Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography

The Indian Wars: Chapter Four: & The Transpersonal Papers: Chapter Three: “In A Secret Place"

The Indian Wars: Chapter Four: &
The Transpersonal Papers: Chapter Three:

“In A Secret Place, Cochise’s Stronghold, Dragoon Mountains, Arizona"
© 2005, 2008 Stu Jenks

             Last time I was at Cochise’s Stronghold was in the early 1990's, after Karen and I broke up. (Actually she left me. Back then I was a therapeutic pain-in-the-ass, sharing too much of what I felt. It killed the relationship. I don’t blame her for leaving. As a friend once said “180 degrees from sick is still sick.” I went from being a man who shared nothing to someone who shared everything. I’m surprised I had any friends at all back then, much less a beautiful lover.) As I recall, I didn't hike all the way up to the Stronghold Saddle that day, but turned around after a mile or so. Don't know if I was too depressed to hike or just tired. It was a bad time.
            The first time I came here was in 1983, soon after I moved to Arizona from North Carolina. That time I did hike to the Saddle and took some photos with my old Kodak bellows  camera. If I remember right, it was a relatively tough hike but not too bad. Then again, I was 28 at the time, and you can bet your bottom dollar, I was stoned on Colombian Dope, up and back. Back then, I was a true believer of the Stay High Philosophy. But I'm 50 now. Not stoned today, nor have I partaken in many a year.
            The tides of war raged through this part of Arizona in the mid to late 1800's, but what this part of the Dragoon Mountains are primarily known for today, is that up there, somewhere, in the high rocks, Cochise's bones lay hidden, and no one, Red or White or Brown, knows where those bones are.
            I’ve been hiking the Stronghold Trail now for a good couple of hours. Soon I’ll be at the Saddle. It’s a hot summer day, hovering around a hundred. Lights bad for photography but really good for hiking and just seeing and being.
            Today, for some reason, a lot of anger and judgment came up and out of me on the first couple miles of trail. I’m used to quietly talking to God on the trail but it is uncommon for me to complain to God. I surely did today.
            The vitriolic heat surprised me. Guess I had a few things to rage about:
            1)    Angry at Annie breaking up with me a few weeks back. (Seems reasonable.)
            2)    Disgust with the loud obese white people on horseback I passed a while ago. (Poor horses. They were laboring under the weight.)
            3)    Silent rage at the guy I saw hiking while talking on his cellphone. (So weird.)
            4)    Judging myself for living a pretty safe life, with a secure day-job, when I could be taking more risks. (I could be flying more, but alas, the fears of getting poorer and more in debt.)
            And I spoke a lot of this out loud. No one was around. It was weird, even for me.
            But that was down below. I don’t feel angry now. Just hot and happy
            Then I thought of my Dad, and spoke aloud to him.
            "Hey, Dad, could you be here with me right now?" I ask.
            Suddenly, just behind me, off my left shoulder I feel my father.
            "Hey, could you make your presence physically known to me?"
            I feel the light weight of a hand on my shoulder. (I’m not making this up.)                                              "Thanks Dad," I say.
            "I gotta tell ya, Dad, it's quite a mind-fuck having you around now sometimes. When you were alive, you were one judgmental son of a bitch. I hardly wanted to talk to you at all then. Sure, I knew that you loved me, and you told me you did love me often, which was nice; but mostly you were a jerk, who made it pretty clear you didn’t like me. So, except for near the end of your life, I kept a safe distance. Now, you're this kind, encouraging, compassionate presence that want me to be all that I can be, that nudges me to be happy and seems to be here to help. It’s great, Dad. Don’t get me wrong, but it is a mind-fuck."
            I can feel his smile.
            "Could you do me a favor?" I ask.
            "What's that?" he says. (I swear I heard his voice.)
            "Could you be around when I'm confused sometimes, without me asking for you to drop by? Is that against the Woo Woo rules on the Other Side? Now, I don't want you around all the time, mind you, not when I’m having sex or something, and not every time I'm confused. Just be here sometimes to help me through some tough times, when I forget to ask you to show up. Could you do that? I know you are probably busy with your own work,, maybe being with Mom and doing other nice-dead-people stuff , but then again, in reality, there is no such thing as time or space or separation, is there? So I guess you can be at many places at once, but here, Dad? Here on Terra Firma? It's pretty linear and straightforward most of the time with a few bright moments of Grace. Anyway, I’m rambling. I’m just asking, could you surprise me sometimes and just show up?
            "You bet." Dad says.
            "Thanks. I would really appreciate that," I say.
            I can feel his gentle hand on my shoulder again.
            "Could you stay with me awhile?" I ask.
            "Sure."
            For a while, my Dad and I walk up the trail, his spirit just a little behind me. It feels real nice.                 Then suddenly, I feel him stop on the trail. I turn around and look at the empty space.
            "What?" I say.
            "I gotta go. I'll be back soon," Dad says.
            "Oh. OK." I say, a little sad that he has to leave so soon.
            "I'll be back," he says.
            "OK. I see you when you get back."
            And then, I don't feel him around at all. Here one minute, gone the next.
            Alone, I march up the trail that grows ever steeper and steeper. Off to my right, are stacks of 20 and 30 foot high granite boulders. To my left is a tall ridge line of Junipers and Mexican Blue Oaks. I sigh.
            "Just me, me and me now. And God too I suppose." I say to the land.
            The next couple hours I hike all around the Stronghold Proper, up to the Saddle, up hill and down. Seeing a lot, thinking very little. The 100 degree dry heat releasing the strong fragrances of Juniper into the air. I feel intoxicated from my own endorphins, from the strong Juniper smells, and from being slightly dehydrated.
            Suddenly I have a bad feeling but I ignore it and head toward a ridge line I have that ridge in my wheel house. The negative intuition increases. I slow my walk but don't stop, but it has my attention now. I get a few hundred yards up the slope when I stop dead in my tracks. At my feet is a primitive shed made of two long sticks and a piece of old tin. I look up from the tin and see under a tree, a few feet away, a clean bedroll neatly tied up. A plastic gallon jug of water sits beside the bedroll, and an old ratty blue jean jacket hangs from a branch of a tree. This isn't a hiker's camp. This is a homeless man's camp. Or maybe even worse. An outlaw’s camp. My adrenal glands open wide. My heart races and I slowly back away from the campsite. I look around slowly yet see no one, feel no one. I exhale hard.
            "I wish I had a gun with me right now," I say in a whisper to myself.
            I walk slowly back to the trail and begin to put some distance between me and that odd campsite. After many yards, I begin to relax. I sometimes feel the malevolent eyes of others on me when I'm out hiking in the wild. I feel blessed that I can sense danger. Luckily today, I feel no eyes. That is a very good thing. I’m safe.
            But I still want to get on top of that southeastern ridge. The land is thick with Juniper trees, Mexican Live Oaks, Beargrass, Chaparral and Manzanita bushes. The scents of all these plants mix and intertwine now so I don’t know where the Juniper starts and the Beargrass ends. I'll thread my way carefully upward.  Over there. I bet I can make it up to the ridge between those rocks and those trees. Yes, I think I can, looking at the land in front of me.
            My head feels a little warm now. I unhook my Krispy Kreme baseball cap from my backpack and put it on. I scan the lay of the land in front of me, charting my first bushwhack through the trees and head off the trail. I squat-walk under some Junipers, then carefully step over a dead Manzanita, then grab a handful of boulder and pull myself up, past the next pitch.
            I arrive at a large group of boulders, just shy of the southeastern ridge. It'll be an easy up to the ridge now, but I'm completely taken by these rocks. 'Come back here,’ says the still voice. I think I will, but I have to make that ridge. I take the last pitch and in no time, I’m at the ridge line, looking full face at The Stronghold Towers. They are something to see, huge domes against a deep blue sky. But as I sit down and drink some water, I almost immediately feel that this is not the place for me to be, that I need to go down to the boulder group just below. I don't argue nor doubt the still voice this time. I just shoulder my water pack, and head back down.
            Soon, I arrive back at the group of large twenty-five foot tall boulders and find a sliver of blessed shade among them, providing welcome relief from the mid-afternoon sun. I sit. I drink some more. I do little else. Maybe a quick thought of thanks for these rocks, but that’s about I think about. I may be getting a bit heat-strokey now, but I'm OK. Won't be the first time. Won't be the last.
            After a little rest, I begin to investigate my surroundings, climbing through the thin slots between boulders, gazing at the beautiful red Manzanita bushes that grow among the rocks, touching the deep holes in the rocks that look like places where women have ground grain but in actuality are just places where the rain has settled for hundreds of years.
            Then I get this strong feeling of Déjà vu. A real live 'I've been here before' thing, even though I know I haven't been at these rocks ever in my lifetime. But suddenly I feel like I know every inch of this place, like it’s old hat to me.
            And then I feel a parting of a veil between two worlds, like I’m in two times at once, long time ago and right now. Here in 2005 and there in the 1870’s
            Here, a middle-aged white man from the South, drawing a small spiral in the sand beneath a boulder.         
            There, a twelve-year-old Apache boy, playing with a stick on the same piece of ground.
            Same place, same soul, two different bodies, two different times. I could almost hear the squeal of other children playing nearby, smell the wood cookfire smoke, sense the many people all around me. But I close my eyes and open them again, and it’s just me in the Summer of 2005, with the easy wind and the slow heat. I feel the curtain close. I finish drawing my spiral with my finger and stand up. I notice a black raven flying overhead
            "I give this to you as a gift," I say, to the bird and to those on the other side as well.
            I find a high rock and say my Four Directions Prayer:

