The Rio Grande

The black and white image contrasts with itself. Deep shadows cut holes in a mountain so brightly lit by afternoon sun that it is almost painful to look at. Popcorn clouds drift overhead, providing no respite from the sun. It is an image so warmed by the desert that it almost flickers like a heat wave. As you look closer, a mirage appears. A ribbon of a river, sleek as glass, curls at the feet of the sun-hot mountains. It forces you to take a double-take. Are you, panting with the heat, imagining the river? Does it truly exist? At once, the image takes on a new meaning. It holds the promise of relief, peace, respite. The image is calming, full of hope despite the desert heat. It is pure magic in photographic form. Would you expect anything less from Ansel Adams?

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/UCaWA9rja6Vrv32XA

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February 15th, 2025 - Big Bend Day 2

Under the gooseneck lamp of my bedside table, four books have taken up permanent residence. One of them is the Bible. The other three are small postcard books featuring a collection of photographs from Ansel Adams. I am aware this is a cliche statement, but Ansel Adams is one of my favorite photographers. That shouldn’t surprise anyone. Ansel Adams represents the intersection of several of my favorite topics: vintage photography, national parks, and storytelling through images. On sleepless evenings, I reach for a photo book to transport myself to beautiful places. I often hope that the masterful black and white images will whisper secrets to me, as if, by studying his work, I can one day mimic Adams’ photography myself. I am aware that I am one of hundreds with this goal, but the fact doesn’t deter me. I just keep trying.

I am so devoted to this goal that I will often reference the books before we head out on a trip. 

“Did Ansel Adams photograph this place?” I ask myself, rummaging through the images. “Does he have a photo I can copy?”

This may seem like cheating. Go find your own compositions, Grace! But mimickry is the greatest form of flattery, isn’t it? Who better to mimic than Ansel Adams himself?

I knew that Ansel Adams had visited Big Bend long before we journeyed there ourselves. The photo titled “Santa Elena Canyon, Big Bend National Park, Texas” had caught my attention the first time I opened my nightstand photo book. This is the photo I described in the opening of this blog post. The Santa Elena Canyon inhabits the bottommost point of Big Bend National Park. In fact, it is so far south that half of the canyon resides in Mexico. One canyon wall is America. The other is Mexico. The sleek river slipping between is the Rio Grande. When I stumbled across the Ansel Adams photo, I knew immediately that I wanted to go see it for myself. 

But first, we had to conquer a sunrise hike. 

Little dust clouds swirled into the red glare of our taillights as we flew down the empty desert road. Stars winked overhead, as if cheekily approving of Tyler’s speeding. Tyler likes desert roads, especially when there is nobody else on them. I like desert roads because I don’t get carsick. With those two elements combined, we were in a pretty good mood that morning! The catchy pizzicato plucks of “Hey Mister” by Poor Man’s Poison accompanied our good mood. When we inevitably lost signal in Chisos Mountains, Spotify played “Hey Mister” twice more before lapsing into silence. We were in such a good mood that we didn’t mind the repeated song. In fact, we didn’t really notice the third repetition because we were too interested in the hubbub on the side of the mountain road. We were winding our way up through the Chisos Mountains to reach a mounttaintop trail for sunrise. The road was understandably narrow, with trailheads featuring parking lots that were nothing more than wide shoulders. At one such small parking lot, a huge white SUV was lodged, backwards, in a ditch. Its nose jutted out into the road, one tire levitating above the pavement. The tire’s shiny rims glittered helplessly as our headlights hit it. As “Hey Mister” played cheerfully for the third time, we gawked. What on earth happened to that car? Tyler swerved carefully to give the vehicle room. It looked as though the SUV had backed into a ditch while attempting to park in the tiny lot. In the driver’s defense, it was a pretty tight parking lot for such a large vehicle.The vehicle’s occupants wandered around the SUV, undoubtedly dreading the exorbitant fee they would be charged by the car rental company. We drove by slowly, feeling bad about their ruined vacation and scratched-up rental. A few moments later, a park ranger’s vehicle passed us in the opposite direction, emergency lights brightly illuminating the dark road. We watched the ranger’s vehicle disappear in our rearview mirror. 

