Posted on August 11, 2013
I had expected the dust, kicked up by the horses hooves, to sting my eyes. I had expected the blinding sun and the dry, unforgiving heat which blasted the earth below and prickled my pale freckled skin. The tall, statuesque cacti were almost too clichéd to be beautiful though, towering over sturdy low bushy shrubs which sprinkled the cracked, parched soil. I had expected to wilt: too delicate, too fair, too soft. Used to more temperate climes and gentle, rolling lush vistas. This bristling, spiky landscape of extremes too hostile, too intense for my moderate habituation.
They told us about the dust storms – the haboobs – and how you didn’t want to be outside when one pitched up. We read about the valley fever. We rolled the unfamiliar terms around on our foreign tongues.
I had expected to be thirsty. All around us, as we rode, we saw flurries of rain smudging rivulets into the moody blue-grey distance. They teased us but never came our way. Forest fires painted hazy purple skies.
But I didn’t wither. I felt alive. All around me there was life. I was continually surprised and delighted by the delicate whispers of beauty to be found in such harsh conditions. An abundance of wildlife chattered around me. The desert was desolate and wild and ancient and utterly beguiling to me.
The heat, well, it grips you entirely. It crowds you and soaks into your bones. It is hard, really hard, to think of anything much but the physical presence of being, just trying to be, in such extreme temperatures.
And maybe air conditioning.
I wasn’t thirsty. Ever. An ice-cold bottle of water was thrust into my hand at every turn, for which I felt deep gratitude. I realised quickly how a place like this makes you appreciate the value of a cold bottle of water.
We helicoptered down into the belly of the canyon and rode a short stretch of the Colorado river in a boat. We looked up and saw deep, dark stains imprinted on the towering red rocks. When we asked innocent questions of our young guide about how much the water levels fluctuated she shrugged her shoulders and responded quietly: “not much”. The silence around those two words dislodged something within us and whole discourses spooled noiselessly within our minds, unraveling rapidly, wavering, as we moved slowly through the water.
Water. Everyone talks about the water and no-one talks about it. And even as we looked around us and saw all of the hundreds of tourists beholding and secreting away their own little piece of this raw, rugged wonder there was a permeating sense of urgency that was unspoken.
The stains are there to see, clearly. Blemishes. Traces of our shame.
The water is running out. The river is shrinking. This vast, majestic, beautiful river which so many depend on has already shrunk to no more than a trickle in some places along its stretch.
I really wanted to give you cacti and majestic views. I wanted to capture that scolding sunlight as it melted into a dreamy liquid gold. I wanted to show you what it was like to feel as though you are at the centre of earth’s miracle which is vanishing before our very eyes. I wanted to guide you through the hot, dusky, dusty sweetness, the dazzling silence and the immense vastness. I wanted to finish up with the profound, unending emptiness, which engulfs you entirely.
Swallows you up.
It all evaded my lens. Completely.
(Of course – how would it be possible to capture all of that?)
Still, it turns out I’m a pretty poor landscape photographer.
So, I leave you instead with the little things which, I find, are always so much easier to tackle than the big things. I came across a tangle of blackened, scorched thorns. They seemed to me to say what I couldn’t say with my pictures and my words. The stark bitter thorn and the sweet little fragile desert flowers play out their own version of the tragedy of this land. Our land.
© images and content Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2013
Posted on August 8, 2012
We spent a few days down in Devon on the coast, at my dad’s home. There was a folk festival going on, so it was bustling and lively. The weather was contrary; the sea feisty and capricious. My son and I snuck away from the busyness for a few moments to make sea sculptures on the beach.
He found these shiny pebbles, wet and glistening from the spray.
“Gold, silver, and bronze!” He said.
*This will probably be my last post for a little while. Time for a break. I need to recharge, and renew… see you all at the end of the summer!*
© Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2012
Posted on April 30, 2012
At last! The rain has given us glorious pause and the sun shone all day. There were times I thought she would give up and let the grey clouds swallow her up again, but she didn’t. How welcome was this sunshine after two dreary weeks of rain! I decided to go for a walk into town via the scenic route and I took some snaps with my trusty ‘phone along the way.
I hope you don’t mind, I just wanted to share this moment with you:
Somehow, after the rain, the air feels fresher. New smells fill my nostrils. The warm musty sweetness of Spring reawakening. Earthy-mineral tones rise up and mingle with the honey-rich blossom. There is nothing more delicious than the smell of the world waking up after the rain. The colours are vibrating, reinvigorated. Everywhere is animated and teaming with life generously renewed by the rain. The trees stand taller; the grass prouder; the bees are buzzier; the blossom frothier.
Welcome back fluffy white, cornflower blue, lush green, sunshine yellow and candyfloss pink! It’s been far too dull here of late! Welcome back Spring!
© Emily Hughes and searchingtosee, 2012