            "To the East, God and Humanness.
                To the North, Courage and Vulnerability.
                    To the West, Self-Awareness and Forgiveness.
                        And to the South, Feelings and Wisdom.
                            To the Sky, to the Earth, and to All-There-Is.
                                Ok, God. Let's do it."

            I step down off the rock and head back to the shade. I rest and breathe and drink some more water.
            A little time passes. A lot of time passes. I get pleasantly lost.
    And then I’m back.
            I have a couple hours of Sun left. I prepare for the trip down. I take a couple of pictures of things, but today, the best pictures are in my head, my eyes and my soul.
            I shoulder my waterpack and rock-hop down the ridge. It’s an easy traverse back to the main trail. In no time, I'm heading down. Two and half miles to the truck, I suppose. I’m tired in more ways than one.
            The sun blazes hot and I feel a bit of sunburn on my shoulder. My Krispy Kreme hat keeps my head cool but it's still awfully hot. Then I have a thought on how to cool down, and I begin to smile. I haven't seen anyone for hours now, and it's getting late in the day, so I’m guessing I’m the only one on the mountain. I probably won't see a soul until I get back to the parking lot. My smile broadens.
            A few minutes later, I imagine what this scene might look like to say, perhaps, the ghost of an Apache woman sitting on a rock nearby.
            She might see a white man, thin but with a little muscle, with a funny-looking backpack on his back, hiking shoes on his feet and a Krispy Kreme baseball cap on his head. And wearing nothing else. His white ass as bright as a rising full moon.
            "Nice ass," she’d say.

            [Regarding Cochise's Death]
            It appears Cochise had been sick for years with an ailment that was mostly like stomach cancer. He became weaker and weaker over time, and got drunk a lot, probably to kill the pain. Tiswin was his drink of choice, a fermented corn beer that the Apaches brewed.
            It's said that Cochise had groomed his son Teza to take over as chief of the Chokonens Apaches, and as he neared death, he handed the reins over to Teza. Cochise’s last official words to his band were to “…forever live in peace with the Whites and to always do what Jeffords tells you to do…”
            Teza's first official act as chief was to find the witch who had made his father ill. Teza found someone who fit the bill, but Tom Jeffords convinced him, to let the witch go.
            His father continued to get sicker and sicker, lapsing in and out of comas for weeks.
            On June 7th, 1874, Tom Jeffords visited his old friend for the last time. They talked a bit, and as Jeffords was about to leave, Cochise said,
            "Do you think you'll ever see me alive again?"
            With his typical bluntness, Jeffords said, "No, I don't think I will. I think that by tomorrow night, you'll be dead."
            "Yes, I think so too," said Cochise.
            "Do you think we'll ever meet again?" Cochise asked his friend.
            "I don't know," said Jeffords, "What's your opinion about it?"
            "I have been thinking a good deal about it while I've been sick here, and I believe we will, Tom. Good friends will also meet again...up there," Cochise said, pointing to the sky.
            Cochise died the next morning. The news spread very fast. It was said by Fred Hughes, Jeffords' assistant on the reservation that "…the howl that went up from these people was fearful to listen to and it kept up throughout the night until daylight the next morning…"
            Cochise's body was prepared for burial. Probably his wife Dos-teh-seh was in charge of this. They bathed his body, combed his hair and dressed him in his best clothes. His burial probably took place the day after his death. Usually the custom was that only close relatives and some extended family were present at a burial of an Apache chief, but Cochise was the exception, allowing all of his band to be present, if they wished to come.
            Jeffords spoke later of what he experienced that day:
            "It is a custom among these Indians, when one of their number dies, to burn some clothing, blankets, etc. at the grave of the deceased. Upon the death of Cochise, I found that his whole band had stripped themselves of almost their entire clothing and burnt it at his grave..."
            "He was dressed in his best war garments, decorated with war paint and head feathers, and wrapped in a splendid heavy red woolen blanket that Colonel H. C. Hooker had given him. He was then placed on his favorite horse. He and his horse were then guided to a rough and lonely place among the rocks and chasms in the Stronghold, where there was a deep fissure in the cliff. The horse was killed and dropped into the depths. Cochise's favorite dog was also killed. His gun and other arms were then thrown in, and last, Cochise was lowered with lariats into the rocky sepulcher, deep in the gorge."
            Tom Jeffords nor any Apaches had ever told where Cochise was buried. Its location is still a secret to this day.


