Category: Sky

Stargazing Winter’s Crab: Watching the 2019 Total Lunar Eclipse Near Cancer’s Beehive Cluster

Join me as a full moon slips into Earth’s shadow, turning copper beside Cancer’s Beehive—science, illusion, and wonder entwined in a winter night.

MichaelStephenWills23 Comments

Colored lights of our skies are lifelong triggers for the imagination. On any moonless, crystal night—far from the town-glow—three thousand or so stars and the wandering planets scatter across the dark. We read them instinctively, stitching patterns the way our ancestors did, turning a brilliant chaos into stories. Along the ecliptic, twelve of those patterns became the constellations, a starry calendar by which careful observers told the seasons. When Cancer, the Crab rides high, winter has the northern hemisphere in its grip

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On the night of January 20–21, 2019, a full moon climbed from the horizon and slid into Earth’s shadow, transforming a familiar face into a copper coin. As it rose, that low-horizon “larger” moon—an illusion born of context—felt close enough to pocket. Hours later, the moon darkened to a dull copper color and appeared to float amid Cancer’s dim stars.

I set up a Canon DSLR on a tripod with a 24mm f/1.4 lens, pushed the ISO to 3200, and shortened the exposure to 1.3 seconds—a compromise between freezing star points and preserving the feel of the sky. The moon, of course, was overexposed in that wide frame; later, I overlaid a correctly exposed moon (from a telephoto shot later in the night) at its true apparent size to match the scene as the eye saw it. Is it the most “technical” astrophotograph of the eclipse? No. But it is faithful to the moment I witnessed and good enough to carry the story forward.

The Moon on the Crab’s back

Cancer is never an easy connect-the-dots. Its stars are modest, more suggestion than signature. Look just to the side of the moon’s position that night and you come to Delta Cancri, the orange giant nicknamed the Southern Donkey. Draw a mental line down and slightly right to the faint pair Nu and Gamma Cancri—white stars that only masquerade as twins. They are not physically bound, merely near each other by line of sight: Nu about 390 light-years away, Gamma at 181. Scatter in Alpha and Beta off the Crab’s back and the outline becomes more plausible, the way a minimal sketch becomes a creature once the eye knows what to look for.

The Beehive

Between Nu and Gamma, edged closer to the moon, lies the real prize: the Beehive Cluster—also known as Praesepe or M44. Even with modest binoculars, Praesepe explodes into a field of delicate sparks, a thousand stars loosely wrapped into a hive. Galileo famously turned his early telescope on this cloud and teased forty separate points from the mist; modern optics reveal a populous neighborhood of stellar siblings in shades from ice-blue to ember-red. It is one of those sights that converts a casual sky-gazer into a repeat offender.

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Total Lunar Eclipse and Surrounding Sky with labels for primary element of the Cancer constellation

Later in the night I lifted the telephoto—70–300mm at 300mm, ISO 3200, 3.2 seconds—and let the moon fill more of the frame. At totality, the light thinned to a clay-jar red as Earth’s atmosphere bent sunlight around the planet and into its shadow. The effect is both simple and profound: every sunset on Earth happening at once, projected onto the moon’s face. Craters and maria softened into relief, and the globe stopped being a flat disk and became a round, ancient body again. Even without Delta, Gamma, Nu, and the Beehive in that tighter field, the sense of placement remained; I knew the Crab’s back was there in the dark, and that the moon had joined it—just for an hour—as a guest at the manger.

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“Beehive” with Total Lunar Eclipse with labels for primary elements of Cancer Constellation

The Total Eclipse

What I love most about an eclipse is its pace. Nothing is impatient: the bite appears, the light drains, the color warms, and the world around you changes temperament. As the bright glare wanes, neighborhood sounds recalibrate—the hush between footfalls, the small click of a door, even the steadying breath you didn’t know you were holding. A total lunar eclipse is an astronomy lesson that behaves like a poem; it teaches by arranging time and light until awe and understanding meet.

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And then, quietly, it returns what it borrowed. A thin wedge of white blooms at one edge, a rehearsal for dawn. Copper gives way to pearl, and the old moon looks new again, just higher and smaller against the deepening night. Cancer recedes into suggestion; Praesepe goes back to being a faint cloud to the unaided eye. The camera is packed away, the tripod shoulders its own shadow, and you keep the best exposure of the night where it can’t be corrupted: in memory.

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If you have binoculars, mark Cancer on a winter chart and step outside when the sky is clear. Find Delta, sweep toward the dim pair of Nu and Gamma, and then rest your gaze on that hazy patch between them. Bring a friend into the circle and let the cluster resolve, star by star, into something alive with depth. It will not be the last time you look for it. And if you’re lucky enough, as we were that January, the moon will pass nearby, reminding you that even the most familiar companion can be made strange and beautiful by the turn of a shadow.

The sky is a storybook, yes—but also an instrument. Nights like this tune both.

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Blood Moon Reflections: Science, Illusion, and Shared Awe Under the Lunar Eclipse

We gather on the balcony as a total lunar eclipse turns the moon to copper—science, illusion, and shared wonder braid a night of luminous change.

