into Navajo sandstone
as autumn arrives.
Intent on our destinations, how many anonymous places do we pass along The Road without slowing, or glancing out a window to see what we’re missing?
Driving southeast from Hanksville, Utah, towards Blanding, I pulled into an unnamed, unsigned graveled area off the highway and parked my truck. A few minutes to stretch the legs, rest tired eyes, listen to the quiet (which hummed in the twilight), and look around. That was all I wanted. This is what I found.
The traveler sees what he sees, the tourist sees what he has come to see. —Gilbert K. Chesterton
I spent three refreshing high-desert days in Frenchglen, Oregon, last week, lodged at the historic Hotel. The quiet countryside, the animal and bird life, expansive views towards Steens Mountain, and John’s family-style meals—each by itself is a reason to travel there, and they’re unbeatable in combination.
I expected autumn’s colors to be past their peak, and so they were. Aspen and cottonwood leaves were scarce, and from all accounts didn’t attain the striking yellow-and-orange shades of seasons past. Hurried along by freezing nights, many simply acquiesced to their cyclic fate. The cottonwoods next to the hotel provided the colorful carpet pictured here, swirling about at the back door, a reminder that the best photo is oftentimes right at our feet.