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Living in the Tonto National Forest in the High Desert
In May of this year, I wrote about moving to Arizona; in fact, it was my last post. We were so busy with selling the house and the chaos that ensued and finding a place to live out here that I didn’t update the blog. We’ve been living in the Tonto National Forest for almost two months. As you might imagine, moving across the country is an arduous journey and costly.
We are still unpacking and getting life sorted out. I transferred out here and then started a new job in late August. Life has been hectic, but we are loving it. One of the major reasons we chose Arizona, other than the fact that Deana is from this great state, was its stunning natural beauty, which has offered us endless opportunities for exploration and adventure. The vast landscapes, with their unique rock formations and diverse ecosystems, have become our new playground. Each weekend, we try to set off on new adventures. The local attractions are truly spectacular, and we rarely find ourselves bored with so much to see and do.
I tell people that it is a lot like the mountainous area of South Carolina. It is a more arid climate, of course, the flora and fauna are different, but the people are a lot like they are at home. We live in a small tourist town that more than doubles in size during the summer. The ponderosa pines and mesquite trees sing with glee and give off a glorious scent. The community here is vibrant and welcoming, and we’ve already made a number of friends who have introduced us to local customs and hidden gems that we might have otherwise missed. We’ve also participated in local festivals and farmers’ markets, where we’ve sampled delicious regional dishes and handmade crafts that showcase the talent and creativity of the local artisans.
The Mogollon Rim is one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I have ever seen in my six decades on this earth. On a particularly wet Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago, we drove up to the top of the rim, or at least as far as we could get on pavement, and looked out over all the Ponderosa pines covering the Mazatzal mountains. As we arrived at the lookout, clouds rolled in below us, offering a heavenly vista of the world below, so serene and picturesque. This experience alone made all the challenges and hardships of our move worthwhile. The tranquility of the forest, coupled with the majesty of the towering cliffs, makes this place a true sanctuary.
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The Great Blue Hills of God
When I was a young boy, my grandfather would tell me stories about the great Cherokee nation and Sah-ka-na-ga, a somewhat level camping area atop the rock where they could camp for a few days whilst on an arduous journey across the mountains. The mountaintop and the water and wildlife provided a respite to the weary travelers. We were told of the wise elders who spoke of the mountains with deep reverence, and of the nights when the stars seemed close enough to touch, as if the elders’ tales summoned them nearer.
Like most of you, I learned about the ‘Trail of Tears‘, a stain on our nations history, in school. The mountains in the featured photo of this post used to belong to the Cherokee. Right or wrong, they signed over their rights to this land in 1785. If this land could talk, I’m sure it would fill a hundred volumes. It’s these stories that haunt the crevices of the rocks and the currents of the streams; the echoes of laughter, the whispers of the wind through the trees, and the songs of sorrow for a people forever entwined with these hills.
Being part Cherokee, these mountains, valleys, streams, and ponds hold a special place in my heart. There is an aire of mystery about this land and a haunting cry from the past as the wind whistles and winds its way ’round the mountain tops. It is a shame that so many people are moving here that don’t know its history. The land is being taken again, except this time by colonials from the North, West, and Foreign Governments. The history is still taught in school, but the folklore is passed down from one generation to the next. Hundreds of books have been written, but who reads anymore?
The stories told by my grandfather were not just narratives of the past; they were the threads that wove the fabric of our identity. He would speak of the legacy left by the Cherokee on these lands, leaving a mark as indelible as the seasons themselves. To this day, I feel the presence of my ancestors in the rustling leaves and the gentle babble of the brooks, as if they are reaching through time to remind me of who I am and whence I came.
As I grew older, I came to appreciate the poignant beauty in the confluence of nature and history here. The same mountains that witnessed my forebears’ tribulations now stand as silent observers to modernity’s advance. To hike through these woodlands is to walk alongside ghosts of a bygone era, each step a small pilgrimage through a history richly layered and complex.
Yet the relentless march of progress does not cease. Newcomers arrive, drawn by the allure of unspoiled vistas, seemingly ignorant of the depth of history that permeates the very soil. They come seeking tranquility or perhaps refuge from their own crowded spaces, unaware that each footprint is an echo of a much older passage.
I hold hope, however, that our stories will persist, as resilient as the ancient rock formations that bear witness to time’s relentless passage. Oral traditions may give way to digital scrolls, yet the essence of our folklore, like the mountain’s silhouette against a twilight sky, remains immutable — a testament to the enduring spirit of the Cherokee people and the enduring majesty of the lands they have called home since time immemorial.