MichaelStephenWills31 Comments

Moonrise

On certain evenings we gather on our Cocoa Beach, Florida east-facing beach-side balcony simply to watch the day undo itself—sunset staining the western sky while, behind us, something quieter begins. On Sunday, January 20, 2019, the quiet had a name: a total lunar eclipse. I’d checked the online charts earlier—moonrise time, azimuth, the patient geometry of the heavens laid out in numbers—and set our chairs faced the anticipated spectacle.

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The light went a little pewter, as it does when the sun slides offstage and the world inhales. Out on the water a cruise ship shouldered south, a floating city of windows that, under ordinary sunsets, catch fire pane by pane. I looked up too late for the blaze and felt that small pang one gets for the thing almost seen. Still, the ship kept gliding, a bright punctuation mark traveling our skyline.

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Then the moon appeared—first as a bruise-colored coin pressed against a bank of cloud, then as itself, pale and whole, rising as if pulled on a cord. Photographs can play a trick here: place a ship under a full moon and, with the right lens, the vessel swells to improbable grandeur while the moon looks like a modest ornament. Our eyes know better. The ship is huge but near; the moon is unimaginably larger, only far. Distance humbles everything.

It’s a fine parlor truth that every lunar eclipse requires a full moon. There’s a steadiness in that—that the earth, playing the rare importance of middle child, can only cast its shadow when the moon has come fully into its own. The reverse, of course, is not guaranteed. Most full moons rise and go about their business, silvering roofs and quieting dogs, without ever tasting the earth’s shadow. Tonight would be different.

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The Riddle of Size

Before the darkness advanced, the old riddle of size made its entrance. Low on the horizon, the moon seemed suddenly intimate, big enough to pocket the ship and still have room for the lighthouse. We call it an illusion, but the word hardly captures the tenderness of it: how the mind, seeing that round face near our familiar trees and eaves, feels the moon to be part of our belongings. Angular diameter stays stubbornly constant; affection does not. The experiment is easy enough—choose a pebble that covers the low moon at arm’s length, then try again when the moon is high. The same pebble hides it perfectly. What changes is not the moon, but the story our senses tell.

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Clouds raveled and the disk lifted, gathering brightness. As the earth’s umbra slid across that worn, luminous stone, the color shifted from pearl to rust, then to the old red of clay amphorae. People love the names—Super, Wolf, Blood—as if the moon had stepped onto a carnival midway. I prefer the quieter facts: sun, earth, moon aligned; light refracted through air; the planet itself briefly confessed in velvet shadow. It felt less like spectacle than like a family resemblance revealed by candlelight.

Eclipse

Much later, around us, the little neighborhood chorus noticed. A conversation stalled mid-sentence; the unspooled hush you hear at a concert just before the bow draws its first note came and settled on the patio. Even the ocean seemed to restrain itself, waves taking smaller breaths. The cruise ship had long since slid behind the curvature of our seeing.

We kept watching. A lunar eclipse is an exercise in patience: everything happens slowly enough to be felt, quickly enough to refuse boredom. Shadows are honest about their edges. When the moon wore its deepest copper, I thought of ancient nights and imaginations unlit by anything but fire, how dependable cycles must have seemed like messages and how—standing there, spine pricked by a familiar old awe—I could not entirely disagree. It was not fear, but kinship: the sense that we are included in the machinery, not merely spectators.

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When the light returned, it did so from one margin, like dawn rehearsed on a smaller stage. The coin brightened by degrees, and the old face we know reappeared—craters and mares soft as thumbprints. The illusion of size faded as the moon climbed, and the experiment with the pebble proved itself yet again. Even so, I felt the tug of that earlier enchantment, the way a child misses a dream just after waking. The mind keeps two ledgers: one for what is measured, one for what is felt. Tonight both were full.

Eventually we retired. Chairs nested. Doors clicked. In the kitchen, glasses chimed in the sink. But the moon kept on, white and durable, its borrowed light restored. Somewhere out there the ship’s passengers drifted to their cabins, stories in their pockets about the night the world itself cast a shadow, and how the ocean looked briefly like copper under a patient star.

Later, when I wrote down the times and the few facts I could trust to memory, I realized the real record was not the measurements but the company: our leaning back, the shared breath, the soft astonishment that comes when something vast moves at a human pace. The eclipse ended; the evening did not. That, too, felt like a kind of alignment—ours with one another, our small chairs with a very large sky.

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Inishmore Landscape

Dún Aonghasa Elegy

High above the Atlantic on Inishmore, Dun Aonghasa Elegy reflects on sky, stone, and memory in a timeless Irish landscape shaped by wind and will.

MichaelStephenWills6 Comments

From the commanding location of Dún Aonghasa, looking northeast across Inishmore, the logic of the ancients becomes clear. No better vantage could be found—land unfurling like a hand toward Galway Bay, cottages nestled in green folds, clouds billowing above like sails caught mid-journey. A place of presence. A place of permanence.

