A quiet moment along the Virgin River reveals the artistry of nature—where water, stone, and time shape Zion’s majestic Narrows in subtle, surprising ways.
In Zion National Park, where towering sandstone cliffs rise from the desert floor, the Virgin River weaves a persistent and graceful thread through deep canyons carved over millennia. The river is the creative force behind Zion’s signature landscape, sculpting stone with a patient hand. Among its greatest achievements is the Narrows—a sinuous gorge where water and light perform a timeless duet. The two photographs shown here draw us into an intimate corner of that realm, where water flows past a rock face marked by both subtlety and drama.
At first glance, what stands out is the unusual structure on the wall behind the river—a feature that at a distance could easily be mistaken for a man-made stairway. But closer observation reveals this to be a natural element, the result of erosion acting upon cross-bedded Navajo Sandstone. The texture and linearity of these formations are remnants of ancient sand dunes hardened into rock nearly 190 million years ago, during the Jurassic period. What looks like precision carving is, in fact, the legacy of sedimentation, lithification, and the scouring action of water over time.
In the first photograph, the scene is bathed in soft, diffused light, lending a quiet tone to the flowing water and the weathered rock face. The surface of the Virgin River becomes a silky sheet, its motion captured with long exposure so that it seems to glide effortlessly past the cluster of smooth stones in the foreground. Here is a deep calm—the kind that can be heard in the hush of water over stone and felt in the breathless silence of a canyon morning.
Click each photo for a larger view
Taken using the Kodak DCS Pro SLR/c mounted with a Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM lens
The second photograph, taken under brighter conditions, reveals the same scene with different character. The increase in light clarifies the water’s transparency, the greens of moss and lichen on the wall, and the golden tones of the sandstone. What you see is a pattern formed by layers of wind-blown sand, once part of vast dunes, now standing as a stone ledger of time. The river, its bed visible beneath the shallow flow, seems to read this text as it passes—century by century, pebble by pebble.
The Virgin River begins high in Southwestern Utah, at the Navajo Reservoir in the Dixie National Forest north of Zion National Park and travels over 160 miles to join the Colorado River, carving through layers of sedimentary rock as it descends. In the Narrows, the canyon walls rise up to a thousand feet while the corridor narrows to just 20–30 feet across in places. The intimacy of the Narrows contrasts with the vast openness elsewhere in Zion, enclosing the traveler in a world of water and stone, shadow and echo.
Walking the Narrows means walking in the river itself—an experience that engages body and spirit alike. The water is rarely still, and neither is the trail. Slippery rocks and ever-shifting current demand attention and balance. Yet, this very immersion invites a deeper kind of awareness. You are observing nature from within it, shaped by nature, and held by nature.
What the photos capture so eloquently is that Zion is a place where the work of nature can appear deliberate, even architectural. The illusion of stairways in the sandstone, carved not by hands but by wind, gravity, and time, is a reminder of how little separates the human sense of design from the forms nature produces. We recognize rhythm and repetition, elevation and flow, and are drawn to interpret meaning from these patterns.
But perhaps the meaning lies not in what we impose, but in what we receive. The Virgin River’s passage through this sculpted corridor teaches patience, resilience, and the beauty of gradual transformation. Its waters do not fight the rock; they yield, swirl, and persist—until the rock, by degrees, gives way. What results is a landscape both eternal and ever-changing.
Zion’s grandeur is easy to admire its many amazing overlooks, but its soul is found in quiet places like this—where sandstone walls, smoothed by water and time, speak not in shouts but in whispers. Here, beside a seeming stairway that leads nowhere and everywhere, we come face to face with the artistry of the Earth.
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Perched above Taughannock Gorge, a moss-covered ledge and cascading falls reveal ancient stories—where Devonian seas once flowed and time’s layers whisper through stone and water.
