A little south of dead center Wyoming and a short way down the Sweetwater River from South Pass, the hulking dome of Independence Rock rises above the scrub and sagebrush like the back of a huge whale napping at sea. Oddly, Independence Rock is probably a quieter place today than it was during most summers following the California Gold Rush. It sits on the Oregon/California Trail and was a busy stopover location on the journey west. If your emigrant party was on schedule, you arrived here around the 4th of July, Independence Day.
Even today, with a two lane highway close by, standing on top of Independence Rock, one feels lonely and insignificant. The landscape is immense and indifferent. Even amid the comforting hubbub of the community of wagon parties that paused here, there must have been many lumps caught in many throats. Will I ever see loved ones I left behind? And what awaits me?
Perhaps it was the need to push back against the vulnerability and insignificance those travelers must have felt amid such a vast landscape: ‘Who knows what my fate will be, but let the world know I took on a great challenge, and I passed by here.’ Whatever the motivation, around the rock’s base and up on top, thousands etched their names and the date they passed for us to contemplate 170 years hence.
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Independence Rock isn’t handy to the traveler. But if you are on the road between Rawlins and Casper, twenty miles east of Muddy Gap, pull over and look around. It is a nice moment to sit down beside one of the names etched in Independence Rock and imagine an adventure so grand.
An array of motivations converged and led to a delightful road trip. Along with Charlie Hamilton, a long time friend and a perfect road trip companion, we set out with a to-do punch list that would be strung together with whimsy. Yes, we had stops to make—visit old friends, return to stomping grounds from our misspent youth, kick tires at possible relocation communities—but each day’s itinerary was decided over morning coffee. On top of that, we would be traveling the crest of the Rockies while the aspens were in full color. Plenty of reasons to be excited.
The next morning, we descended into the canyon at the only location visitors are allowed without a Navajo guide: the White House Ruins. Not rough and tumble, the red rock there appears to have been finely smoothed and finished by a craftsman. The White House Ruins are only one set of cliff dwellings in the canyon left by the Ancient Puebloans centuries ago, but perhaps the most elegant.
I have always been fascinated by stories of the fur trappers who ventured up to where the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin Rivers join forces to create the Missouri River. Until the discovery of South Pass, the Missouri River was the main thoroughfare to beaver country for John Colter, Jim Bridger, Jedediah Smith, and so many other mountain men. Read about any of these men and the Wind River Mountains figure prominently in their travels. 
My friend, Dan, and I just returned from a trip to a region of the Sierra that he visits often but is new to me. A network of Forest Service roads honeycomb this area, a land dotted with granite domes that borders the southern boundary of Yosemite National Park. From the very end of Sky Ranch Road, we hiked across Chiquito Pass and descended the trail to the South Fork of the Merced River. From there, we left the trail and walked several miles down the river, then scrambled 1,300 feet back up to the road leading to the car.
As I grow in my photography, few things bring more pleasure than abstracting some slice of a setting that I might have once overlooked. I have other images of Young Lakes on this evening that I captured as the light sunk low and grew warm, but they are wider. It was hard to leave anything out. The entire scene was lovely; grand, softly lit granite peaks rose high above this carefully nestled lake. But this lone shaft of light cast across three sapling lodgepole pines caught my eye. In front, the cool gentle lake reflection. 
The wet winter of 2016-2017 was one of those that wildflower lovers long for. In California, when they come, the show is in the desert. Features on the CBS Evening News and NPR from Anza Borrego Desert State Park confirmed that the display was epic. Friends who had gone there in prior wet years returned with enthusiastic reports of jaw-dropping sights. I was not going to miss out this time.
I found an airbnb in Julian, only a one-hour drive from Borrego Springs, but as different as a landscape can be. At an elevation of 4,226 feet, Julian sits at the crest of the Cuyamaca Mountains that drain all the moisture from east bound storm clouds leaving little for Anza Borrego and the desert beyond. 
Here are a few shots from that spot. It was lovely indeed, but such a vast park beckons a visitor to quieter corners. So, I ventured out, but a park this size is a feast that can only be weakly sampled on a three-day visit. In my next few posts, I will share some images of simpler beauty away from the busy loop road. 
As the remaining slice of sun thinned toward totality, the air chilled. Sunsets have edges – shafts of light here, shadows there – but this was an eerie uniform dusk that evenly dimmed the hundreds of square miles we could see. Going, going, gone. People on our hilltop gasped and called out, and I felt a stirring I checked with a deep swallow and several rapid blinks. Overhead, an astounding jewel radiated needles of pure white light alone in the near total darkness.