Click the link for my Getty IStock photography of the Aran Islands

Inishmore Landscape

Perched high on the cliff’s edge, the fort behind, the Atlantic at the back, the wind carried stories—unwritten, unspoken, but felt in the bones. Below, stone walls divided the island into patterns of memory. Fields outlined in rock, laid long ago by hands familiar with hardship and patience. The sea’s pulse echoed faintly in the distance, as steady and unfathomable as time itself.

No words were needed in that moment. Just the hush of sky and stone. Cottages, bleached bright by limewash—kalsomine, the old name still whispered by some—stood resilient against the elements, each one a witness to generations. Each one seemed to carry a personal reverence, a tenderness carved into the landscape.

Paths led gently inland, where wind slowed and voices from distant homes rose faintly through the open air. Along those paths, the rhythm of island life could be read in hoof prints, scattered wool, and the sharp, clean edges of hand-cut stone. There, among the hedges of limestone and wild grass, the living and the lost felt close.

The cloud cover shifted constantly. Shadows passed like thoughts across the land. Toward the shore, the sky opened wide. A silence filled the lungs, as bracing and deep as the Atlantic itself. Time seemed to slow, the mind slipping into the rhythm of the land.

Limestone pavement, rough beneath the boots, told its own tale of erosion and survival. That the earth here could sustain even the most modest farming seemed improbable. Yet here it was: a testament to stubborn hope and quiet ingenuity. In that quiet, ancient energy rose—something older than the fort, older than language. A pulse shared with the rock and wind.

The fort eventually came back into view—perched as if grown from the cliff itself, curved walls enclosing nothing but air and sky. I perceived no defensive bluster, only presence. And what a view it commanded. On days like this, the clouds formed towering cathedrals overhead, white and gold in the sun. Below, the cottages and fields seemed miniature, perfect, enduring.

The wind played echoes of prayer, lullaby, and laughter mingled with the call of seabirds. The thought came that nothing here was ever truly lost—only layered. Generation upon generation, each leaving some trace: a stone placed just so, a wall mended one final time, a cottage roof patched for another winter.

Here, even the air speaks. It moves gently but insistently, brushing the cheeks and stirring something ancient within the chest. Beneath it, the island breathes: not loudly, not urgently, but with the slow, deep rhythm of the tides.

As the sun dipped slightly westward, light changed across the fields, cottages glowing warm against darkening green. The wind softened. The clouds drifted, still massive but no longer looming. Time to return. A glance back offered one last communion with sky, stone, and silence.

Inishmore, on that day had been absorbed. Understood not with the mind, but with something quieter. Something that listens without need for words.

Click me for the first post of this series, “Horse Trap on Inishmore.”

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Monument Valley’s Big Indian: Navajo Wisdom and the Geology of Time

Monument Valley, or Tsé Biiʼ Ndzisgaii, embodies a profound connection between the Diné people and the land, contrasting imposed names with cultural significance and sacred narratives.

MichaelStephenWills17 Comments

In the golden hush of this November sunset, Monument Valley stretches before us – an endless desert plain punctuated by towering red rock sentinels. The sky is vast and translucent blue, as a pale three-quarter moon rises silently above a solitary spire of sandstone. That spire is known on maps as Big Indian, a stone pillar glowing russet in the low sun. It stands apart from the mesas, its silhouette uncanny against the evening sky. In this serene moment, the land feels alive with presence. And the name “Big Indian” lingers in the air, raising quiet questions about what we call this place – and what it truly is.

From a distance, the spire does suggest a figure: tourists are told to squint, tilt their heads, and “see” the profile of a Native face gazing outward. One can imagine the first person to name it must’ve been a bored prospector, half-delirious from the heat after a lunch of canned beans, declaring: “I swear that rock looks like Uncle Joe in a feathered headdress.” And so the name stuck – a geological Rorschach test gone slightly colonial.

These whimsical titles – Totem Pole, Stagecoach, Big Indian – come not from the land, but from a long habit of outsiders labeling what they didn’t fully understand. “Big Indian” is particularly layered. The term “Indian” itself was born from Columbus’s navigational misfire, mistaking the Caribbean for Asia and its people for “Indios.” The Diné, the people who have lived here for centuries, never called themselves that. So this towering formation now bears the echo of a 15th-century directional blunder —like a name tag on the Sphinx that reads “Buckeye” because someone once thought Egypt was in Ohio. It’s a reminder: names given in haste can cling for centuries, even when they miss the mark entirely.

But beyond the names imposed by mapmakers, the spire simply is, in all its silent grandeur. In Diné lands, this valley has a different name: Tsé Biiʼ Ndzisgaii, often translated as Valley of the Rocks. In the Navajo tongue the name literally evokes “rock within white streaks around” – referring to the light bands of sediment that ring the red buttes​. Those pale streaks wrap the spire like faded paint, remnants of ancient layers of earth. Here the Diné language whispers a description born of the land itself, unlike the English names that often project an outsider’s story. Tsé Biiʼ Ndzisgaii speaks to the truth of the place: stone and light, strata and shadow. As the sun lowers, you can actually see those whitish bands catching the last glow, encircling the butte like old memory. The Diné name honors what the eye sees – the layered geology – rather than imposing an unrelated label. This spire and its neighbors were not built by human hands, though their sheer stature can feel like architecture of the gods. Millions of years of natural artistry shaped Monument Valley.