            Sources: "Indeh" by Eve Ball; "Cochise, Chiricahua Apache Chief" by Edwin R. Sweeney; "The Apache Indians" by Frank C. Lockwood.

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Ten: "The Three Surrenders' Ghost & A Prayer Tower for the Lions"

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:
Chapter Ten: "The Three Surrenders' Ghost & A Prayer Tower for the Lions" © 2004, 2008 Stu Jenks

            Snow's about four inches deep. Wet snow, little powder. My stocking cap’s pulled down low over my ears. Little wind, but it’s awfully cold. The blood thins after a few years in the desert, they say. Mine’s thin as air tonight.
            Below where I stand grows one of the few trees that survived the Aspen Fire, on this part of Red Ridge. Sure, behind me are a few other surviving Ponderosa pines, but the jury is still out on them; many burned over half their bodies, with just a few branches of green growing. And only a few minutes ago I visited the Three Surrender trees, all three dead; one having recently toppled over, leaving a huge gap in the forest. This part of Red Ridge was nuked in the Aspen Fire a year and a half ago, and it's still a wasteland. The new snow covers some of the mountain's scars, yet at the same time, the contrast of black trees and white snow makes the devastation even more dramatic. Add to that, years of my own lovely personal memories and my heart hurts like hell. Each visit to the Red Ridge just further confirms that the place that I've loved so much for a long time is forever changed, replaced by something new and horrible.
            Earlier tonight, walking up Red Ridge trail from the Mt. Lemmon highway through an area that has been clear-cut since the fire, I barely recognized the place. I used my flashlight on the way here to this point of rock, not because I couldn't see the trail, for the Full Moon’s high and bright tonight. No, I used the flashlight because I needed to able to see the holes in the trail left by erosion and fallen rocks. As I hiked through the waist-high thorn bushes that didn't exist before the fire, I decided then and there, it would be a while, a long while before I come back up here again. It's just too painful, like watching a close friend die a slow death from a bad cancer.
            But right now, it's not too bad. That old Ponderosa Pine below me, that’s been gnarled by the winds over the years, has weathered the Aspen Fire and is alive and doing well. Wasn't even singed in the fire. Its perch on a steep outcropping of rock probably saved it. That and a great deal of luck and serendipity I suppose. Whatever the reason, it's good to see an old friend who isn't sick or dead. An old friend who held prayer flags that I strung in his branches, years ago, for another friend. The flags have decayed in the wind and ice and have blown away, but the old tree is still here and his healthy existence makes me very happy.
            They say that everything changes and that spiritual health comes from letting go of things and not hanging on too long or too tight, but in this place, it's so good to see a tree that is roughly the same as when I first met him, twenty years ago. He's older, a little taller, a bit thicker in the truck, but still here and still alive.
            And tonight, a glowing circle of light graces the granite rock cliff this tree clings to.
            My Rollei stands off to the right and down a ways, shutter open, soaking up the light of the hoop on the rock, sucking in the dark shadows of the trees and the Full Moon light on the forest snow. I'm standing here, twenty feet above the hoop, having a smoke and taking it all in.
            Then I notice something or rather the absence of something.
            I don’t feel the presence of any animals whatsoever.
            When I'm in the forest or in the desert at night, I can sense animals around. They aren't making any noises and most are asleep, but I can still feel them. Birds, squirrels, coyotes, deer, lions. But nothing tonight. No hawk asleep overhead in a branch. No deer resting in the pine needles over there. No hunting owl flying from tree to tree. No mountain lion cuddled up under a cliff face. Nothing.
            I'm the only large animal here.
            And I feel very lonely.
            I carefully walk through the snow to my camera, close the shutter and prepare for another exposure, when suddenly I think of the animals that have stood on that rock where my hoop now shines. So many. Blue Jays and Hawks for sure. A number of squirrels, you betcha. Maybe even a mountain lion or two over the years.
            I close my eyes and feel the lack of animals around me once more, and pray for their return to the Red Ridge.
            It'll be years I suppose, but they will come back, someday.
            I open the shutter and walk away from the camera again, back to my perch on the rocks above. I'll let it expose for a few minutes before I make a prayer tower.
            It's the night before Thanksgiving. Perhaps some prayers of gratitude, some thoughts of thanks for what I have are in order. My health, my friends, my lover, my vision, my successes, my feelings, my day job, my night job; all these things and people and experiences, I am thankful for.
            I raise my arms in prayer and speak aloud these things, these people, these prayers, quietly just to me, to God, to the trees and to the snow. Then after a few minutes, I descend down to my Rollei and make a Prayer Tower for the Lions.

            Christmas Haiku #19 © December 2004 Stu Jenks
            Full Moon Forest Snow:
            Hoop of lights beneath a tree,
            Lone man prays nearby.

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Nine: "Abajo Mountain Hoop Dance, Utah and Aspens Ascending"

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Nine:
"Abajo Mountain Hoop Dance, Utah"  & "Aspens Ascending" © 2003, 2004, 2008 Stu Jenks

            [US 191, South of Blanding, Utah]