The morning sun had only just breached the rim of the gorge, sending long slants of golden light across the forest floor. Walking the South Rim Trail of Taughannock Falls State Park, I came upon a quiet, unassuming spot—just a few paces off the path—where the forest seemed to pause in reverence. What greeted me was a small marvel of persistence and time.
There, rooted precariously atop a slab of brittle shale, was a tenacious shrub rising from a bed of moss, its spindly frame etched in sharp contrast to the soft, green sprawl beneath it. The moss had taken hold on a shelf of rock cantilevered over the gorge like a green tongue of earth defying gravity. Cracks traced the shale’s surface like veins, silent records of the forces that shaped this place—heat, ice, pressure, time. Together, the moss and the bush formed an improbable community, surviving against odds, bound together by the thin soil cradled in stone.
This ledge, suspended over the abyss, seemed less a part of the earth than a question it asked—how much life can cling to the edge before the edge itself gives way?
Beneath this living fragment, the gorge dropped away. Layers upon layers of shale revealed themselves, stacked like a collapsed library of time. Here, the Devonian Period lies exposed to wind and rain, and to those willing to pause and wonder. Each stratum holds the fossil whisper of ancient seas, where trilobites scuttled and coral reefs once stood. This gorge was not carved quickly. It was not born of a moment, but of many—countless raindrops, millennia of ice melt, the slow, sure work of water over stone.
From this natural balcony, I looked out and down to the gorge floor where the creek shaped the land with an artist’s patient hand. The falls, seen from above, no longer thundered—they danced. Spread like the folds of a fan, water curled over smooth stone in steps of white silk. From here, the cascade looked deliberate, choreographed—an elemental performance halfway between gravity and grace.
How many times had this water flowed, reshaped, receded? How often had it carved these grooves, smoothed those ridges, erased the footprints of what came before? Looking at the exposed rock, one could trace the signature of ancient glaciers, feel the memory of long-gone floods. It was humbling—this intersection of change and continuity.
Above it all, the trees stood still. Pine and oak, rooted well back from the edge, offered a kind of sentinel presence. Their shadows stretched long and angled, tracing the contours of both earth and memory. For a moment, I let go of all thought and simply listened—to the murmur of wind through leaves, the faint rush of water far below, and the silence that presses in when the land itself seems to be remembering.
This spot—so easily missed by a hurried hiker—offered a parable of resilience and impermanence. The moss did not grow with certainty, nor the shrub reach with confidence. They survived on the edge because they adapted. They made do with less. They took root where others could not. There was no security in that place, only presence. Only the now.
And isn’t that a lesson worth carrying?
We so often seek stability, firm ground, a clear path. Yet, some of the most beautiful things live just beyond comfort—on ledges, in cracks, in the margins of the known. To pause here was to acknowledge that life thrives not only in sheltered valleys but also at the edge of what seems possible.
As I stepped back onto the trail and continued along the South Rim, the image of that mossy outcrop stayed with me. I carried it in my thoughts like a talisman—proof that even on the brink, life finds a way. And that from above, the most chaotic falls can appear as ordered motion, as a flow toward something larger.
Later, when the sun climbed higher and the light lost its slant, I would look back on this moment not as a spectacular highlight but as something more intimate: a quiet encounter with nature’s subtle artistry, its layered truths, and its enduring invitation to look closely, feel deeply, and walk softly.
For here, above the gorge, at the edge of earth and time, even a whisper leaves a mark.
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A bench beside a cedar, unchanged through time, stirred memory and gratitude—reminding me that some places wait quietly, holding space until we find them again.
A lingering memory hovers over this spot. The soft crunch of gravel beneath my boots, the filtered light through pine and oak, the scent of warm stone and moss—all of it felt at once familiar and distant, like a half-remembered tune that returns in full when you hear the first few notes. I hadn’t thought about the simple bench until I turned the bend this summer day on the South Rim Trail.
It was still there. The same humble bench nestled beside a cedar, its weathered frame now bearing the patina of years. The tree remained slightly bowed as if in silent conversation with the bench it had embraced.. The space between them, still and shaded, seemed to invite reflection without demanding it.