Long before any person walked here, this land was a low basin collecting sediments​. Layer upon layer of sand and silt hardened into rock, and a slow uplift in the earth heaved the basin into a plateau​. Wind and water became patient sculptors over the last 50 million years, carving the plateau and peeling away the softer material​. What remains today are the skeletal monuments of that erosion: buttes, mesas, and spires rising up to a thousand feet above the desert floor. Each is made of stratified stone – the broader bases of red shale and sandstone, and a cap of harder rock that resists the elements​. Big Indian’s sturdy pedestal and slender crest tell this story of layered resilience. In the red-orange rock, oxides of iron tint the cliffs a deep rust, while streaks of black manganese oxide – “desert varnish” – trace down their sides like natural paint​. Time and the elements have sculpted a masterpiece here.

Standing at its foot, one needs imagine the immeasurable ages of sun and storm that chiseled this lone tower from the earth. And yet, facts of geology alone fail to capture the spirit one feels in Tsé Biiʼ Ndzisgaii. The Diné know that spirit well – this valley is sacred to the Navajo Nation​. To them, these colossal rocks are alive with meaning. The people have lived and wandered among these mesas for centuries, blessing the land with their stories and prayers.

In Navajo cosmology, the landscape itself is imbued with life and purpose. The buttes are often seen as ancestors, guardians, or holy figures watching over the People. For example, the famous twin buttes called the Mittens are said to be a pair of spiritual beings – one male, one female – forever facing each other across the valley, protecting and balancing the land​. Another hulking mesa, Sentinel Mesa, is known as a “door post” of the valley, a guardian at the entrance​, paired with another butte as the opposite door post​. The valley, in the Diné way of seeing, resembles a great hogan, a home blessed by the gods: the mesas at its threshold are like the posts of a doorway, and a butte called The Hub is imagined as the central fire hearth of this immense home​.

In this way, the Diné landscape is a living, storied environment. Even the spindly formations carry sacred narrative. Seven miles southeast from Big Indian stand slender pinnacles known to the Navajo as Yei Bi Chei, named for the masked spiritual dancers who emerge on the last night of a winter healing ceremony​.

Each dawn, as the first light breaks over the mesas, it’s said the Navajo families come out of their hogans to greet the sun with prayers – their doorways always face the east to receive blessings of the day​. In the same way, the great stone hogan of Monument Valley opens eastward, with its door-post buttes and its eternal fireplace. In Diné worldview, earth and sky are intertwined with their lives; they speak of Mother Earth from whom they emerged and to whom they owe care​. Here in Monument Valley, it is possible to feel that harmony – the sense that every column of rock, every whispering juniper shrub, every beam of sunlight and moonrise is part of a whole living tapestry.

We watch as the moon climbs higher above the Big Indian spire, its silvery light softening the rock’s hard edges. This place has known many names and will outlast many more. The Paiute people who roamed here before called it “Valley Amid the Rocks” and wove myths of gods and giants into its features​. Later came the labels of explorers and filmmakers: Monument Valley, a monumental canvas for Western legends. And of course, the simplistic tag Big Indian for this lone rock – a name that says more about those who coined it than about the land itself.

Names, in the end, are stories we tell about the world. The colonial names imposed here are like brief echoes across the ages, while the Diné stories run deep as the red earth. The Diné prefer to call themselves Diné – meaning “the People”​– and they call this land by names that describe its true character. I imagine that to the People, this spire might be thought of not as an “Indian” at all, but perhaps as a sentinel or an old friend standing watch. Its Diné name, if it has one, would likely emerge from its form or its role in a story, spoken with reverence.

As dusk turns to twilight, an immense peace settles. The monolith before me is no longer just Big Indian on a map; it is an ancient entity shaped by time and honored by generations. In the silence, we can almost hear the land speaking in the old language – telling of how it was born from oceans and sand, how it saw the first people wander through, how it endures through centuries of memory. The rock shares with us a moment beyond names: just the whisper of wind, the glow of moon, and a feeling of connection and wonder. This is Monument Valley, Tsé Biiʼ Ndzisgaii, in all its truth. In this contemplative dusk, I bow to the tower of stone, misnamed yet never truly defined by that misnomer. It remains what it has always been – a creation of earth and spirit, a witness to history, a source of humble awe. Tuning to leave, I softly speak a word of thanks – Ahéheeʼ – grateful to have listened, if only briefly, to the sacred voice of the valley.