            I turn onto a dirt road and drive eastward about a half a mile. For two reasons: I need to take a piss, and I need to see this Moon.
            The moon is eclipsing, half way to full eclipse, with an orange shadowy side and a white sunny side. I thought it might be happening tonight but I wasn't sure. It’s a sight to see.
            I get back on Highway 191 and stop at a convenience store on the Ute reservation to get a cup of hot fake cappuccino, some crackers, and a pack of peanut M&Ms. I've got a little food in the truck, but it's always good to have more snacks. After I fill up with gas, I head for the store. Inside, as I grab my crackers and such, I see the cashier talking with a young teenage girl. Both appear to be Utes.
            "You gonna get in trouble with that boy" says the older woman.
            "No I won't," says the teenager seemingly exasperated, "He's OK."
            "Yea, well, we'll see."
            I walk up and place my crackers, M&Ms and coffee on the counter. The young girl moves toward the front door.
            "Bye Bye, Gloria," she says to the counter woman.
            "You know what I said about that boy."
            "I know. I know," the teen says, rolling her eyes as she leaves.
            "Will that be all?" Gloria says to me.
            "Yep, that'll be it" I say.
            "By the way, the Full Moon is eclipsing right now," I say, pointing out the pane glass window of the store to the Moon rising in the Eastern sky.
            "They say it's bad luck to look at that kind of Moon" say Gloria.   
            "Really?"
            "Yea, bad luck. That'll be $4.27"
            I give her a five. She gives me back the change.
            "Thank you, mame."
            "You're welcome," she says.
            I walk back to the Pathfinder, stow the snacks, grab my Windex bottle and a paper towel, and proceed to clean the bugs off of my windshield. I'm a little tired. I've been on the road for about ten hours now. Heading north toward the Abajo Mountains. Long haul from Tucson, but the Moon’s full and I've got four days off from the day job, because of Veteran's Day. And I’ve got a couple of hoops in the back, one, a brand new one that needs test driving and an old reliable one too. Just passed Bluff, Utah an hour ago. Got another hour or two ahead of me. No clouds, and the Full moon will return soon. I hop back into the truck and head north again on 191.
            At Monticello, I take a left at one of the two stops lights in town, and head up into the Abajos, a relatively unexplored area of Southeastern Utah. (Abajo means ‘down’ in Spanish, by the way. The Down Mountains. Weird.) With Arches National Park to the north, Canyonlands National Park to the west, and Monument Valley to the south, the Abajos are just a mid-sized range of blue mountains that tourists barely notice. The residents of Monticello hunt and camp up in the Abajos some, but Monticello is just a town of a couple thousand souls if that. It's November and cold, and a bit out of tourist season. Very little traffic on this road. Might be hunting season but I doubt it. I'm at around 7,000 feet now, heading to about 8 or 9,000, I'm guessing.
            I look off to the east again at the Moon. Almost full eclipse now. A smoky orange sphere. Hope it comes back soon. It should. I wind through the residential streets of Monticello for about five minutes and then head up the hill, toward the mountains. The road’s great, paved, and smooth. The air’s crisp and clear. I'm singing along to a Bruce Cockburn song. I know the words. This is about as good as it gets.
            With no Moon it's hard for me to find the pull off to the campsite that I visited a number of years back. I past it once and do a three point turn on the empty mountain road. I haven't seen a car in the entire 30 minutes it’s taken to drive up here. I had so much energy just a half hour ago, and now all the air is out of my balloon. I pull into the small primitive campsite just off the road and park the truck but leave it running for a little while. It's really cold now, even though it's only about 9 p.m. I look for the Moon and find it, but it's still in more than half of its eclipse. Hardly any light to speak of. I already have on my deep-winter North Face jacket. I slip on my boo-boo hat and get my sleeping bag out of the back. Truck still running. I move all the CDs, cameras and snacks out of the back seat to the way back area and unroll my sleeping bag. I'm dead tired. I figure I can shoot at 2 in the morning and afterwards. The Moon will be back and high in the sky then. Should get some Zzzs now.
            I take off my boots, leave my socks on, turn off the ignition, crack a window, lock the doors, take off my glasses and crawl into my fiberfill bag, clothes and all. Within a minute, I'm sound asleep.
            Minutes later, I'm awakened by the full Moon in my eyes. I crawl forward, still in my bag, to check the dash clock. It's 1:30 a.m. I've slept for four and a half hours straight, but if feels like I just closed my eyes. Sweet. I lay back down, trying to go back to sleep but my mind goes to the hoops in the back and the old Aspens that are surrounding me. How will the hoops work? Is the Moon too high? Boy it's cold. I don't think I've every hoop-danced in weather this cold. Well, I'm awake now. Let's have at it.
            I put on my boots, my glasses and my coat and open the door to the outside. The wind is mild but it still cuts right through me. Christ, it's cold. I'm shivering now. I jump back in the truck and start it up. Unfortunately, the truck's heater takes forever to heat up if it's just idling. Works better if it's rolling. I light a Camel, and consider my options. I place the smoke in the ashtray and go outside again. I look up at the trees and at the moon. I have a bad feeling about this place for some reason. Not like something's going to happen. More like something bad has happened here. Could be just an argument between lovers, could be worse. I just know that I don't want to shoot or stay here. Time to go but where? I saw a dirt road just down the mountain a mile or so. Let's try that. I hop back in the truck and drive out of the campsite and back onto the two lane blacktop.
            I hardly need headlights with the Full Moon. It’s just past directly overhead now. The Moon’s making its way to the west and I have a good four hours of moonlight to work with. This is great. I find the jeep trail with ease, and turn onto it. I put the truck in four-wheel drive and gently climb up the narrow track.
           Aspens, large and small, are all around me. I could shoot right here, feet from the pavement, it’s just that beautiful, but I continue my climb up the mountain. The road is worn but easy. What a wonderful place. A small campsite’s off to my left but I press on. After less than a mile, I find another primitive pull off and take it, backing into it, facing out. I cut the lights but leave the truck running and step outside. It’s magical here. I bundle up again, shut off the truck, lock it and head up the jeep trail.
            The two track climbs higher but not that bad. All around me are large stands of Aspens mixed with just-as-large stands of Blue Spruce. Like walking through a forest of ancient Christmas trees and pale sentinels. Initials of lovers in hearts are carved into the bark of some of the Aspens close to the road. Teenagers from Monticello, I reckon. Some fast moving clouds mix with mostly clear sky. The Moon shines bright, winking off and on with the racing clouds.
            I leave the jeep trail and head toward a large stand of Aspens a hundred yards south. This group rises up a steep hill. These aren't ancient Aspens that are six feet in diameter but they are old, some three feet in width. Before I climbed much higher, I can see that this is a good place. I turn and go back to the truck and get my camera gear. It's an easy bushwhack from the truck to this Aspen hill. I climb back up the hill and after very little time, find a handsome group of Aspens to hoop-dance through. Tripod and camera go up in a flash. Batteries good to go on the hula hoop. Lights bright and steady. Focus 2/3 back and ready to go. A very fast set up. A very good sign.
            I walk back to the Rollei and open the shutter. I grab the lit hoop and enter the frame of view, swinging the light even and smooth high above my head, watching my feet so as not to trip on the fallen logs on the forest floor. I make four passes of the hoop and then lean it against a tree 30 feet out of frame. I look up at the moon and think 'fifteen minutes should do it'. I walk down the hill to the truck and light up a Camel. I finish my smoke and walk up the jeep trail that climbs to the top of the Abajos. I walk, both to pass the time, as the film absorbs the moonlit forest, and to also take in the land. I climb far up the trail. The thick Spruce portions of the forest are a little scary, closed in and tight around me, compared to the widely spaced Aspens.
            After a while, I turn around. It's been about fifteen, twenty minutes. As I descend the trail, I see off to my right, a couple hundred yards away, through the Spruces and  the Aspens, a strange light in the forest. My hair stands on end. I freeze, looking hard into the forest. What is that?
            Then I smile.
            The light I see is my own hula hoop of lights, high on a hill, seen from far away. I just stand there and marvel at the magical lights that I've placed in this forest. Shoot, this scared me, and I put it there. Can you imagine if you were a hunter from Monticello driving up this road in the early morning, and you see these mysterious lights on the side of a hill on the Full Moon light? You'd tell your friends. They’d tell their friends and within 5 years, the Monticello Tourist Board would be printing up pamphlets, talking about the spooky ghost lights of The Abajo Mountains, that only appear during the time of Full Moon after a lunar eclipse.
            I’d like to create a folk tale someday. Be a nice kind of legacy, wouldn’t it?