Welcome Summertime Shade
I sat down, letting the moment settle around me. In the gorge below, water moved quietly through sculpted shale, the same layered gray that once caught my attention through a camera lens long packed away. From this overlook, the view had scarcely changed: stone and water, green clinging to cliff, sky rolling in above it all. My photograph captures it now just as it might have then—perhaps from the same angle. The gorge unfolding in a graceful arc, with trees perched impossibly along the sheer face.
It struck me, not as a grand revelation but with quiet certainty, that very few places in life offer such stillness. So much shifts in the world—landscapes erode, trails are rerouted, lives move forward. Yet here I was again, sitting in the same spot, as though the intervening decades had folded in on themselves.
The Why for the Bench
Back then, I had rested here out of curiosity, pausing to take in the view, enjoy a respite. Now, I sat with a deeper kind of stillness. The second photograph holds the space as I found it—quiet, dappled with shadow, edges softened by time. The fence beyond it remains, unchanged, a modest boundary between the trail and the deep gorge beyond.
I don’t remember what thoughts filled my mind that first time. But today, a kind of gentle gratitude rose instead. Gratitude for the bench, yes—but also for the path that led me here again, for the act of remembering, and for the rare gift of finding something familiar, something steady.
Left Behind or an Offering?
A final image frames just the bench, its surface worn smooth, its structure slightly leaning now. A single flower petal had fallen on the wood—a quiet grace note in the morning light. I stood and took that last photo as a way of holding the moment, though I knew no picture could fully capture what it meant to find something that had waited without fanfare.
As I turned and walked back along the rim, I felt lighter. Not because time had reversed or been conquered, but because it had been witnessed—and somehow, that was enough.
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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.
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.
The air was crisp yet warmed by the steady rays of the January sun as I wandered through McKee Botanical Garden. The interplay of light and shadow danced across the palm fronds, creating an enchanting ambiance that whispered serenity. My pace slowed as I approached a reflective pond tucked away within this verdant sanctuary. There, shimmering like a fragment of the heavens brought to Earth, stood a glass sculpture titled Tower.
At first glance, the sculpture seemed ethereal, almost unreal—a spiral staircase to the skies crafted of crystalline spheres and slender rods. Its reflection on the water below doubled the dreamlike quality, as if the sculpture extended into an unseen realm. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the intricate craftsmanship of Hans Godo Fräbel, the sculptor whose genius birthed this luminous creation.
A nearby sign informed me that Tower is a larger version of Fräbel’s 1979 work Tower of Babel. It described how the sculpture’s glass rods and spheres were meticulously arranged to create abstract, clear shapes that play with light. Indeed, as the sun shifted overhead, the sculpture sparkled, refracting sunlight into tiny rainbows and revealing textures hidden within its transparent façade.
The setting amplified its majesty. Towering palm trees framed the sculpture, their dark green leaves offering a contrasting backdrop to the glass’s brilliance. Water lilies floated lazily on the pond’s surface, and an occasional ripple sent the reflection dancing. The combination of nature and art created an environment that felt both grounding and transcendent.
Standing before this masterpiece, I felt a profound connection to its narrative. The reference to the Tower of Babel resonated deeply. Here was a modern interpretation of an ancient story, one of human ambition and divine mystery, yet here it existed harmoniously in nature, not in defiance of it. The clear glass, fragile yet resilient, seemed to symbolize transparency and unity—a stark contrast to the biblical tale’s discord.
I lingered, watching how the sunlight flirted with the sculpture, how it cast prismatic shadows onto the surrounding foliage. Each sphere held reflections of the garden, tiny worlds encapsulated in glass, reminding me of the interconnectedness of all things. This moment, this meeting of human ingenuity and the natural world, felt timeless.