Bibliography

Encyclopædia Britannica – Tribal Nomenclature: American Indian, Native American, and First Nation ​britannica.com (origin of the term “Indian” as a colonial misnomer)

Navajo Nation Parks & Recreation – Monument Valley (Tsé Bii’ Ndzisgaii) ​navajonationparks.org​navajonationparks.org (official site detailing Monument Valley’s geology and formation)

Robert S. McPherson – Monument Valley. Utah History Encyclopedia​uen.org​uen.org (history, geology, and indigenous lore of Monument Valley)

Aztec Navajo County – Monument Valley PDF Guide ​aztecnm.com​aztecnm.com (descriptions of formations, including Navajo perspectives on their meanings and names)

Navajo Word of the Day – Tsé Biiʼ Ndzisgaii ​navajowotd.com (explanation of the Navajo name for Monument Valley, meaning “white streaks in the rocks”)

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Explore Louisa Duemling Meadows: Nature and Conservation

The Louisa Duemling Meadows celebrate conservation and biodiversity, showcasing vibrant flora and honoring Louisa Duemling’s legacy as a steward of nature.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

The Louisa Duemling Meadows, nestled within the expansive embrace of Sapsucker Woods, offers a vibrant tableau of life, brimming with opportunities for exploration and a sense of wonder. This new trail, winding through golden fields and punctuated by bursts of wildflowers, whispers tales of the land’s natural and cultural heritage.

Louisa Duemling: A Steward of Nature
Louisa Duemling, the meadows’ namesake, was a dedicated conservationist and philanthropist who supported the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s mission to protect birds and their habitats. Her legacy lives on in these serene fields, where her commitment to preserving the environment is reflected in every thriving plant and songbird.

Black-eyed Susans: The Meadow’s Golden Treasure
Dominating this summertime landscape with their radiant yellow petals and dark central disks, Black-eyed Susans (Rudbeckia hirta) are a hallmark of the meadows. These cheerful blooms are a delight to the eye, a cornerstone of meadow ecosystems. As members of the Asteraceae family, their composite flowers serve as a rich nectar source for pollinators like bees and butterflies, ensuring the vibrancy of these fields.

Historically, Black-eyed Susans have been used in traditional medicine by Native American tribes for their putative anti-inflammatory properties. Their ability to thrive in diverse conditions also makes them a symbol of resilience and adaptability.

A Symphony of Green and Gold
Walking through the trail, one is greeted by the harmonious interplay of goldenrods (Solidago spp.), milkweeds (Asclepias spp.), and asters (Symphyotrichum spp.). Goldenrods, with their feathery clusters of yellow blooms, are often mistaken as allergenic culprits, though it is the inconspicuous ragweed (Ambrosia artemisiifolia) that deserves this reputation. Milkweeds, with their milky sap and delicate pink or white flowers, are vital to monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus), serving as the sole food source for their larvae.

Among these botanical wonders, the birdhouse stands as a sentinel, a reminder of the intricate relationship between flora and fauna. These wooden structures provide safe havens for cavity-nesting birds like Eastern Bluebirds (Sialia sialis) and Tree Swallows (Tachycineta bicolor), fostering biodiversity within the meadow.

A Horizon Framed by Pines and Clouds
The open meadow trails, flanked by clusters of Eastern White Pines (Pinus strobus) and punctuated by the azure sky, invite reflection and renewal. This is a place where the human spirit can align with the rhythms of nature, where each step reveals new layers of beauty and discovery.

Embracing the Spirit of Discovery
To wander the Louisa Duemling Meadows is to immerse oneself in the timeless dance of life. The trail, carefully marked yet wild in essence, invites visitors to lose themselves in its beauty while finding solace in its quietude. This is not just a path through nature—it is a journey into the heart of conservation and a celebration of the life that thrives under Louisa Duemling’s enduring legacy.

As you leave the meadow, carry with you not just the memory of golden flowers and vibrant skies but the inspiration to cherish and protect the natural world. The Louisa Duemling Meadows are not only a gift to those who walk its trails but a reminder of the profound impact one can have in preserving our planet’s fragile beauty.

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Guardians of the Plateau: Brigham’s Tomb, the Stagecoach, and the King on His Throne

Here is a journey to Brigham’s Tomb in Monument Valley, reflecting on the land’s timelessness, silent presence, and the profound connection between the observer and natural formations.

MichaelStephenWills14 Comments

He did not come seeking answers, nor was he lost. The road had summoned him—as it had summoned others before him—and he followed its arc with the steadiness of one who does not hurry time. The sun was descending behind him, slow and inevitable, casting long golden blades across the plateau. That was how it wanted to be seen, and he did not interfere.

He had come this way before in dreams, further south where the great stone mittens reached into the sky. There, the land had risen in clarity, each formation distinct in its declaration. But now the evening had deepened, and the land changed its tongue. It spoke more slowly. With greater weight. And he listened.

The air was thin with silence. Even the wind moved differently here—more cautious, more reverent. And then the shapes came into view. Not suddenly, but as if they had always been there and were only now permitting themselves to be noticed.