            [Dawn at The Needles Overflow Campground]

            Campground is too fancy a word for this place. Campground implies services, water and an outhouse. This is just an area of slick rock, outside of The Canyonlands National Park's Needles District. Here and there, there are places to park a car or pitch a tent in the sand and rock. That about it. I like it.
            I could unpack the Svea and cook some oatmeal and brew some coffee, but I'll settle for some water on my face, a cold Harvest bar, and a tepid Tab soda instead.
            Yesterday, after shooting throughout the night in the Abajos, I drove to the Needles District and hiked most of the day. Good hiking, bad pictures. It happens like that sometimes. I was mostly here at The Needles for the hiking anyway. Then last night, I just drove up here to this funky campground and collapsed. I was bone-tired after hiking up and down the slick rock. Figured I hiked about fifteen miles yesterday, and I'm feeling it this morning.  But a soda and a smoke and I'll be good to go, and my mood is bright because I know that there is a remote trading post just five miles down the road where I can get a hot cup of coffee and some snacks. I'll get there in a bit but first I have to pray.
            I climb to the top of some slick rock just behind my parked truck, with a Tab in my hand and sit on a rock. Say a quick prayer for myself and others and light up a Camel. I remember the first time I came here in the mid 1990's and how blown away I was, by the air, by the rocks, by the end-of-the-road feel of the place (The Needles are, after all, at the end of a 35 mile long dead end road). It was also near the time I first started trying my hand at long time exposures on full Moon nights. I didn't know what I was doing. I was using film that was much too slow (Kodachrome 100) and not nearly long enough exposures (Around ten minutes), but I was trying. The 35 mm Pentax wasn't a great camera but it was all I had. I was pretty poor and with bad credit. This was before Sterling had sold me his old Rollei Medium Format Camera for a song. But I was having a good time, even though the photographs were mostly pitiful, and I was learning with the help of friends and from making my own mistakes. Making mistakes is how I learn and sometimes the mistakes are better than what I had planned in the first place. Now that is is. Back then, the mistakes were mostly just crappie photos.
            It's mostly overcast this morning. I wonder if it'll rain. Maybe snow at the higher elevations. Wait a minute! I am at a higher elevation (even though it doesn't look it, since it’s a flat slick rock plateau.) I finish another soda and decide it's time to hit the trading post for a hot cup of Joe. It's getting close to 8 a.m.
            Slowly, I make my way back to the pavement. Take a right on the blacktop and it's just a mile to the trading post. This isn't your fancy Navajo trading post, that sells more jewelry than food these days. This one’s a throwback to the days when Indians rode many miles on horseback to get flour, oil, yarn and fuel, at the only place to buy anything for miles around. This outpost doesn't cater to Native folk anymore, but to the hikers, backpackers and tourists that take the long dead end road to The Needles. You can buy a shower just as easy as you can purchase a Balance Bar. Within minutes, I'm parking my Pathfinder in its sand parking lot. The trading post is just one big bunch of add-on buildings, a patchwork quilt of building materials from over the many years. A single plane airstrip lays off to the east. The blacktop’s a half a mile away. Takes a special breed to work out here. I wonder who’s here this year. It was an old couple back in the 90's.
            I enter through a wooden screen door and notice a very attractive woman sitting on a stool. Her eyes brighten up like she's known me for years.
            "Well, how are you this fine morning," she says.
            "Real well, thanks,"
            "What can I get you for?" she asks.
            She has long wavy brown hair. Beautiful thin lips smiling over crooked teeth. Not bad teeth. Just crooked. She's slim and tan in the face and on her arms are thin and strong. Looks to be in her thirties or early forties.
            "Just need some coffee," I say. I see it over by the window that looks out onto The Needles.
            "Right over there,"  she points to where I'm walking.
            "They say it's going to rain today, maybe even snow down to 5000 feet" she adds.
            She still smiling at me. Maybe it's me but I think she flirting with me. Which is fine with me. Annie and I aren't a couple anymore, and Angie is just a weird memory.
            As I pour my coffee, I notice a man down a short hallway leading to a back room. He looks at me with only mild interest. He doesn't smile nor frown. He just goes back to working on a piece of metal in his hands. Too far away to tell what it is. Probably something that runs something that's broken. He walks down the hall away from me and out of view. I bet he's her husband or boyfriend.
            "You going in The Needles?" she looks me dead in my eyes. Still smiling but now it seems less like flirting and just desperate for company. Any company.
            "No, I went in yesterday. I’m heading south today," I say.
            "Oh, Okay" she says. She seems very nice and very lonely.
            I grab some Harvest bars, and eye the orange juice. No, just the bars and a big coffee with cream. I place the bars and coffee on the counter and reach for my wallet.
            "Yes, they say might snow down to 5000 feet today and tonight" she says again.
            "You gotten any snow yet this year?" I ask. She seems thrilled that I asked her a question.
            "Just a little powdering a couple weeks ago. Nothing much. Should be snowing here tonight."
            "Well, stay warm" I add as I hand her some money for the coffee.
            "Oh I'll try. I'll try." If she isn't flirting with me, I'm a dead man. It’s as if she's saying 'Please, just take me away from here. Come back and talk with me. He never talks with me anymore. I'm stuck here. Please talk to me. Hold me. Anything. Please.' I don't think I'm imagining this, but I might be. I may be intuitive but this is very odd. It’s almost like I can hear her thoughts. And she’s thinking ‘You’re cute. Please take me away...’
            I smile sadly back at her. In my face is "I’m sorry, honey."
            Her weak smile to me says "I know. I understand"
            "Take care now" I say.
            "You too," she says.
            I turn away and push the screen door open with my foot, and catch it, so it doesn't slam. It's the least I can do.
            I feel sad for a number of miles afterwards.
            Somewhere near Newspaper Rock, it starts to rain. Not hard but steady, and judging from the thick overcast, it's going to rain for a while. The air’s thick with smells of wet sage, of live oaks, and of the ground itself. After twenty plus years of living in the desert, I worship any and all rain. Even the virga that never reaches the ground. Today, this is a gentle rain. A female rain, the Navajos call it. I hear a shooshing sound as my tires roll over the wet pavement. I climb out of the small canyon that protects Newspaper Rock, and I'm back up at the flats. And off to the south, I see the Abajo Mountains, but only the bottom is showing. The rest is in cloud. It's cold but not freezing here, but I bet you dimes to a donut, it’s snowing up there. Time to beat feet.
            In no time, I'm heading south on US 191, and in less than an hour, I'm in Monticello again. I take a right on the residential street I took just a couple of nights ago. Then, the skies were clear and dark. Now, it’s wet and raining but no snow. Not yet.

