Sweet Light

There are many names for that time of day when the rising or setting sun lights up a  landscape in a special way. Most of the time you hear it called the "magic hour" or the "golden hour". There's even a technical term, alpenglow, when the sun is just below the horizon and the warm, pink glow causes the mountains to have that rarely seen illumination.

Church Rock in Kayenta, Arizona

I heard the best name for it from the world-class landscape photographer, LeRoy Dejolie, when I took a workshop with him a couple of years ago. LeRoy had his own name for it, and he claimed it only lasted 45 seconds.

Not an hour, or a few minutes, just 45 seconds.

The first time I heard him use his term, we were set up before sunrise at Church Rock in Kayenta, Arizona waiting for what until then I called the magic hour. LeRoy kept yelling at us to "wait until I tell you", and we all just stood behind our tripods like little soldiers all lined up ready to face down the charging enemy.

Then the order to fire came, "SWEET LIGHT'.

Forty five seconds later it was over.

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I don't want to ...

paint the house, or mow the lawn, or clean the garage, or do all of the other things that need to be done outside.

I want to do what I want to do. Nothing specific, just something not on the list of things that I have to do.

But the weather is changing. Within just a couple of weeks the leaves will look like this and then just a few weeks after that the snows will come.

I'll have lots of time then. Lots of time to wish I was outside painting the house or mowing the lawn.

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A Do-Over

Bryce Canyon

This is another "second chance" theme of sorts. Not necessarily a second chance at a particular image or place, but instead another chance at a visit out west.

Earlier this year, we went to the Grand Tetons National Park and Yellowstone National Park for about 10 days. Of those 10 days, it either rained or snowed about eight of them. Even though in a way it was the most relaxing vacation I had taken in years, it seemed like we were cheated.

Cheated of the scenery because the clouds were always there and cheated of just being able to get out of the car and see what we came to see.

So Denise and I decided to try again. In a few weeks we'll be going back to two of the national parks we've been to a couple of times before, Zion and Bryce Canyons.

Zion Canyon

This time maybe the weather will be on our side, but if it isn't, it still beats staying at home and dreaming of the hoodoos.

Room #37 at the Beachcomber Motel

Manistique Light

I'll start this one off by saying I think I'm fairly normal. I have a family and a job, don't drink a lot, and have never been institutionalized.

Now that I've got that disclaimer in, I have a story to tell about a stop I made in Michigan's Upper Peninsula a couple of Octobers ago.

I was roaming the UP taking fall pictures and stopped for the night in the town of Manistique. When I'm alone on trips like this, I stay in motels that, to say it kindly, have seen better days. Maybe it's because I don't want to spend the extra money, or maybe it's because some of their past charm is still hanging on, but those kind of places draw me to them. On this particular night I chose the Beachcomber Motel, just across the street from the Manistique Lighthouse.

It was a nice room. Straight out of the 60's. One double bed, small TV, pink and green bathroom, one of those pre-digital clocks where the time changes by number tabs tumbling over, and those big steel heat radiators that look like they would burn you if you even thought about getting close to them.

Nothing unusual about the night at all. I went to bed early and was having a good sleep. The only thing disturbing it was the tick-tick-tick of the radiators when they would first come on.

Then it happened. The radiator ticking woke me. I rolled over on my left side to look at the clock (it read exactly 3:33) and then I felt it.

Something, or someone, lifted up the bed covers on my right side and crawled into bed with me. I felt the covers lifting up and I felt the bed move.

I've told this story to a few people, first to Denise, and this is what they all ask, "what did you do?"

What could I do? I wanted to jump up and run for the door, but the door was on the side of the bed where my visitor was. I wanted to roll over and see what was really there, but didn't really want to know for sure. I simply only had one thing to do, lie there thinking all kinds of thoughts and listening to that tick-tick-tick of the radiator.

Thanks to that night in room number thirty-seven of the Beachcomber Motel, I have a story to tell.

(Let me refer you back to the first paragraph of the story where I claim I'm somewhat normal)

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