As I turned to leave, I glanced back one last time. The Tower stood resolute, a testament to creativity and a gentle reminder of the beauty that arises when humanity and nature coexist in harmony. It was an encounter that left me both inspired and at peace, grateful for the opportunity to witness such a sublime union of art and environment.
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.
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.orgnavajonationparks.org (official site detailing Monument Valley’s geology and formation)
Robert S. McPherson – Monument Valley.Utah History Encyclopediauen.orguen.org (history, geology, and indigenous lore of Monument Valley)
Aztec Navajo County – Monument Valley PDF Guide aztecnm.comaztecnm.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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The wind carried the scent of the sea as we stood at Punta de las Salinas, the furthest tip of Punta del Este, Uruguay. This was a place of myth and mystery for us, where the Atlantic Ocean merged with the Río de la Plata, and where the rocks bore witness to the timeless interplay of water and stone. Here stood “El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids), an evocative art installation by Lily Perkins, first completed in 2012. The sculptures seemed perfectly at home here, their placement deeply intertwined with the mythology they evoked.
This is at Great Britain Square, Punta de las Salinas of Punta del Este. We are at the tip of the peninsula, the easternmost point of Uruguay. This is the art installation El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids) (2012) by the artist Lily Perkins. Punta del Este, Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay
The sirens of ancient lore were said to dwell at perilous points where land met the untamed sea, luring sailors to their doom with haunting songs. These rocky outcrops, both a boundary and a threshold, have long held symbolic power as places where the natural world is at its most raw and elemental. Punta de las Salinas is such a place. Its jagged rocks and churning waves create an environment as beautiful as it is treacherous. It is easy to imagine mythical sirens choosing this very spot to weave their spellbinding melodies.
This is at Great Britain Square, Punta de las Salinas of Punta del Este. We are at the tip of the peninsula, the easternmost point of Uruguay. This is the art installation El Canto de las Sirenas” (The Song of the Mermaids) (2012) by the artist Lily Perkins. Punta del Este, Departamento de Maldonado, Uruguay
Lily Perkins’ installation captures this essence. The sculptures are not idealized depictions of mermaids; they are rugged and raw, encrusted with shells, stones, and marine debris. Their weathered forms mirror the harsh, untamed beauty of their surroundings. It is as if they have emerged from the ocean itself, born of the waves and the salt-laden air, to stand as sentinels at the edge of the world.
The central figure, with her face turned skyward, evokes the myth of the siren’s song—a melody so enchanting that it drove sailors to risk their lives against the rocks. Her posture suggests longing, perhaps for a connection beyond the horizon, or perhaps for the very mortals she is fated to ensnare. Nearby, a broken figure reclines against the rocks, her form partially encased in green netting and mosaic-like tiles. She seems more grounded, her siren’s call muted, as if weighed down by the realities of the modern world. The use of marine materials in her construction—a blend of natural and human-made debris—suggests an awareness of humanity’s impact on the seas.
The third figure, slightly apart, is the most enigmatic. Encrusted with barnacles and weathered by the elements, she seems lost in thought. Her gaze is directed not toward the sea but toward the land, as if contemplating her place at this meeting of worlds. In mythology, sirens were liminal creatures, existing between realms—the sea and the shore, the mortal and the divine. This figure embodies that in-between state, rooted in the rocks yet shaped by the sea.
The placement of these sculptures at Punta de las Salinas is no accident. This headland is the easternmost point of Uruguay, a natural boundary and a crossroads where two vast bodies of water meet. For centuries, sailors navigated these waters, their journeys fraught with danger. The rocks here are unforgiving, and the waves crash with relentless power. To stand at this point is to feel the raw energy of the ocean and to understand why myths of sirens arose in such places. The sirens symbolize both allure and peril, a reminder of the ocean’s capacity to inspire and to destroy.
As I walked among the sculptures, the mythology seemed to come alive. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could easily be imagined as the sirens’ song—a hypnotic rhythm that draws you in and holds you spellbound. The figures, though silent, seemed to hum with an energy that echoed the sea’s eternal motion.