            [West of Monticello, Utah]

            After I leave the town limits, the rain changes to snow. Heavy snow. I stop the truck and engage the four by four. Thank you God for four-wheel drive. Back in the day, when I had the two by four pickup, this would have been quite the adventure, going uphill on blacktop with snow that's quickly sticking. I still remember that winter night in 1990, outside of Boulder, driving up to Karen's parents house and how I almost slid down into high ravine. Scared the living shit out of me. But not today. Not with these fat tires and the strong four by four transmission. But not too cocky, Stu. I also remember that day just a couple of years ago, in this truck, when myself and about a dozen other folk with knobby tires and good four wheel drive got stuck back in the deep woods north of Flagstaff and we had to be escorted out by a fleet of snow mobilers. But right now, It's just beginning to stick and I think I can at least get close to where I want to go.
            The snow’s falling so thick now, that I turn on my headlights. At 10 o'clock in the morning no less. The flakes make trails before my eyes. It may have something to do with all the drugs I used to take, that I see trails so easily. Doesn't really bother me. Rather like it actually.
            Peter Gabriel's "More Than This" has been playing on the CD player since Monticello, but I turn it down now and then turn it completely off. I need to concentrate. It’s getting slick now. I can feel it my tires break traction from time to time. The miles click by. Higher and higher I go, thicker and deeper snow. It's like a blizzard without the wind. About two inches lie on the road now. There, over there. The jeep trail from two nights ago. Hmm. Do I want to chance it, driving up there? Walking will be just as good and probably more fun. I five-point-turn the truck around and go back a half-mile or so to a paved parking lot for hikers. Still snowing like crazy. I park pointing the truck out and downhill, just in case. I suit up. Boo Boo hat of course. Pamela's scarf and my Dad's old gloves too. North Face and only one camera this time. I lugged the Pentax 35 mm all over The Needles yesterday and it was mostly just dead weight, now filled with shitty photographs. Which is fine, since the eyeball alone sometimes take the best pictures. But today, I grab just the little 127 Kodak Brownie Camera. I check the little bag it's in, for extra rolls. Got plenty. I've got the Camel Bak full of water. I don't need the water, but I'll take it anyway. You never know. I may sprain an ankle and need a drink while I sit in the snow. I pack the Brownie into the Camel Bak and step outside.
            It's cold but delightful. Wet but good. I pull the Boo Boo hat down low on my head, shoulder the Camel Bak, lock the truck and go.
           About three inches in the road now. I grew up in the Piedmont South, where it snowed, but rarely stuck, because the ground was hot enough that it usually melted right away. But not here, in the Abajos, where the ground has been cold for a month. Like throwing shaved ice in a freezer. It doesn’t melt. Another difference from here and Down South, is this is powder. We don't have powder east of the Mississippi. Least than I’ve ever seen.
            I walk up the pavement toward the jeep trail. The cold air feels wonderful on my face. My lungs breathe in the frigid air. It does help that my North Face is toasty and warm. I'm wearing Levis but that's ok. The wool socks inside my hiking boots compensate for my cold legs. I'll be fine for at least three hours before I get real wet. We do have some snow near Tucson, on Mt. Lemmon. I’m not a complete bayou boy.
            No tire tracks at all on the road. I walk right up the center line, just because I can. Then off to the right, near the shoulder, I see recent tracks in the snow. What are they? I bend over and examine them. Bird. Big Bird tracks. Only one big bird that I can think off that would be here. Just as I'm about to say the word aloud, movement catches my eyes in the low trees just off the road. A half dozen Wild Turkeys slowly strut through the forest. Not scared of me a bit. May not be aware of me at all. I think about that moment in history, when Benjamin Franklin wanted to make the National Bird the Wild Turkey, not the Bald Eagle. He was voted down. Today I would have voted with him. These are big, strong, impressive birds. Within a minute, there're gone, swallowed up by the forest and the snow.
            I continue walking up the road. Not far now to the jeep trail. Then up ahead, I see headlights and then an old Ford Econoline Van slowly drives by. I wave in acknowledgment as he passes. The driver head-nods me. Good thing he's going downhill with those skinny tires. First car I've seen in close to an hour.
            I almost walk past the jeep trail from two nights hence. The land’s so different now. I walk up the dirt track that is now a snow track. Snow’s about half a foot deep, but my woolies are doing a good job, keeping my feet toasty. I pass the spot where I parked the other night. I see the hill of Aspens where I danced. The forest has turned truly into a winter wonderland now. I enter the place on the jeep trail where the large Blue Spruces hugged the road. This time it isn't scary, but comforting, like being held by the spirit of the trees. I grab a Blue Spruce branch gently and shake it like I'm shaking someone’s hand.
            "Hello, Tree. How are you?" I say.
            The Blue Spruce says nothing, but I don't feel it's unhappy, with me or anything else. It just is. Being Tree. Wish I could just be Stu with such ease.
            I release the branch and climb higher up the trail. Still snowing hard. Little wind. Close to a foot on the ground.
            I walk for a long time, stopping from time to time to catch a snowflake on my tongue.         Stopping to just look up at the tall Aspens ascend toward a vanishing point in the clouds. Stopping to marvel at the numerous shades of the color White. Stopping to listen to the silence of snow.
            And then a song comes to mind, a song I'd last sung in my truck almost a year ago while driving around Tucson.
            "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening,
            In the lane, snow is glistening.
            A beautiful sight, We're happy tonight.
             Walking in a Winter Wonderland."
            I begin to do a soft shoe in the snow while I sing. I ain't Fred Astaire but I don't care
            "Gone away is the bluebird,
            Here to stay is a new bird
            He sings a love song, as we go along,
          Walking in a Winter Wonderland."
            I'm making quite a playful mess in the road, kicking the powder high in the air. Looking quite the fool perhaps, but who's here? It's me, and the trees. And now we're at the bridge of Winter Wonderland. I love the bridge of this song. I do a full 360 spin as I sing…
            "In the meadow we can build a snowman,
            Then pretend that he is Parson Brown,
            He'll say, Are you married? We'll say, No man,
            But you can do the job when you're in town."
            And now the grand finale. I'm swinging my arms and my body like a whirling dervish. I'm stomping the snow like Gene Kelly splashed puddles in Singing in the Air. I'm singing loud enough to hear an echo in the forest.
            "Later on, we'll conspire,
            As we dream by the fire
            To face unafraid, the plans that we've made
            Walking in a Winter Wonderland."
            I stop, throw my arms out, arch my back and tilt my head way back. Snowflakes fall on my face. I close my eyes.
            I'm in my own Broadway Musical.
            Stu’s in a Winter Wonderland.

