no.7
By Sarah Canelas
White Sands National Monument, NM
October 29, 2018
On the one full day that we were at White Sands, I walked the hiking trails barefoot. When combined, the total distance was seven miles. I think it was the longest distance I’ve ever covered without shoes.
The feeling of sand under my feet was nostalgic.
I haven’t been to the beach in years. And gypsum sand behaves differently than silica—in the dim morning the pale dunes seemed more like snow. But still.
Perhaps it was the collected dampness. While the surface may have been dry, water pooled beneath. It is a basin.
One of the trails reached the edge of the Alkali Flat—the dry lakebed of what once was Lake Otero. And at that furthest point, there is a warning sign. It says not to go further—to stay on the trail.
Danger.
Showing posts with label Sarah Canelas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sarah Canelas. Show all posts
December 3, 2018
November 27, 2018
no.6
no.6
By Sarah Canelas
Gila National Forest, NM
October 26, 2018
Of all the sites we’ve visited, this one seems the most awake.
On our first day here, however, it rained. Not lightly—not a drizzle—but a heavy downpour, flooding the washes and forming deep pools. The river filled and clouded with mud.
I was out exploring during the rainstorm. I was soaked, but the woods were quiet.
Waiting, maybe.
Over the next few days, though, that would change. Birds would gather, murmuring to each other, and chase one another through the trees. Pollinators would settle, finding remaining flowers in the warmth of the sun. The trees and brush were filled with the rustling of motion, full of activity.
And when I would walk the same path that I had in rainy isolation, I was not alone.
Everything responded.
There was so much life—and so much activity. And in comparison to the other independent sites we had visited, this seemed entirely their space—not ours. Some times, I felt like an intruder. At others, I felt like a welcome guest. But, I never felt as if I were anything but a visitor.
It was not my space. And may never be my space.
There was something comforting about that.
By Sarah Canelas
Gila National Forest, NM
October 26, 2018
Of all the sites we’ve visited, this one seems the most awake.
On our first day here, however, it rained. Not lightly—not a drizzle—but a heavy downpour, flooding the washes and forming deep pools. The river filled and clouded with mud.
I was out exploring during the rainstorm. I was soaked, but the woods were quiet.
Waiting, maybe.
Over the next few days, though, that would change. Birds would gather, murmuring to each other, and chase one another through the trees. Pollinators would settle, finding remaining flowers in the warmth of the sun. The trees and brush were filled with the rustling of motion, full of activity.
And when I would walk the same path that I had in rainy isolation, I was not alone.
Everything responded.
There was so much life—and so much activity. And in comparison to the other independent sites we had visited, this seemed entirely their space—not ours. Some times, I felt like an intruder. At others, I felt like a welcome guest. But, I never felt as if I were anything but a visitor.
It was not my space. And may never be my space.
There was something comforting about that.
November 24, 2018
October 24, 2018
no.4
no.4
By Sarah Canelas
Muley Point, Bears Ears National Monument, Utah
October 6, 2018
The weather at Muley Point has been intense—beautiful, but terrible. And very, very wet.
We were caught in a lightning storm, one morning. It hailed and we watched the lightning strike down on further parts of Cedar Mesa. For a moment, in the middle of it, the sun peaked through and two rainbows formed—one a complete arc and the other fading above into the whirling clouds.
Another day, we were trapped in a fog; a mist formed by clouds that flowed across the mesa. It turned the terrain into something labyrinthine—repeating landscape imagery and lacking directional markers. Navigating was even worse in the dark.
It continues to be overcast.
This all seems like a strange combination; the height of the mesa, the familiar desert plants, the cloud induced fog, and the storming skies. It all casts a strange surreal quality to the place. Yet, it all feels immediately—and viscerally—alive. Everything has become vibrant; more real, in some ways, than anything else.
Perhaps everything has woken up. Or maybe I have.
The damp keeps causing a familiar cold to sink into me. I wonder, how comprehensible—how predictable—is any of this really supposed to be?
By Sarah Canelas
Muley Point, Bears Ears National Monument, Utah
October 6, 2018
The weather at Muley Point has been intense—beautiful, but terrible. And very, very wet.