I feld these sculptures were not merely placed at Punta de las Salinas; but had emerged from it, their forms shaped by the same forces that shaped the rocks beneath our feet. The shells and stones embedded in their surfaces tied them physically to the sea, while their mythical resonance tied them spiritually to the place.
The mythology of the sirens speaks to the duality of the sea—its beauty and its danger, its capacity to give and to take away. Standing at Punta de las Salinas, surrounded by Perkins’ sculptures, I felt that duality in a profound way. The ocean stretched endlessly before us, a vast, unknowable expanse, while behind us lay the solid ground of the peninsula—a place of safety, but also a place that ended here, at this edge.
Lily Perkins sculptures are restored…..
As we left, the figures seemed to watch us go, their silent song lingering in my mind. The sirens of Punta del Este are more than art; they are a dialogue between myth and reality, between the natural world and the human imagination. In their weathered beauty, they remind us of the stories the sea has always told, and of the enduring power of those who give those stories form.
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Two men experience the breathtaking beauty and vastness of Monument Valley, reflecting on nature’s timelessness while feeling small against the grandeur of the landscape at dusk.
They drove on through the late November light with the road falling away toward the valley. In the west the sun hung low, a copper disk above the red land. The two men squinted through the windshield. Before them, Monument Valley unveiled itself in towering silhouettes and stone ramparts where the world opened to an ancient scene held in amber light. A long black ribbon of highway led onward, straight and true, toward those looming buttes etched against the sky. The older man eased the truck to the shoulder and killed the engine. In the newfound quiet, they sat as the wind ticked against the cooling hood. Ahead, the valley’s monuments stood waiting in the orange glow of sundown.
“Hell of a sight,” the driver said softly.
Sentinel Mesa and a slice of Big Indian peak to the left. A risen moon above all.As the day progressed here is Big Indian to the left, a portion of Sentinel Mesa with the risen moon above all
To the east, Sentinel Mesa rose broad and dark, its flat summit catching the last aureate light. The mesa loomed like a great natural battlement guarding the valley’s entrance. Aside, a solitary pinnacle known as the Big Indian stood in muted vermilion hues. In profile it did resemble a weathered face—a monumental visage gazing eternally south over the sacred lands. Farther south, Mitchell Butte jutted upward, its sheer walls burnished red-gold on one side where the sunlight still lingered. A mile or so southeast, the land climbed again to the massive bulk of Mitchell Mesa, now mostly in shadow. The sun was dropping behind it, outlining that mesa’s far rim in a halo of pale fire. Near to Mitchell Butte, a tall slender Gray Whiskers Butte rose like a lonely watchman. Its pinnacle was streaked with dusk, the stone fading from blood-red at its base to a somber gray at its crown. One of the men pointed toward it silently, and the other simply watched, understanding the unspoken thought: how small they were below these giants of rock.
Mitchell Butte, Grey Wiskers Butte and Mitchell Butte
High above Sentinel Mesa, the evening swan of this desert had already appeared — a waxing moon, nearly full and ghostly white. It floated just over the mesa’s dark crown as twilight gathered, like an omen or a blessing. The sky behind the landforms had begun to take on the deep indigo of coming night. In the east, opposite the dying sun, the heavens were lavender and faintly banded with pink. The moon climbed in silence, gaining strength as the sun bled out in a final flare of vermilion along the horizon. In that half-light the mesas and buttes became blackened shapes, cut from the twilight itself, their identities merging with the land’s dusk. November’s chill crept in with the dark. The younger man drew his jacket closed. Neither of them had thought to speak for minutes now. They simply wandered a few yards from the truck, eyes turned outward and upward, silhouettes of their own against the dimming day.