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Eight: "Molino Falls, Arizona"

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Eight: "Molino Falls, Arizona"


            Now who in the hell is this?
            I've just parked the Pathfinder into a space near the entrance of the Molino Basin Campground. Close to the restroom, but not in the campground. It's a Spring, partly-cloudy yet full-moon night. Around 9:00 pm and I'm here to shoot. But who is this guy?
            A white haired man in his 60's has now driven his pickup to this, the upper parking lot of Molino Basin and he’s now walking toward me and my truck. I bet he's the campground host.
            "Can I help you?" I ask.
            He laughs sarcastically. A bit of a snort. He shines his large Maglite in my face.
            "Can I help you? he says.
            "Don't think so." I said. Get the fucking light out of my eyes. I think it but don’t say it.
            "I'm just up here to shoot photographs at night in the moonlight,' I continue.
            "You're up here shooting photographs?" His voice incredulous now. I'm starting to get pissed. No laws against hiking at night nor parking in this lot after dark.
            "Why are you taking pictures at night?" He says.
            Without hesitation, I say:
            "It's what I do."
    "Pardon me?" he says.
            "It's what I do." I say again. I reach for my wallet and pull out one of my a business card.
            "This is what I do," handing him one of my cards. "I shoot photographs at night."
    I'm really irritated now. I don't say anymore. I just let the silence hang. Your turn, old man. He eyes my card using his flashlight and suddenly the tone of his voice become nicer. Not really friendly, but less confrontational.
            "So you take pictures, eh? Well, I was just coming up here to see who you are. We get all kinds of people up here at night, kids mostly. I had to clean up a bunch of condoms couple nights ago. It's really getting to be a problem." He says.
            "Really? That's too bad," I say. I'm faking compassion for his prophylactic problems. Frankly, I'm pissed and I'm just trying to keep my own powder dry and not go off on him.
            "Yea," he says, "It's a mess." He looks down at his feet.
            I decide to volunteer my plans for the night to him. Maybe it'll cut this short. The Full Moon pops in and out of the clouds.
            "Well, I got to getting going. I'm going up toward Molino Falls for a bit. I appreciate you coming by and checking on things." I'm don't appreciate it but I say it anyway.
            "Oh, OK. Well, good luck shooting pictures."
              "Thanks. Hope you have a quiet night, as well." That I do want for both of us.
            "Yea, me too." He says, walking back to his truck.
             He probably isn’t such a bad guy. Most likely a widower. Takes his job as campground host very seriously. Had too many encounters with stoned and drunk college kids this Spring, I bet. Lonely too. And I'm guessing I'm the first nocturnal photographer he has come across in his life.
    I watch him drive his pickup back into the Live Oaks of the campground proper. I then pop the rear hatch of my truck and take out my tripod and my hula-hoop with its hundred Christmas lights. The hoop would have freaked him out, I betcha.
            I sling the hoop like a bandoleer across my shoulder, grab the tripod and my Rollei, lock the truck and go. All’s quiet, now. I cross the road and get on the trail that heads up toward Molino Falls.
            The water’s still running. I was up here just a week ago in the daylight hours and I was blown away by the amount of water coming down from the falls. With a little Spring rain and the large Winter snow thaw, add to that, that much of the land is devoid of ground cover from the Aspen Fire, and we’re getting one hell of a runoff. A big mess of water. I even stepped in some quicksand last week, which was pretty funny since I only went up to my knee with one leg. If both legs had gone in the quicksand, it wouldn't have been quite so much fun. I plan on staying on hard rock this evening.
            The moon’s playing peek-a-boo in the clouds, mostly behind the clouds. I feel a bit inadequate, for last night the skies were perfectly clear, but I didn't go out. The day job tires me out more now that I'm getting older. I'm not that old, but I'm feeling it more. I used to have endless stamina. Now after shooting late into the night, getting up and going to the day job with little sleep about kills me. I just want to stay in bed those mornings. I've always been able to fall asleep quickly but now, almost as soon as I'm horizontal on the futon sofa in my living room watching TV, I'm out like a light. And hiking up this not-too-steep trail tonight isn't hard, but happily I do have some emotional and physical momentum tonight, to get up the this hill and away from that old man. Now, he was old.
            This area was hit by the Aspen Fire, but it was hit and miss. Mostly miss. It was farther up the mountain that got really nuked. Here, the fire was on its last legs, but I can still see silhouetted in the night the occasional black skeleton of an old Mesquite tree, or the scarred globe of a Yucca stump at my feet.
            After walking beside the stream for a while, I cross it and head straight up Molino Canyon. I'm happy for the water hasn't dropped much from a week ago, still roaring through the granite boulders. If you come here in a couple of months, you'll find Molino Canyon bone dry. But not tonight.
             The roar grows louder as I approach the Falls. By big-time standards, I guess the falls are pretty unimpressive. Maybe the biggest fall is a thirty-foot drop, with smaller ten footers here and there. No pools to swim in. They were filled in with sand and silt from the big runoff after last year’s fire. Many desert dwellers miss those swimming holes now. It’s a huge loss to some of us.
    The rocks are slick, here and there with the smaller spring water runoff and the splash from the falls. Careful, Stu. Falling to your death may be a romantic way for others to see you die, but I'd just as soon die in my sleep when I'm 80, thank you very much.
            I feel good. The hoop is light on my shoulder, the tripod is steady in my hand. I'm still a little worried about the Peek-a-boo Moon, but I'll make do as best I can.
            I check a few angles then find the one I like. Set up. Focus. Try a few trial runs with the hoop. It's not my biggest hoop, nor my smallest hoop, but one size in the middle. It’s just right,  just like in the three bears.
            I imagine myself too, as a bit of a bear tonight, as I descend down the slick rock to the rushing stream's edge, swinging the lit hoop, stopping at the water’s edge as if I'm fishing with my paw for salmon. I then retreat back up the rock. This is feeling good, but I have so little Moon. Oddly, even though the Full Moon is behind the clouds, I still have a lot of light. A nice soft light. No shadows. Like a 100-watt bulb in a lamp with a piece of fabric thrown over the shade. Very Romantic and quite intense. This might work. This might be quite interesting, this soft light.
            I open the shutter, become the Brown Bear again, fishing by the stream and then eventually dance out of the frame. I put down the hoop. I lay on a rock slope near the stream, while the Moon does its job, illuminating the rocks for the negative in the Rollei. I breathe. I listen to the water. I go into that in-between place, which separates sleep and awake.
            Time passes yet I'm not asleep. And I have no idea how long it's been laying here. Ten minutes. A half hour. I consult the still voice on if I should close the shutter. It says yes.
            On exposure number three, I shoot a very long time exposure, more for the opportunity of enter that non-ordinary state of consciousness again, than I am to make a good photograph. No shame in that.
            I breathe deeply again and again. I listen to the stream again. I drop into that place between worlds again. And I feel no separation. Not between me and the rock. Not between the stream and I. Not between myself and the old man a mile below at the campground.
            It's a very good thing.
            I wish I could feel this connection all the time. I’ll take that as a goal. A lifelong goal, that I’ll never fully achieve. But it’s good to try.


