47Small Joys

I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy.

—Anaïs Nin

I left home on Saturday. I remember looking forward to long road trips when I used to live in other places. These days, however, there is a certain bitter sweetness in leaving my little house and the beloved views of my home. Crossing into Nevada, a light winter storm drifted over the Great Basin, providing a dramatic backdrop to the long, empty road and the expanse before me. On occasion, shafts of sunlight filtered through the velvety gray, like slow-moving searchlights sweeping the landscape. The spectacle lasted for many hours and miles.

By early afternoon, I set up camp among Joshua trees on the slopes of a small mountain range overlooking a broad and dry valley. A steep but short hike got me to the craggy top of a prominent summit and I sat down for a snack and a few minutes of meditation. There’s a distinct flavor of happiness that accompanies such experiences that is hard to describe to those not already familiar with it: a subtle, sweet, and somewhat melancholy version of euphoria that can only be experienced in quiet solitude, in magnificent settings. It is a strange mix of elation, humility, a hint of sadness, and overwhelming gratitude, making it hard to draw a deep breath without experiencing a slight burning sensation behind the eyelids, suggesting that tears may not be far behind if I allow my mind to wander and become too overwhelmed with the grandeur, with memories, and with yearnings.

I began my descent in the warm afternoon light, not wanting to hike back in the dark. From the summit I could see a deep wash on the opposite side of my camp. I decided to hike down it, and then back up the slope where my pickup truck was parked. At the bottom of the wash, crumbly layers of shale told the story of an ancient seabed. One small slab showed the distinctive imprint of an ancient crustacean and I collected a few promising rocks to examine later. Back at my camp, I carefully tapped them with a rock hammer, separating the thin layers like pages of an ancient book, exposing several tiny trilobite fossils to the last light of the day—and the first light they had seen in more than half a billion years.

A few sips of tequila and some gentle notes from Ennio Morricone’s soundtrack to the movie Cinema Paradiso made for an evening of deep contemplation and dreams I know I had but cannot remember in detail.

I woke up to cold darkness about an hour before dawn. The warmth and rich aroma of fresh coffee brewed on my little camp stove eased the chill, and I was on my way again. I waited in semidarkness for the first light, listening to the occasional hoots of a distant owl as darkness faded into deep blue and lavender and a few glorious moments of orange glow before the sun rose above a layer of clouds and the color was gone.

The previous day’s weather persisted. I stopped here and there as I drove along the lonesome roads to marvel at the plays of light and shadow before arriving at my next destination. That evening I wanted to soak in a natural hot spring I knew of, and I spent the afternoon looking for a nearby campsite. To my delight, I followed an old mining road to discover a beautiful section of high desert, dotted with cedar and pine trees, abandoned mine shafts, and small miners’ camps, many still containing various mementos of the lives of hardy folks who lived and worked here years ago.

I spent the rest of the afternoon reading, taking occasional breaks to scramble up some of the nearby hills for views of the area. After the sun had set, I drove the few miles to the hot spring for a naked soak in its steamy, sulfury warmth. So wonderful was the feeling that I was almost tempted to fall asleep right there in the water. By the time I drove back to my camp I could barely keep my eyes open.

So ended the solitary part of my trip. I left camp before dawn to meet with friends in Death Valley, and a new kind of adventure ensued. Our first hike found us huddled below a rock arch as flurries of snow began to blow across the desert—a rarity, and a perfect setting for catching up with old friends.

The next couple of days saw us hiking through desert canyons, shivering on lofty viewpoints, savoring every moment of beauty in the daytime, and laughing around the campfire and poker table at night.

On Wednesday I checked into a hotel room to wash and prepare materials before meeting with workshop clients. I was delighted with this group, each student having not only a passion for photography, but also interesting life stories to share. The week flew by.

In so many ways this was a typical outing, but despite having such experiences as a matter of course, I find it hard to relate to them in terms like “typical,” “normal,” or “usual.” There is nothing common about these small chapters in the unfolding story of a life I’m grateful for and marvel at almost every day—a life I could never have predicted in my youth and that I do not take for granted.

In my mind these experiences are a kind of retirement savings—cherished moments and memories I hope to someday recall with the same bittersweet joy and gratitude I felt when experiencing them, and I will know that I had truly lived.

It’s not about photography; it’s about living the life.