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The Old Testaments

Images from a long summer on the rocks

I remember two things about my first visit to the Grand Canyon. The first is we all got in trouble. By “we” I mean the four oldest of the Connor children who were deemed old enough to know better than to go over the barrier along the rim. The second is the layers in the rocks, all the way to the bottom, thousands of feet below.

The idea that the Colorado River carved its way to the impossibly deep bottom was clear enough, yet still hard to imagine. That had taken 6 million years. What wasn’t so clear then is that the youngest of the rocks the river had cut through—the limestone/marble of the Kaibab Formation—are more than 250 million years old. That’s about 3.5 million human lifetimes. There’s no need to run the math for the deepest rocks in the chasm, the 1.7+ billion year old gneiss, schists and granites that make up the Vishnu Formation. At that trench of time, we are so deeply into the unfathomable that the mind twists and spins.

I can’t well explain the comfort I receive being in the presence of very old rocks. It’s just better—here—that I not try, that I just let the rocks speak for themselves in the photographs. Most of the images are from travels in the summer and fall of 2021, often with some of my favorite people, children and dear friends who allow me to just climb and wander up and down range from time to time, to visit with the earth and the rocks, and the ever-changing light. tjc

Some of the rocks shoved up to the top of the Bighorn Mountains in northern Wyoming are nearly 3 billion years old. These soaring basement rocks include the Archean pink granite in this photo, exposed and artfully weathered by the nearly relentless wind at 9,000 feet.
The Painted Hills unit of the John Day Fossil beds in north central Oregon expose a volcanic world that is roughly twice as old and quite a bit more colorful than the black/brown basalt lava that covers so much of eastern Washington and eastern Oregon. The vistas include hillsides of fossilized soils–paleosols–that accrued over millions of years in successive lake beds dating back 33 million years.
Skirting the Bighorns and extending into Colorado and Montana is the vividly red Chugwater formation. An enormous, stratified pile of silt and sandstone it dates back to the Triassic period (245 to 208 million years ago)–basically to the dawn of the dinosaurs. The cliffs in this photo are only a few miles from the “Hole-in-the Wall” hideout of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, near Barnum, WY.

To see and read more, click on the number “2” below…

The Heron’s Bad Hair Day

Natural scenes from an unnaturally long winter

The test of winter, both for my spirits and my camera, is the paucity of light. Broadly speaking it’s not just the pervasive gloaming and mid-afternoon sunsets, but the all-too-sudden blanching of the terrain—how suddenly October blue and gold bleeds away to the dun of November, then freezes, melts, and freezes again for three months on end. Throw in the added darkness of the Covid quarantine and, well, you can have quite a bummer on your hands.

One antidote (aside from winter poetry, which is of no use to the camera) is the fleeting miracle of alpenglow with its dazzling spectrum from neon plum to electric tangerine. Another is winter birds and especially the exquisitely-dressed diving ducks: the Goldeneyes, Buffleheads, and Mergansers that are more prevalent in the colder months. I’ll leave it to the biologists to explain why they stay. It’s enough for me to learn how to improve my chances of bringing them into focus, to move gently through the thorny brush, and be willing to laugh and learn from the quotient of failure. All the while counting the days until spring arrives.

It is hard to improve upon the sleek beauty of mergansers, and the regal wardrobe of Great Blue Herons, but by early December I was looking forward to my near daily visits with a bachelor Barrow’s Goldeneye, whom I nicknamed Gordy, just for fun.

Continue reading The Heron’s Bad Hair Day

Waterworks 2020

Owing to a freakishly wet late spring, it was only near the very end of June that the Spokane River became safe enough to take on. I don’t swim with a life jacket or a wetsuit. But I do swim with a camera, a fuchsia cap– to alert boarders and kayakers and rafters– plus earplugs and goggles of course, so I can see what I’m getting myself into.

The least that can be said for the results is they are thirty medicinal images for the grayer days ahead, that will help keep seasonal affective disorder at bay. The cobbles and boulders radiating in these photographs are dominantly the rocks delivered by the catastrophic ice age floods of the late Pleistocene that brought in splendid pieces of Montana, Idaho, and British Columbia. Among my favorites are Cosmos, The Brightness of Being, and Whence it Came, the latter of which frames the opening for this on-line gallery.

Part of the experiment this summer was to attempt photographs that capture the elements in the surrounding environment–the water, the rocks, the sky, and the riparian landscape. You’ll see the results of that in photos like All in, Dances in Orange, and even Crawfish Cinema, where the figures on the wave screen are from the light entering from the sky, trees and buff hillside in the distance.

Parenthood was inspired by one of my daughter’s poems which begins with a line about my teaching her to swim. The location of the photo has added meaning for me because it’s near where I spread my allotment of my father’s ashes two years ago. So, yes, there’s a lot going on there beneath the surface.

It bears repeating that all this work, and previous efforts from the river, come with my deep appreciation for all of those who’ve worked and continue to work to restore and protect this precious resource in our midst. Special thanks this year to the late Mike Taylor, a venerable engineer and community leader who was heading up the city’s wastewater treatment improvements at the time of his passing. I was honored to count him among my friends.

Each of these photos is available on metal starting at $1 per square inch, (e.g. $256 for a 16×16 print ready for wall mounting) with a 30% discount on additional prints through December 1, 2020. For sale inquiries, please call (509) 838-4580, or email me at tjccamas@comcast.net.