   

"Nine Prayers": The Hotel Congress Show (c) 2008

"Nine Prayers": The Hotel Congress Show (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

    Hours after I got back in the Art Game last Saturday, I was offered to do a one-man show in the lobby of the Hotel Congress. I was excited. The Hotel Congress, for those of you outside of the area, is this wonderful old hotel downtown, where John Dillinger was arrested, where many a great band has played in its club, where the best breakfast in town is served, where love has been found, lost, and found again, and where some of the best visual artists in Tucson have displayed their work. (I’ve often said that the spiritual and artistic center of Tucson is the front desk of the Hotel Congress, when Al Perry is manning the phones.) A very great honor to be asked to show work there. A very big deal.
    With the help of many in the past couple days, I edited and organized the show, picking just nine images, Nine Prayers. It would be a show of large prints, framed and matted, printed on the finest photographic paper. I would be economical but not cheap. It would be a greatest-hits show in some ways, a show of recent work in others, but a show with a underlining theme, that being ‘The little prayers I say when I shoot.’
    Then I crunched the numbers and crunched them again. Only one of the nine images did I already have printed and framed large. The remaining eight need to be made and made big. And the numbers were very large too, at least for me.
    The eight prints, finely framed and matted, would cost me close to $2500.00. Ouch. I don't have that kind of money. But I'm selling the work for a reasonable and fair price, so I thought I'd probably sell two or maybe three pieces and come close to breaking even. Then I figured in the percentage that the Hotel and the gallery would take from sales (50% off the top), and I became very depressed. In order that I don’t feel like I’m ripping myself off, I need to get at least $850 per framed, and matted print. These being large Fine Art Limited Edition prints, this was doable. But double that, pricing them at $1700 and we are way outside of what the market in Tucson will usually. Damn. I obsessed about this for a day and then I realized I don’t think I can do this. I can’t take a $2,500 risk on eight photographs. I’m still in debt up to my eyeballs as it is .(See “Argument Against Photography” on this blog.) I was disheartened. I emailed David Aguirre at Dinnerware and said I just can’t do it.
    I just got off the phone with David, and he is so inspiring, so understanding, so encouraging, so evil. We both realize that this show could be a very big deal for me, to show my best work, in one of the premier venues for showing Art in Tucson. I’m now reconsidering. I’m going to sleep on it for another night or two.
    But while I’m sleeping, I thought, why not have a virtual show on my blog of the show and maybe, just maybe, I might make a sale or two.
    Here’s the deal on how I print for big shows. I print two prints of each image at Photographic Works, the best lab in town. I print two because the first one costs a lot but the second print is cheaper, therefore if (and when) I sell one photograph, I have the other one to sell as well.
    So, friends and neighbors, here’s the deal.
    I’m not begging but if someone buys a large non-framed, non-matted kick-ass Fine Art photograph, you will be contributing to me, to be able to afford to do this show. (And to the couple who just bought the Ikon, thanks so much and you know who you are.)
    Below are the nine images that will go the “Nine Prayers” show. They are for sale. Prices, sizes, edition numbers, jpegs and type of photographs are all below. If you would like an unframed, unmatted, beautiful image to arrive at your door, in a nice sturdy tube, just email me at stujenks@gmail.com or write me at P.O. Box 161, Tucson, AZ 85702. You can pay me by personal check or by using Paypal (My account name is my email address.) And maybe, just maybe, if I sell a few prints, then I’ll be able to afford to do the Hotel Congress show and break even.
    (Actually after David’s inspiring phone call from a few minutes ago, I’ll probably slam my plastic anyway, but you know what I’m asking for. Just some help if you can afford it. No expectation but some hope.)
    Either way, enjoy the digital show below and know that I appreciate y’all’s support, whether it comes in purchases, or in kind emails, or in deep hugs. Without an audience, I’m just a bozo in a basement. With you, I’m having a one-man-show at the Hotel Congress.

        Love and light,
            Stu

Nine Prayers by Stu Jenks



"The Ikon of Catalina State Park, Arizona" © 1997, 2008, Edition of 10, Fuji Crystal Archive Print, 22” x 22” image on 24” x 30” paper, $600

"I pray the flame spiral I draw tonight is better than the one I drew last night."

"Laxmii's Flight, Flam Chen, Avra Valley, Arizona" © 2007, Edition of 10, Fuji Crystal Archive Print, 22” x 34” image on 24” x 36” paper, $650

"I pray I finally get a good shot of Flam Chen after shooting them for all these years."

"Cedar Breaks Star Circle, Utah" © 2006, 2007, Edition of 10, Kodak Metallic Paper, 28” x 28” image on 30” x 40” paper, $750

"I pray I wake up before the dawn."

"Ghost Horses, Coalmine Canyon, Arizona" © 2002, 2008, Edition of 10, Kodak Metallic Paper, 22” x 24” image on 24” x 30” paper, $700

"I pray I don't fall off the edge of this cliff."

"Tumamoc Hill, Tucson, Arizona" © 2007, Edition of 10, Kodak Metallic Paper, 22” x 24” image on 24” x 30” paper, $700

"I pray that we have a good Christmas."

"Mary at the Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas" © 2008, Edition of 10, Fuji Crystal Archive Print, 21” x 33” image on 24” x 36” paper, $650.

"I pray I get my mother across the country, in one piece."

"The Doe and Flo Show, Tucson Roller Derby, Arizona" © 2007, Edition of 10, Fuji Crystal Archive Print, 22” x 34” image on 24” x 36” paper, $650

"I pray I get some good shots for the girls tonight, even with this slow lens."

"Cows near the Clava Cairns, Scotland" © 2007, Edition of 10, Fuji Crystal Archive Print, 22” x 25” image on 24” x 30” paper, $600

"I pray that bull doesn't get mad at me, when he finds out I don't have any food."

"Abajo Mountain Hoop Dance, Utah" © 2003, 2005, Edition of 10, $600, Fuji Crystal Archive Print, 22” x 22” image on 24” x 30” paper.

"I pray I leave the shutter open long enough so the Full Moon has time to do its job."

Hoop Dancing: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Seven: "Ghost Horses"