There is something magical about these mountains on a foggy morn’ or when God dapples the leaves with colours like a canvas in the fall. I have spent numerous mornings gazing out over the ridges of the mountains and watching them pierce through the moving fog and clouds. At times, the fog lifts as if the earth itself is exhaling, revealing hidden vistas and secret places that seem untouched by time. As the sun breaks, the mountains play an orchestrated symphony of light and shadow, enchanting any who take the time to watch.
Throughout the seasons, these mountains don foothills of white snow, a wardrobe of endless greens, and a spectacle of autumnal hues. The cycles of life continue unabated, as do the stories that are passed from one generation to the next. For those who sit and listen, the mountains offer a narrative of resilience, beauty, and an enduring spirit that no treaty could sequester within mere pages of history.
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Insignificant Leaf
In a previous discussion, I highlighted the inherent beauty contained within the minute details of our everyday lives. We find ourselves ensnared in the incessant pace of existence, perpetually striving to surpass the expectations laid out before us—both our own and those of others who hold stakes in our journey. This unyielding race often blinds us to the profound joys of life’s subtleties.
Consider the photograph presented in this post: a lone leaf, apparently inconsequential and one of a multitude. Yet, it poses a silent question—can we truly consider it insignificant? Each leaf weaves its own narrative, etched with intricate patterns and a distinctiveness that beckons for recognition. It stands out among its peers, its form imbued with a quiet personality. Dismissed by some as an inconsequential piece of foliage, we are compelled to ponder: does it genuinely lack value?
This leaf, in all its simplicity, is an artifact of divine craftsmanship. Though it may be flawed in the eyes of some, it remains a testament to God’s work. To contemplate whether it possesses rights would be to misinterpret its role. It is, at its core, a leaf—fulfilling its purpose within the grand tapestry of nature. Yet, it demands our appreciation just as a flower does, for its own sake and for the beauty it contributes to the world.
There is a profound lesson nestled among these subtleties: to decelerate our pace and cherish the seemingly insignificant elements that populate our lives. Much like this leaf, such moments and objects ask for nothing but a brief pause—a moment of contemplation, an ounce of gratitude. As my ability to see these details dwindles, their significance becomes amplified. The pine cone, the leaf, they are all fragments of a greater whole, pieces of a divine puzzle meant to be valued.
In time, my vision will diminish entirely. I urge you not to wait until the charm of sight or the grace of being eludes you—appreciate the splendors of creation now. Soak in the simplicity and the intricate detail bestowed upon us by God, and you will find a world rich with wonder, ripe for your admiration.
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Macro Details
As an enthusiast of the minute marvels in life, my fascination with macro photography isn’t merely a hobby—it’s a profound appreciation for the smaller details that often go unnoticed. The intricate details one can capture through this photographic technique are nothing short of magical. Each shot is a testament to my belief that the microcosm reflects the grandeur of the larger universe.
Through the lens, ordinary subjects are transformed into extraordinary spectacles. Take, for example, the humble pine cone featured in previous posts. To the casual observer, it’s merely a commonplace object scattered beneath the trees. However, my morning promenade through the concrete and natural elements of the city turns into a treasure hunt. I seek out these seemingly insignificant items to reveal their hidden narratives and sublime beauty that they’re eager to share with anyone willing to look closely enough.
I relish the use of my treasured Minolta Maxxum 50mm f/2.8 AF Macro lens, a pioneer of its time, integrating auto-focus capabilities that represented a significant step forward in photography. The Minolta Maxxum 7000, with which it was concurrently developed, may have gained widespread fame, yet this lens holds a special place in the history of photography equipment.
Despite its age and the occasional temperamental auto-focus—especially when dealing with subjects that demand the finesse of macro photography—I’ve learned to harness this characteristic in my work. I partner it with the robust Minolta Maxxum 9000, opting for manual control to ensure the precision required for capturing the smallest details with utmost clarity.
While the AF function is more cooperative when the subject is beyond two feet away, there is a certain charm and gratification that comes with manual focusing: the connection between the photographer, the camera, and the subject is intimate and intentional.
True, the lens boasts a plastic exterior, yet this does not detract from the exceptional images it helps produce. Instead, its lightweight design complements the tactile experience of photography, making it a joy to hold and operate. For anyone considering entering the realm of macro photography, this lens is both an affordable and excellent choice—if one can appreciate its historical context and are willing to manually engage with their subjects.