Sentinel Mesa with risen moon
His companion nodded. He opened the door and stepped out. “Never seen anything like it,” the younger man said. His voice was reverent, almost a whisper. The driver climbed out too, boots crunching on red grit. They walked a few paces from the road, drawn forward as if on a tide. The evening air was cool and carried a dry, dusty scent tinged with sage. In the far distance, the monuments cast long blue shadows over the valley floor. The travelers stood for a long moment without speaking, each alone with the scale of it.
The land was vast and inscrutable. In the silence it felt holy. It was easy to believe no one else in the world existed at this hour — only these two and the ancient valley spread before them. The wind came from the west in a long sigh, carrying the dust of the desert. It whispered through dry bunches of brush at their feet and stirred a lonely tumbleweed across the cracked earth. The younger man removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair as if to assure himself this was real. The older man stood with thumbs hooked in his belt, head tilted back to drink in the view. His face was lined and still, the dying light painting one side in gentle umber. If either man harbored any burdens or regrets from the road behind, the land seemed to dwarf those worries into nothing. They felt themselves small as insects on an endless painted floor.
After a time, the driver cleared his throat. “We’ll lose the light soon,” he said. His voice was low. He seemed unwilling to break the spell with anything louder.
The younger man nodded again but did not take his eyes off the valley. “Just a few more minutes,” he replied.
“All right.” The driver smiled thinly and pulled out a cigarette. He struck a match and cupped it against the breeze, the brief flame reflecting in his narrowing eyes. In the glow of the match the canyons of his face showed for an instant, then vanished into shadow again. He drew in and exhaled a plume of smoke that the wind instantly seized and unraveled. Sentinel Mesa crouched out there like a great shadow, crowned now by a silver moon that grew brighter by the minute. The older man followed that mesa’s outline with his eyes, tracing the crenellated cliffs and the slope of rubble at its base. “They named that one right,” he said, mostly to himself.
“What’s that?” the other asked softly.
“Sentinel. Standing guard.” The driver gestured with the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Feels like it’s been watching this place forever.”
Sentinel Mesa standing guard with the red desert floor and fauna in the last light of sunset
The young man considered the hulking form of the mesa. In the twilight it did have the aspect of a watchtower keeping vigil over the valley. “It probably has,” he said. “Long before we ever came.”
On the road behind them a faint glint of chrome from the hood caught a stray moonbeam.
The younger man broke the long quiet. “You ever been down here before?”
The older man nodded. “A time or two.”
“You see all this then?”
A chuckle from the older man, low in his throat. “Not quite like this. First time I come through here I didn’t see a damn thing.”
The younger man looked over, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” the old man said, “I’d been driving since Durango, and I’d run out of good sense somewhere near Shiprock. Rolled in with the rain. Thought I’d catch a nap and wake up to a postcard.”
He paused, lighting another cigarette, letting the flame flicker in the cooling breeze.
“Only I parked across from a big ridge in the moonless dead wet dark, didn’t think much of it. Woke up next morning to what I thought was the edge of a landfill. Just a big wall of brown rock. Figured I took a wrong turn and ended up behind a gas station.”
The young man laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Got out, stretched, cursed the road and the view and the whole damn state. Got out to take a leak, figured I’d head on. And just as I’m zippering up, I look to the right—and there it is.”
He waved his hand toward the black outline of Mitchell Mesa, vast and solemn in the moonlight.
“The whole valley,” he said. “Caught me sideways. I parked blind to all of it. Missed the whole show.”
He shook his head, the cigarette ember glowing orange.
“Spent the next half hour cussing myself out. Sat there red-faced with a thermos of cold coffee like a man at the symphony who showed up deaf and late.”
The younger man laughed, full-throated now. “You mean to tell me you slept in Monument Valley and thought you were behind a gas station?”
The old man shrugged. “In my defense, it was cloudy.”
They both laughed then, the sound rolling out over the scrub and rocks and into the vastness.