Here stood Brigham’s Tomb.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Navajo County, Arizona. Brigham’s Tomb. On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Navajo County, Arizona. Brighams Tomb is situated six miles (9.7 km) northeast of Oljato–Monument Valley, Utah, on Navajo Nation land. It is an iconic landform of Monument Valley and can be seen from Highway 163. Precipitation runoff from this landform’s slopes drains into the San Juan River drainage basin. Topographic relief is significant as the summit rises 1,000 feet (305 meters) above the surrounding terrain in 0.25 mile (0.4 km). The mountain’s name refers to Brigham Young, the first governor of the Utah Territory. This landform’s toponym was officially adopted/revised in 1988 by the United States Board on Geographic Names after having been officially named “Saddleback” from 1964 through 1987. Some older maps will still show the Saddleback name. Geology Brighams Tomb is composed of three principal strata. The bottom layer is slope-forming Organ Rock Shale, the next stratum is cliff-forming De Chelly Sandstone, and the upper layer is Moenkopi Formation capped by Shinarump Conglomerate. The rock ranges in age from Permian at the bottom to Late Triassic at the top. The buttes and mesas of Monument Valley are the result of the Organ Rock Shale being more easily eroded than the overlaying sandstone..

It rose alone, square and solemn, its flanks pressed by the last warmth of the day. The light traced every fracture, every line of sediment like the spine of something ancient and vast. It had no vanity. Its strength was in endurance, in the simplicity of mass. The world had spun uncounted times around this throne of stone, and still it stood—unmoved, unwitnessed except by sky and the slow-growing desert at its feet.

He paused there—not because he was uncertain, but because the monument required it. Some things must be received in silence.

Their topographic relief is significant: Stagecoach rises 900 feet (274 meters) above the surrounding terrain in 0.35 mile (0.56 km), while King-on-his-Throne rises 565 feet (172 meters) in 0.2 mile (0.32 km). Each butte’s toponym has been officially adopted by the United States Board on Geographic Names—Stagecoach is named for its resemblance to a stagecoach, and King-on-his-Throne is said to resemble a monarch surveying his domain. Stagecoach’s first summit ascent was made in 1995 by John Middendorf, Carl Tobin, and Dan Langmade; King-on-his-Throne’s first was in 1967 by Fred Beckey, Marlene Dalluge, Joe Brown, and Don Liska.

To the southeast, past a stretch of ochre earth and sagebrush, rose two more forms. The King on His Throne, upright and proud, shaped as if he had emerged from the stone itself to bear witness. An artifact of erosion, also a sovereign presence—crowned in shadow and wind. There was no question of who he was. His seat was eternal, and no rider passed without first meeting his gaze.

Beside him stood The Stagecoach. Its resemblance to the name was almost too perfect, as if the form had stepped from the myth fully formed. But he knew better. It had not become a stagecoach. The coach had become it. The names were backwards, as names often are. The land had come first. All else was echo.

The giants stood together across the basin, their red-gold skin kindled in the last light. Their arrangement was no accident. One rose alone. Two more aside, bound by rhythm but not repetition. Together they formed a sequence—pause, proclamation, passage.

He walked the trail slowly, camera at his side but silent for a long while. There were things beyond framing. This was not a scene to be taken. It was a truth to be approached.

At the edge of the frame—a photograph not yet taken, but inevitable—the fence stretched taut across the scrub. Old wood. Rusted wire. Man’s line scratched against the land’s permanence. It held nothing. It said nothing. But it was there, and so he acknowledged it, as one acknowledges a child’s drawing pinned beside a mural.

Overhead, the sky was deepening into steel. But the earth still burned, even gently. The buttes and mesas were not dimmed by dusk. They only leaned inward, as if the heat of the day had carried them toward some great remembering.

He had seen many monuments in his life, but these were not monuments in the human sense. These were not built. They were born. They had no need for marble or inscription. Their gospel was in their silence, their liturgy the erosion of time itself.

He stood long, unmoving.

Not lost. Not searching. Just witnessing.

As the light slipped and the forms began to release their edges to shadow, he turned once—not away, but forward. The road still called. And the giants behind him did not diminish. They merely remained, as they always had, and always would.

Waiting.

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The Mesa Light Captured Them

A father and son journey to Eagle Mesa, experiencing its beauty and silence, reflecting on its history and significance within Navajo culture as the day fades.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

They came north out of Chinle with the day already leaning west and the sun fallen low into the drag of horizon dust and the road ran flat and empty past rust hills and mesquite country until, turning into the sun at Mexican Water, after a long hour, at last they pulled into Kayenta where the streets lay quiet under the heavy sun and the windows of the store fronts cast their amber light out across the sand drifting across sidewalks and the wind stirred only faintly and then was still.

They left their bags in the room and turned north again without speaking. The son drove. A man, his father, sat quiet beside him and the sun slid low through the windshield and the sky was pale and cloudless and wide beyond reckoning.

The land began to rise and the road bent and climbed and fell again and then it came into view. Not slowly. Not like a curtain rising. It was simply there.

A shape in the far desert.

Like a ship that had grounded in a sea long vanished. A sheer mesa the color of blood and ochre and fire where the last of the day spilled westward and caught the rock face and made it burn.

He told the son to pull off. They stopped the car and got out and the sound of the engine fell away, the desert made no sound at all.

The man stood in the road and turned slowly. Eagle Mesa lay before him and the land stretched off in every direction and the fenceposts ran on into silence and the sky seemed to rest upon the buttes as if tired.

