside from scattered showers coming down over the valley, the weather is calm during my walk. Instead of the Treasure Loop Trail, I head out this time across a network of crosscutting walking paths and mountain bike paths that weave toward the mountains, climbing up to the mouth of Siphon Draw before my turnaround time. It’s a magical evening, where the light seems to take on a living, luminous quality, as the setting sun dances between banks of cloud cover, casting beams of shadow and light across the plains and the rocks. As a photographer, all one has to do in such conditions is to be present and mindful, and to follow the light with one’s camera. Without a particular agenda or “must-have” composition, I am free to wander the hills, taking a mix of wide and telephoto compositions of the distant mountains, the desert brush and vegetation, and the changing weather and light. It’s a glorious sunset with intense colour - one of the best sunsets I’ve seen in awhile. On the brief drive home, I pull over to photograph the old church at the foot of the mountains, and the last colourful clouds, hanging like cotton candy in a fiery sky. The next morning, it’s a quick drive back to Phoenix to end my road trip and begin the conference.

Four Corners: New Mexico

This week, a true road trip spanning hundreds of miles across state lines, has been a long time coming. In some ways, its genesis was in the Western landscapes of my youth, when I longed to escape the muted grey sprawl of suburban Los Angeles, the safety of childhood and home. In those halcyon days, climbing the chaparral hillsides behind our family’s house, I could look out and see, beneath the strip malls and golf courses and housing developments, just a glimpse of the majesty of the American West: open desert. Sage country. Mountain plateaus. The sweet fragrance of mesquite and yarrow, pinyon and ponderosa. Years later, the beautiful aspects of that landscape became the basis of my love of place - a desire to feel and live and connect genuinely with my surroundings, no matter where I might find myself. That yearning, in large part, has informed why I travel and photograph.

In 2019, wanting to return to the desertscapes of my youth, I planned a Spring 2020 trip across the Colorado Plateau, which was ultimately cancelled. At the height of the pandemic’s initial surge, self-isolating in a motel room between shifts at a nursing facility, I read everything I could find about the region: a book of Navajo oral traditions; archeological studies of the Ancestral Puebloan civilization; the journals of Everett Ruess (another self-absorbed young desert itinerant, writer, and artist with connections to Brookline and Los Angeles, who disappeared in the canyons of Utah in the mid-century). This milieu - the contrast between the changeable and the eternal, the known and unknown, the placement of self within a cosmos both orderly and chaotic - eventually developed into my second collection of poetry, a painful and emotional collection about love and loss heavily informed by my work during the pandemic. And meanwhile, the mesas and canyons of the Colorado Plateau continued to beckon like an old friend.

Two years later, in April 2022, Jane and I set out on a trip much like days of yore: a sprawling driving route across the Four Corners region of the Southwest, passing through four states and the Navajo Nation (Dinétah: “among the people”); a return to form for us, after many years of quiet, basecamp vacations. For a week, we caught sunrises and sunsets, wandered the desert, visited ancient homes and pueblos, and photographed one of the most beautiful and profoundly human landscapes in the country. The photographs, grouped by state, are presented here without further editorialization.

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April 9, 2022: After an incredibly early start in Boston and a brief layover in Chicago, Jane and I land in Albuquerque, New Mexico at 10 AM in the morning. We drive to the suburb of Bernalillo, where we eat lunch and shop for the week’s groceries. We stop at the Paleta Bar and get ice cream popsicles dipped in chocolate and fruit, just behind a mob of high school choir girls. After a afternoon nap in the motel, we drive to La Cienega and hike up to Cerro Seguro to catch sunset over the mesas and open plains just west of Santa Fe.

April 10, 2022: After breakfast and a long, early morning drive north from Bernalillo, we arrive at Chaco Canyon, one of the most significant sites of ancient architecture in North America. We walk around Pueblo Bonito and Chetro Ketl before taking a long hike through the desert to see the Supernova Pictograph. We end the afternoon by climbing the cliffs overlooking Pueblo Bonito and circling the Great Kiva at Casa Rinconada. After a long drive back out to the highway, over desert washes and gravel roads, we eat dinner at Tequila’s in Farmington and settle in for the night.

April 11, 2022: Another early morning drive through the darkness of northern New Mexico. From the road, we watch the first light of sunrise hit Shiprock (Tsé Bitʼaʼí: “winged rock”) before crossing the Chuska Mountains into Arizona.