I had come to see the desert wildflowers and trees in spring awakening the desert. Uncertain of my timing, I had researched as best I could when blooms might occur and what the current climate might offer. The winter had been abnormally warm. The lack of snow in the area was something no one could remember for over 30 years. Each of the national parks I have visited in recent years has carried its own signs of climate change. Capitol Reef would not be unique. I felt a familiar unease about where our species was headed. At the same time, I was eager to explore a Park so rich in fragile flora and ancient geology.

I was relying on my growing ability to visualize an image before and during a site visit. On the other hand, the desert environment felt unfamiliar to me, with its absence of forests and taller trees and the red rock and earth so ubiquitous in these parts of Utah. I was also orienting myself to new camera equipment acquired over the winter and felt uncertain about accomplishing much. Still, I hoped connection to the landscape would guide me creatively.

I’ve visited southern Utah several times over the past few years. Repeated visits deepen my emotional connection to the land and create space for creativity to quietly unfold. My images gradually take on more meaning for me and, I hope, for others. So it was at Capitol Reef.

By the end of my time there, I had found in addition to familiar places two secluded canyons bursting with color, blooms, and stone. On one hillside I discovered four compositions from the same place, something entirely new to me. My uncertainties faded away. Nature seemed to offer its quiet blessing; always giving, asking only for attention, humility, and connection.