There were names for these places. Old names. Navajo names that spoke of eagles roosting and trees once there and water that came and went and did not come again. The mesa they called Wide Rock. The place where spirits go. He did not know the words but he knew the feeling.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Navajo County, Arizona. Eagle Mesa is situated 4.5 miles (7.2 km) northeast of Oljato–Monument Valley, Utah, on Navajo Nation land. It is an iconic landform of Monument Valley and can be seen from Highway 163.Precipitation runoff from this mesa’s slopes drains to Mitchell Butte Wash and Train Rock Wash which are both part of the San Juan River drainage basin. Topographic relief is significant as the summit rises 1,100 feet (335 meters) above surrounding terrain in 0.6 mile (1 km). The nearest higher neighbor is Brighams Tomb, 2.05 miles (3.30 km) to the east. This landform’s toponym has been officially adopted by the United States Board on Geographic Names. Navajo names for the mesa are “Wide Rock”, “Where the Eagles Roost”, “Water Basket Sits”, and “Trees Hanging from Surrounding Belt” because there were once numerous trees here. In Navajo mythology, Eagle Mesa is a place where spirits of the deceased may go. Eagle Rock Spire is a 300-ft tower on the northern tip of the mesa which requires class 5.9 climbing skill to reach the summit.Navajo names for this spire which resembles a perched eagle include “Eagle Alongside Mesa”, “Big Finger is Pointed”, and Tsé Łichii Dahazkani (Elevated Red Rock Sitting Up). The first ascent of the spire was made on April 23, 1970, by Fred Beckey and Eric Bjornstad. Geology Eagle Mesa is a mesa composed of three principal strata. The bottom layer is Organ Rock Shale, the next stratum is cliff-forming De Chelly Sandstone, and the upper layer is Moenkopi Formation capped by Shinarump Conglomerate. The rock ranges in age from Permian at the bottom to Late Triassic at the top. The buttes and mesas of Monument Valley are the result of the Organ Rock Shale being more easily eroded than the overlaying sandstone.

The son came and stood beside him and did not speak. The man lifted the camera and took a photograph and then another. The road behind them shimmered with the last heat of day. He took another picture his son, dressed in black, his arms at rest and the red mesa rising behind him and the shadows of their bodies cast long across the gravel and the shoulder of the road.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Behind Sean are the landforms Eagle Mesa and behind it Setting Hen, Bringham’s Tomb, to the right. Navajo County, Arizona

They took turns with the camera. The son caught him midstride and smiling lit by sunlight, the land stretching out all around. A man small in a world not made for men.

There was no sound but the click of the shutter and the dry whisper of wind among the sage.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Behind Mike are the landforms Eagle Mesa and behind it Setting Hen, Bringham’s Tomb to the right. Navajo County, Arizona

Later he would read that the rock was born of Organ Shale and De Chelly Sandstone and Moenkopi topped with Shinarump. He would know the spire they saw was first climbed by men named Beckey and Bjornstad and that it was called Tsé Łichii Dahazkani by those who’d named it before it ever had another name. He would know the mesa rose eleven hundred feet in less than a mile and that its runoff fed washes that fed rivers that fed nothing now.

But then he only stood and watched and knew it for what it was.

Not a monument to anything but time.

A stillness like prayer. A place that waits.

They lingered until the sun went and the sky turned iron blue and the shadows of the rock reached out across the valley floor and touched them where they stood. Then they climbed back in the car and drove south again and the road unwound behind them black and a single star above and the silence of the place held on inside them long after the valley was gone.

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Exploring Art with Toddlers: A Day at Johnson Museum

In October 2017, a family visit to the Johnson Museum of Art enriched bonds through art appreciation and nature exploration with toddler Sam.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

On a crisp October morning in 2017, I was on the cusp of retirement with leisure time to explored the Johnson Museum of Art at Cornell University, with my grandson Sam and his grandmother, Pam, my wife. We were attending a “Let’s Look Baby” event—a wonderful opportunity to introduce young children to art and the world around them. Sam was a toddler at the time, curious and full of energy, and I was eager to share this moment of discovery with him.

The day started on the museum’s upper level, where expansive windows offered breathtaking views of Ithaca, Cayuga Lake, and the surrounding hills. I lifted Sam so he could take it all in, his little hands gripping my arm as he gazed out at the vibrant autumn landscape while Pam captured the moment. The trees were in early stages of autumn—fiery reds, golden yellows, and rich browns—while Cayuga Lake shimmered in the distance, its deep blue surface reflecting the clear October sky. Sam pointed out toward the horizon; his eyes wide with curiosity. I told him about the lake, the hills, and the valley, trying to capture the beauty of it all in words simple enough for him to understand.

The architecture of the Johnson Museum itself framed the experience perfectly. Designed by I.M. Pei, the building’s clean, modern lines allowed the landscape to take center stage. Standing there with Sam, I felt a profound sense of gratitude—for the view, for the moment, and most of all, for the chance to share it with Sam.