We were caught in a lightning storm, one morning. It hailed and we watched the lightning strike down on further parts of Cedar Mesa. For a moment, in the middle of it, the sun peaked through and two rainbows formed—one a complete arc and the other fading above into the whirling clouds.
Another day, we were trapped in a fog; a mist formed by clouds that flowed across the mesa. It turned the terrain into something labyrinthine—repeating landscape imagery and lacking directional markers. Navigating was even worse in the dark.
It continues to be overcast.
This all seems like a strange combination; the height of the mesa, the familiar desert plants, the cloud induced fog, and the storming skies. It all casts a strange surreal quality to the place. Yet, it all feels immediately—and viscerally—alive. Everything has become vibrant; more real, in some ways, than anything else.
Perhaps everything has woken up. Or maybe I have.
The damp keeps causing a familiar cold to sink into me. I wonder, how comprehensible—how predictable—is any of this really supposed to be?
October 18, 2018
no.3
no.3
By Sarah Canelas
Angel Peak, NM
September 28, 2018
A lot happened here—and I still don’t know how to talk about it. 
October 1, 2018
no.2
no.2
By Sarah Canelas
Rio Grande del Norte National Monument/Wild Rivers, NM
While traveling down to the river, I thought about the relationship between transition and exchange.
With the week before that we had spent at the Headwaters of the Rio Grande, we had lived alongside the river. Some closer, some farther—but we had all been in easy distance of it. I had wandered down at any time of day, only taking minutes to reach it.
That was not the case at Wild Rivers. Our camp was atop of the gorge—and the Rio Grande at the very bottom. In deciding to visit the river, we had to take one of the trails down; it required a larger amount of consideration, planning, and care. It took intention.
Suddenly, what had been an easy trip, had become a sort-of journey. Almost a pilgrimage.
It became important: my purpose for visiting, what I wanted to collect or receive, and what I was taking with me. The whole action could no longer be taken arbitrarily, and because of that those factors became a greater part of the transition. It felt closer to an exchange of sorts—physical, emotional, intentional.
I regret that didn’t get down to the Rio Grande for a second visit.
By Sarah Canelas
Rio Grande del Norte National Monument/Wild Rivers, NM
While traveling down to the river, I thought about the relationship between transition and exchange.
With the week before that we had spent at the Headwaters of the Rio Grande, we had lived alongside the river. Some closer, some farther—but we had all been in easy distance of it. I had wandered down at any time of day, only taking minutes to reach it.
That was not the case at Wild Rivers. Our camp was atop of the gorge—and the Rio Grande at the very bottom. In deciding to visit the river, we had to take one of the trails down; it required a larger amount of consideration, planning, and care. It took intention.
Suddenly, what had been an easy trip, had become a sort-of journey. Almost a pilgrimage.
It became important: my purpose for visiting, what I wanted to collect or receive, and what I was taking with me. The whole action could no longer be taken arbitrarily, and because of that those factors became a greater part of the transition. It felt closer to an exchange of sorts—physical, emotional, intentional.
I regret that didn’t get down to the Rio Grande for a second visit.
September 24, 2018
no.1
By Sarah Canelas
Headwaters of the Rio Grande, SW Colorado
September 9, 2018
Time exists strangely out at the Headwaters of the Rio Grande. It seems like the span needed to finish projects has been distorted. We were warned about this beforehand, but the firsthand experience, itself, is another thing altogether.
It runs both slower—and faster. Dilates strangely. It feels absent in its normal sense, but also absolute. Present—in an inescapable, physical manner. And we can see it everywhere, just—
Not in our usual societal chronology.
In day-to-day life, we’re regularly confronted by the passing of time. Specifically, by human markers of time: eras, decades, years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. And while we see them in our timekeeping, they exist more immediately in our physical surroundings. Everything in society can be dated; we live in the inescapable context of cultural periods.
Still, it’s not that these markers—these references—don’t exist out in the Rio Grande National Forest. But they’re quieter when not human. With a lack of societal density in the area, markers are easier to miss if you’re not actively looking.
And right now, time out here exists in the movement of the sun, the decomposition of the dead, and the hunger of our bodies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)