Nut-to-Butt at Mesa Arch

Ahh, the beauty and joy of America's National Parks...

Precisely the locations I tend to avoid, and for good reason. The first of which is that these viewpoints and vistas have been photographed hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of times. Also, they tend to be blown-out with people.

On the other hand... They're incredible, visually stunning landscapes worthy of that 'National Park' designation. So, I set aside my notions and timed a late-fall roadtrip to Arches and Canyonlands Nat'l Parks on the tail end of shoulder season. I hoped that the cold weather would have sent most of the tourists packing -- back to their homes and far away from the perpetual orange dust of eastern Utah. I purposefully set my sights on two specific locations for sunrise -- Delicate Arch (pictured below) and Mesa Arch. This story, however, concerns the latter.

The cold morning took me by surprise. I turned on my headlamp and noticed thousands of tiny ice crystals glimmering in the white light inside the tent. The desert temperature swings never cease to amaze me -- just 18 hours ago, I was drenched in sweat hiking through the arid canyons of the park's backcountry. I bundled-up and hurried to turn on the car's heat. After breaking down camp, I made a few quick stops to capture the night sky. When I arrived at the Mesa Arch parking lot at 6:00am, I counted four cars including my own. The sun wouldn't rise for another 90 minutes, so I chose to drink coffee and do a little reading while I waited for dawn. Time slipped away from me, and I failed to notice the parking lot filling up with cars and vans. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few middle-aged men walking the trail with a sense of urgency. Thirty minutes had passed, and I decided that it would be wise to follow their lead. Perhaps I was missing something? I'd soon find out.

After seeing photographs of this arch for well over a decade, I was more than excited to finally lay eyes on the geologic masterpiece. I walked along the wide, heavily-used trail and wondered how the arch would compare to all of the pictures. Underwhelming? Just as epic? I rounded the final turn...

No arch. There were a dozen men, lined-up in a tight formation directly in front of where the arch should be. I am not exaggerating when I say I could see no arch. Just a bunch of old farts with their big cameras on massive tripods.

"Of course..." I muttered. I attempted to poke my head in between two of the men, who shuffled closer together so as to not let me in. I squatted to the ground and peered through the legs (not joking) of a dude with a particularly wide stance.

"Neat arch," I thought.

One of the men in the group spoke, and it became clear that this was a photography workshop, of sorts, and this guy was the leader. I don't know exactly what he said, because he was speaking Russian, but it translated roughly to "keep a tight formation, Comrades!"

I stood around for another 5 or so minutes. More folks trickled in. At least three dozen people now filled the area. I stepped back to watch as a rather short man stretched his arm over the line of photographers and clicked-off a few frames -- but not without his crotch making contact with the ass of the man in front of him.

Then, one of the pho-togs briefly turned around to blow his nose. He'd broken rank. A bulldog of a woman (I use that term in admiration) slipped into his position within the Russian lines. She pulled out her iPad and started snapping photos. The pho-tog turned around to see his spot had been taken. Tensions were rising at the arch. It wasn't even daybreak.

I, however, was over it. I decided to stretch my legs and put some distance between myself and the impending fist fight. The night before, a park ranger told me that there have been numerous violent incidents at the arch during his tenure. Earlier this year, one guy threatened to push another over the edge. Most common, however, is camera equipment being tossed off the cliff. I'm assuming that most death threats are in response to cameras meeting an untimely end. I wasn't going to wait to find out.

I made my way along the cliffside, moving deliberately to avoid plummeting to my death 300ft below. I found a rocky outcropping and raised my camera to take a picture of the canyons that carved through the lower valley. Just then, I heard "HEY GET DOWN FROM THERE!" I lowered my camera and looked around, expecting to find a father yelling at a child who'd wandered a little too far. Instead, I met the eyes of an elderly gentleman with a walking stick standing roughly 30 yards from me.

"GET DOWN FROM THERE!" he said, pointing at me with his stick.

"Excuse me?" I asked. "I'm perfectly safe here, no need to wo--"

"You're ruining this vista... Get down from there!"

I noticed that he was also holding up a cell phone. My presence along the cliff's edge was ruining his picture. I stood for a moment, rather stunned.

"Wow," I said while slowly moving out of his frame.

A few moments passed by and anger boiled within me. I wheeled around with the intention of walking through another one of his pictures (out of spite). I figured that he would tell me to move, again, and then I'd give him a piece of my mind. A perfect plan -- although I had no clue what I'd actually say. I quickly caught up to him as he raised his phone for a picture. Just as I made a move to cut through his frame, he spoke.

"Excuse me," he said, "hey, I'm sorry. That was rude of me. I shouldn't have shouted like that. I really am sorry."

I looked him in the eyes, which sat behind a pair of thin-framed glasses. I could tell that the apology was genuine. He meant it.

"This damn place," he said, "all these fuckin' people. It wasn't always like this."

God damnit. My anger dissolved. I'd been disarmed. That bastard.

"That's okay... I get it."

I quickly found myself engrossed in a conversation with the man. His name was Steve. He was well spoken and deliberate with his words. He had a keen eye for small details, light, and color. He seemed like an artist. We both lamented on the absurdity of the scene around the arch.

"We tend to love the places we love... to death," he said while gesturing to the crowd.

As the sun finally made its way above the horizon, we each said a quick goodbye and I ran off to take advantage of the nice light.

As I moved along the mesa's edge, I noticed that my eye had shifted. Steve had slowed me down -- both literally and figuratively. I noticed small details and new compositions that I may have otherwise ignored. I felt gratitude toward the exchange. I couldn't help but wish that I'd stuck around for a few more moments to learn more about Steve. Hear some wisdom. Hell, just to share the moment with a like minded person.

"STEPHEN!" someone shouted from some ways away. I turned around to see Steve, waving his walking stick in the air. "THE CANYON BOUNCE... THERE IT IS!" He pointed toward the large, orange wall of rock nearby. I don't know what the fuck a canyon bounce is, but I was happy to see Steve. I couldn't suppress the smile that stretched from ear to ear.

"THERE IT IS!" I shouted back.

I hurried over to Steve, where he introduced me to his longtime friend, Joe. Like Steve, Joe was thoughtful with his words. They listened more than they spoke. I took note of how that made me feel -- I'm going to start shutting-up more. The three of us walked back to the parking lot together, talking along the way. We decided to rally at their campsite for coffee, where we talked for the next two and a half hours about art, adventure, and conservation. They regaled me with stories of their expeditions to untouched wilderness and untamed waters -- long since spoiled, in their view, by the influx of people into wild places. Perspective sure is powerful. The phrase, 'you shoulda been here yesterday' never felt so apt.

I learned more about them, too. They've been friends for north of 30 years -- spending most of that time with a fly rod (or a 12-gauge) in hand. They've slowed down in recent years, but it was clear that they won't be stopping any time soon. Oh! And as it turns out, I was right about Steve. He is an artist. A painter. And a damn good one, too. He showed me some of the work he'd completed during his stay in the park-- musings for larger pieces that he'll make once he's back home in Alaska.

We parted ways in the late morning. I pushed east while they moved north. I sat in silence most of the way home, reflecting on the morning's conversation. I thought about my friendships. My adventures. I considered how much the world might change in 40 years. How much I might change. Would I yell at some random 30-year-old? Perhaps. And what would I be telling that random 30 year-old at a campsite over coffee? Maybe I'd tell him that he missed the good 'ol days.

Or maybe I'd just make up a story about a Russian photographer pushing someone off the cliff at mesa arch.

I like the second idea.