Looking southwest over Cornell University and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. West Hill is to the right. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

As part of the event, we explored the museum’s galleries, moving from one exhibit to the next. The “Let’s Look Baby” program was designed with young children in mind, blending art appreciation with sensory exploration. While Sam was too young to fully grasp the meaning behind the pieces, he was fascinated by the vibrant colors and the textures of the displays. At one point, we stopped by a ceramic vase. Its elegant curves caught Sam’s attention, and I used the moment to talk to him about shapes and forms, pointing out how it was similar to the roundness of a pumpkin or the arc of a rainbow.

Looking South / Southwest over Cornell University and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. Ithaca College is to the left on South Hill. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

Throughout the visit, I found myself narrating the world to Sam, drawing connections between what we saw in the museum and the beauty of the natural world outside. It reminded me how much there is to learn and how much joy there is in teaching, even if the lessons are as simple as noticing the colors of leaves or the shape of a cloud.

Looking southwest over Cornell University’s Lib Hill and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. West Hill is to the right. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

We returned to the large windows overlooking Ithaca more than once. From there, I pointed out the landmarks of the city—downtown Ithaca with its steeples, the rolling hills, and the peaceful expanse of Cayuga Lake stretching toward the horizon. Sam listened quietly, his small fingers pointing to whatever caught his attention. I wondered what he was thinking, but I knew this experience, even if he wouldn’t remember it fully, was shaping his view of the world.

Looking to the North / Northwest over Cornell University and Cayuga Heights to Cayuga Lake. West Hill is to the far left. Along the southern lake shore is Stewart Park, the lighthouse, New York State Marina and Cass Park. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

The day wasn’t just about what we saw—it was about the connection we shared. Holding Sam in my arms, I felt the simple, deep joy of being present in the moment. This was a chance to see the world through his eyes, to notice the details I might otherwise overlook, and to marvel at the way something as simple as a vase or a view could spark his curiosity.

Looking to the North / Northwest over Cornell University and Cayuga Heights to Cayuga Lake. West Hill is to the far left. Along the southern lake shore is Stewart Park, the lighthouse, New York State Marina and Cass Park. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

As the October sun swept over the landscape, casting warm golden light, we left the museum. Sam was getting sleepy, his little head resting on my shoulder Pam and I shared a quiet contentment. That day at the Johnson Museum is a memory to treasure, a reminder of the beauty in both art and the natural world, and most importantly, the joy of sharing it with someone you love.

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Aerial Wonder: Capturing the Essence of Flight

Engines roar as planes await departure, soaring into vibrant sunsets. The sky transforms with colors, revealing a reflective world as night gradually takes over.

MichaelStephenWills23 Comments


Bright was the sky as the engines awoke with a rumble of thunder,
Rolling the tarmac in echoes of journeys yet destined for wonder.
Cloudbanks assembled in towering billows of silver and shadow,
Lifting their faces to heaven, where sunlight had painted them golden.

Far on the edge of the runway, the steel-winged vessels lay waiting,
Southwest and Delta, their banners aloft in the warm evening fading.
Emerald-liveried Aer Lingus, a voyager bound to the island,
Glided in grace on the threshold of travel through luminous currents.

Wheels left the earth with a whisper, a moment of weightless suspension,
Gravity yielding to flight as the city unrolled far beneath us.
Golden horizons drew rivers of fire through infinite heavens,
Burning the clouds into embers that drifted in luminous torrents.

Upward we soared, where the world lay in pools of cerulean mirror,
Lakes interwoven like jewels, reflections of sunfire descending.
Billows of vapor, like castles of foam on the rim of creation,
Tumbled and rolled into canyons of mist in the twilight’s dominion.

Flame on the wings, where the heavens ignited in hues of vermilion,
Rays from the sun, like a god’s final whisper, embracing the skyline.
Shadows arose in their silence, dissolving the last glow of daytime,
Stars in their vigil awakened as night claimed the realm of the heavens.

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Eternal Beauty: Landscapes that Bind Time

MichaelStephenWills16 Comments

Beneath the burdened boughs, where birches bend,
And rivers rush through rocks that time has torn,
The shadowed cliffs, their crowns with pine trees pinned,
Stand sentinel, proud guardians of the morn.

Through chasms carved by countless, ceaseless years,
The water whispers tales of days gone by;
Its misty breath, a shroud for winter’s tears,
A silver veil beneath the leaden sky.

Each trickling stream sings sonnets to the stone,
And echoes dance through chambers cold and vast;
Where silence dwells, a realm of moss and bone,
As sunlight lingers, fleeting, yet steadfast.

The waterfall, a weeping wall of light,
Cascades its crystal chords with thund’rous grace;
An argent arc, a marvel for the sight,
That draws all souls into its soft embrace.

The river curls, through curving cliffs confined,
Its molten silver sculpts the winter’s skin;
While gnarled roots from ancient oaks entwined
Grip granite walls where life dares to begin.

Upon the path, where earth and echoes meet,
The fragile frost dissolves with fleeting flame;
Beneath bare limbs, our footsteps firm and sweet,
Trace tales that timeless, towering stones proclaim.

The afternoon, aglow with golden hue,
Finds stillness stitched in shadows soft and deep;
For here, in late-day’s light and lucid view,
The earth exhales her secrets slow to sleep.

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