“I hope they have a tow chain,” I commented. “Or a winch. They aren’t going to be able to call a tow truck with the signal out here!” 

Spotify, as if in response to my comment, finished the song. With no signal to cue the next in the playlist, silence fell. It seemed to prove my point.

Luckily, we don’t need cell signal to hike. With the stuck SUV still on our minds, we carefully parked our own car at the Lost Mine Trailhead. As a cool wind whipped around our hiking sticks, we started our hike.

A waxing gibbous moon hovered over an orange, squarish mountain. The mountain reminded me of the ancient ruins of a temple, as if the gods of Texas had once dwelt in these now-crumbling halls of stone. What sort of gods would Texas worship? A goddess of the oil fields would wear black silk and an obsidian crown. A sun deity would be a scorpion who carries the hot sun on his carapace. I imagine there would also have to be a Texas god devoted to big trucks and driving them very fast! 

(I say this all in jest, but this could be an interesting theological question if we made it one. What are the “gods” of your region? What do we unconsciously worship?)

We made it to our mountaintop just after a beautifully molten sunrise. A terrific wind threatened to push us off the edge of our overlook. We planted our feet, hair whipping in the wind, and surveyed the scene before us. It was a wild, wonderful place. The mountains descending into the valley were so rippled by erosion that the valley resembled a sheet draped over a pile of lumpy laundry. Here and there, hard rocks jutted straight up in sharp lines. Their uneven, harsh edges looked as though a sculptor had began chipping away sculptures, but got distracted and wandered away. 

When we later visited the Santa Elena Canyon, it appeared as though we found the sculptor’s hyperfixation. The walls of the canyon were so straight and precise, I am not sure human engineering could have accomplished anything similar. It was a perfect hallway of stone. The Rio Grande silkily slipped along the bottom of the canyon, providing a haven for swooping birds, whispering grass, and a long line of visitors. We, like Ansel Adams, had a magnetic attraction to the canyon. Birders eagerly clutched binoculars and cameras. Children laughed and splashed in the cool river. Tyler and I were just as eager. As soon as our trail carried us to the edge of the river, we donned water shoes and waded in. Tyler, an employee of the US Government, marched determinedly through the shallow Rio. He reached a sandbar and set his eyes eagerly on the canyon wall that marked the border of Mexico. Hand already outstretched, he stepped forward once, twice, and sploosh! He sank up to his ankles in soft sand. 

“Oh! Do they have quicksand for us on this side?” I laughed.

Tyler backtracked and tried again. Sploosh! Sunk again. 

“No Mexico for us!” I quipped.

Tyler looked at me with a grin. “I don’t like this side of the river!”

The third time was the charm. Tyler found an area of the river that wasn’t booby-trapped with quicksand. With purpose, he marched through the mud towards Mexico. When he reached the canyon wall, the United States government employee planted his hand on Mexico with triumph. For good measure, Tyler found a Mexico stone and skipped it across the river to the American shore, too.

Does that count as a US invasion of Mexico?

After our brief invasion of a neighboring country, we spent the rest of our day doing American things. We hiked to a weird rocky waterslide and had rocks fall on our head. (It was a water-carved funnel called a pour off. We aren’t sure where the rocks came from, but they definitely tumbled down the funnel and onto our heads.) We said hi to some cute desert cows. We found our first scorpion, and Tyler poked it with a stick. As we wrapped up our evening in a windy slot canyon, we found ourselves in conversation with another couple. They were settling down for a date night in the canyon, complete with camp stoves and supper. As sunset began to shine through the window of the water-carved canyon, we shared a sense of contentment with them. How wonderful it was to be in a beautiful place with your favorite person! It is a joy that Tyler and I are blessed to experience often. We never take it for granted. It is a gift.