Equally impressive, though notably more costly, is the later 100mm f/2.8 macro lens, renowned for its improved auto-focus. It’s a brilliant piece of equipment for those looking to invest further in their passion for macro photography.
The process of capturing these photographs—vivid with detail, rich in story—is deeply fulfilling. Among these images, the photograph of my wife, Deana, stands out the most. Her beauty, both inside and out, is elegantly immortalized through this medium.
I’m eager to share more stories and photographs in the coming days. Despite the whirlwind that life often presents, with both work and events demanding my time, this blog remains a serene space where I can express my passions and connect with like-minded individuals.
Your support and interest in my work provide a source of motivation and gratitude that is deeply felt. The knowledge that my words resonate with readers fuels my continued journey into the art of macro photography and storytelling. Thank you for being a part of this journey with me.
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Easter Film
About a week ago, I found myself immersed in a nostalgic experience right here in my office. The day had been dedicated to sorting through various remnants of my photographic past. It was during this process of reorganization, after having moved my office, that I stumbled upon a treasure trove of camera paraphernalia—a collection of lenses, tripods, and of course, a plethora of cameras that I had accumulated over the years.
Amid this assortment, my eyes landed on a peculiar piece that has always captured my affection and frustration in equal measure—the quirky little Minolta 9000AF. This vintage camera, with its robust build and unique autofocus system, represented both the innovation of its time and the limitation of technology that has since been vastly improved upon.
Much to my amazement, nestled within its solid chassis was a curious artifact—a roll of Kentmere 100 film, partly used but forgotten. The mystery of its content set my mind racing. What images had I captured, and when? The intrigue was palpable.
Given that there were two exposures remaining, I decided to complete the roll last Friday. I sought scenes that felt in tune with the nostalgic theme that had permeated my day. The shutter release was a window back in time, a mechanical echo from the past.
Saturday morning greeted me with anticipation. Eager to uncover the hidden images, I set about developing the film, using 510Pyro at the recommended box speed. The methodical process of development was almost meditative, each step a small ritual in the revelation of memories captured on this unexpectedly discovered film roll.
I watched as the images slowly materialized on the negatives—snapshots in time, echoes of the past. And while the results were yet to be scanned and fully reviewed, this journey through my forgotten analog endeavor reminds me why photography, especially captured on film, is so magical. It’s not merely about recording moments; it’s about preserving them in a medium that can surprise you years later, with hidden gems just waiting to be rediscovered.
As it turns out, the film was from about this time last year. Luckily, there was a photograph on the roll of a local church. The royal cloth draped over the cross, as written about in a previous post, signified that this roll was from the Easter period of 2023. At that time, my wife, Deana, and I were not yet married. We got married on Earth Day last year.
The featured photo of this post is of my wife gazing out over the mountains of the upstate. I wonder what she was thinking at that time. Was she contemplating the future, pondering whether or not she should marry this goofball? I can’t say for sure, but I do find myself wondering. We have been married for almost a year. Indeed, it has been an adventure, brimming with memories etched into each day. We’ve shared laughter that filled rooms and comforted each other during moments of silence that needed no words. Through both great times and tough times, we’ve been inseparably united, two souls entwined by destiny and love.
She is my love and my greatest treasure in this crazy world. Deana, the name that dances on my tongue with the lightness of joy and the weight of immeasurable gratitude. That smile of hers, a radiant beam that cuts through the murkiness of any gloom, can rejuvenate my spirit with the simplest of glances.
A lot of women would have made a run for it when they found out that their new husband was going blind. But thankfully, my amazing wife has been my rock, my constant, my vigilant guiding star through these past few tumultuous months. It’s in these challenging times that you realize the true strength of the bonds you share. These are the moments when love is not just a feeling but an anchor, and partnership not merely a status but an action lived out daily.
God knew that we needed each other and brought us together. In times of doubt, in times when the world seems to spin on an unpredictable axis, it is this truth that remains unshaken. We were meant to be together – our paths interwoven into a beautiful tapestry of shared experiences, dreams, and aspirations.
With each passing day, my appreciation for her grows. As we approach a full year of marriage, my heart is full of hopes and wishes for the journey ahead. I love you, Deana Mae. With every beat of my heart and with every breath I take, I am so thankful for you.
