The Creative Act
Dead Horse Point + Canyonlands – January 2022
A Pilgrimage Under the Stars
Authentic photography of real places, real light, and real moments is often a kind of pilgrimage—a search for extraordinary light, compelling subject matter, and the decisive moment when everything comes together.
Into the Darkness
I leave Moab at midnight, driving into darkness toward Dead Horse Point—an hour away. The final twenty miles require four-wheel drive, as snow and ice blanket the road. My tires crunch steadily upward, climbing toward six thousand feet.
At the end of the road, I step out into a pitch-black night. The silence is striking—almost unsettling.
Beneath a canopy of stars, I make my way to the cliff’s edge and set up my tripod before an old friend.
A coyote offers a lonely howl.
An Old Friend
We’ve shared many moments together—this ancient tree and I—during summer thunderstorms, at first light after an overnight snowstorm, and at midnight under a blanket of stars.
She is beautiful.
Her trunk rises in a graceful S-curve from the bare sandstone—an ancient pinyon pine, more than six centuries old, as best I can tell.
She has endured blistering desert heat and frigid winters, standing steadfast, rooted in stone—resilient, solitary, eternal—keeping quiet watch over the vast expanse below.
Why I’m Here
Why am I here in January—alone, in the dark, with a camera and tripod?
Because winter’s moisture purifies the desert air, clearing it of the dust and haze carried by summer winds. Dead Horse Point, a designated International Dark Sky Park, is among the darkest places on Earth to witness—and photograph—the night sky.
Out here, the heavens come alive.
The Questions
Beneath this celestial ocean, I find myself asking the questions that always surface in the quiet:
Why me?
Why am I here?
What is this life all about?
Is anyone out there?
A Quiet Conviction
The stars and planets above suggest that we are not alone.
In these still hours, my faith deepens—a quiet conviction that none of this, and none of us, exists by chance. Science tells us there are more than two trillion galaxies. And yet, here I stand—on this small planet, in just one of them.
We are not alone.
The Final Frame
Two hours later, I finish photographing the pinyon pine beneath the night sky. Before leaving, I make one final image—a self-portrait.
I set a ten-second delay, step into position beside the ancient tree, and stand motionless as the shutter opens… and closes.
My flashlight reaches toward the heavens—quietly searching for meaning.
The Creative Act (Continued)
Mesa Arch – Canyonlands National Park
Before Dawn
Four hours later, it is 3 a.m. on that same frozen night.
I leave Dead Horse Point and make my way toward Canyonlands, the spiritual current of the night shifting as darkness slowly yields to dawn. Sunrise is forecast for 7:42 a.m.—a long wait in the dead of winter.
I hike through a foot of snow, my headlamp cutting a narrow path through the darkness. My body hums with anticipation, though the lack of sleep leaves me slightly delirious. Even through my gloves, my fingers ache from the cold as I carry my camera and tripod toward the arch.
Expectation and Reality
I’ve seen Mesa Arch countless times in magazines and always assumed that fiery glow beneath the arch was a creation of Photoshop.
It isn’t.
Waiting
To my amazement, I am the first to arrive—4 a.m.—something nearly unheard of at one of the most photographed locations on earth. I quietly claim a position at the cliff’s edge, preparing for the opening curtain.
Above me, the stars still shimmer, unchanged from the hours before.
Now, there are only three hours and forty-two minutes to go.
The cold is bone-deep.
One by one, other photographers arrive. In hushed voices, we speak about the place and the feeling of it all—as if we were in church. There is a shared reverence—an unspoken understanding.
We shuffle back and forth to keep our feet from freezing, our breath visible in the dim light. Anticipation builds—The main act will soon to arrive with the opening curtain of dawn.
The Moment
Its getting light and at least thirty photographers are now lined shoulder to shoulder. Others stand behind, hoping for even the smallest opening. It feels almost absurd—standing here in ten-degree cold, surrounded by snow, waiting for sunrise.
And then—it happens.
The first rays of sunlight crest the horizon, striking the red sandstone below. In an instant, the underside of the arch ignites—glowing with what can only be described as God light.
It is beyond imagination.
Why Photograph Something Thousands of Photographers Have Already Captured?
Mesa Arch has been photographed countless times by some of the finest landscape photographers in the world.
So why come here to make an image that already exists?
Because no two mornings are ever the same—and the presence of those who came before does nothing to diminish its magnificence.
Every sunrise at Mesa Arch tells a new story—a fleeting communion between light, land, and sky. The photograph I made that morning—and the experience itself—were uniquely mine.
Unlike any other before or after.
Finding Meaning
In any scene, I am always searching for meaning.
What does this place have to say to me?
How do I feel?
A fine piece of photographic art is about something—not just of something.
This has become an essential part of my process: pausing, observing, and allowing the landscape to speak before ever pressing the shutter.
“May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.”
—Edward Abbey