He walked a little farther from the road, and the older man paced beside him. Ground crunching underfoot, fine dust kicking up around their boots. They ascended a slight rise where the terrain leveled off in a broad expanse leading toward the valley proper. Beneath their feet the earth was soft and powdery—red earth, lit now by the dim purple of dusk and the growing lunar light. The younger man scuffed the toe of his boot in it, and a little crimson cloud rose and drifted away. By daylight this soil was a vivid rust-red, the color of dried blood. It was as if the ground itself had a memory of violence or sorrow, but the truth of that color was simpler and older: the iron in the earth, left behind by ancient oceans, oxidizing over eons in the sun and airen.wikipedia.org. The land bled red because the very minerals of its making had rusted in the long passage of time. In places the valley floor was cracked clay, in others loose sand, all part of the same great story of stone turned to dust.
The two men walked out a bit further into the open, where scattered plants clung to life in the hardpan. There were low shrubs of sagebrush exuding a faint herbal scent, and clumps of purple sage with gray-green leaves, their summer blooms long spent. Here and there jutted the spiky forms of yucca, bayonet-tipped leaves fanning out from the base of each plant. Most everything that grew here hugged the ground and wore the dusty colors of the soil. In the failing light, the sage and grass tuft looked almost colorless, pale as ash. Only when lightning storms rolled through would the desert briefly bloom green; in these dry weeks of autumn the vegetation lay dormant, patient. A scraggly juniper tree crouched in a shallow gully nearby, twisted by wind and drought, its bark bleached where it faced the sun. These were the survivors of an unforgiving climate – rabbitbrush, snakeweed, hardy shrubs that lived on almost nothing. The young man knelt and pinched a bit of sage between his fingers, releasing its sharp fragrance. This smell, to him, was the perfume of the desert itself.
In the sand at the base of the sagebrush, he noticed a faint track. He brushed aside some dust to reveal the imprint of tiny claws: the delicate spoor of a lizard that had passed earlier when the ground was warm. It wound off between the rocks and vanished. Other tracks crisscrossed subtly in the dirt – a jackrabbit’s long-toed prints, nearly indistinguishable amid scuffs, and the delicate imprints of some small bird that had hopped about pecking for seeds. Life was here, though it was seldom seen. A red-tailed hawk wheeled silently high above, cutting black circles into the dim sky. Perhaps it was hunting one last time before full dark. The younger man stood again and looked out over the valley with new wonder, realizing that countless creatures lived and moved in this terrain largely unseen. In the daytime heat they sheltered in burrows and shadow. At dusk they came forth. He imagined a coyote trotting through a distant wash on soft paws, nose to the ground; a mule deer picking its way among these rocks somewhere beyond sight; a mountain lion watching from high up on a ledge as it had watched all afternoon. This desert did not easily give up its secrets, but they were there.
The older man stepped out onto a broad flat of rock and ground his cigarette butt under his heel. In the silence his companion could hear the scrape of boot leather on stone. The rock was part of an exposed slab that had broken off from a greater outcrop. It sloped gently down into the valley and was strewn with fine gravel from its own slow decay. The driver pressed his bootsole into a brittle crust of the rock’s surface, and it crumbled with a dry sound. These monoliths around them were not as immutable as they looked. Wind and rain had been gnawing at them for ages uncounted. Every thunderstorm that swept these flats cut new gullies in the shale, undercutting the bases of the cliffs. Every hot summer day the rock expanded, and every cold night it contracted, fissures growing by imperceptible degrees. Water trickled into cracks and ice pried them wider in winter. In time, great slabs would calve off with a roar and a billow of red dust, adding another heap of boulders to the talus at a butte’s feet. The valley was strewn with such piles like fallen ramparts. Erosion was the master sculptor here, patient and inexorable, chewing away the softer rock beneath and leaving the harder stone standing in great towers and tablelands. Each butte, each spire, had endured unthinkable ages to remain in this moment as a seemingly permanent fixture—and yet they too were slowly disappearing grain by grain. In a thousand years the difference might be subtle; in a million, perhaps these forms would be gone entirely, ground down to the flatness of the surrounding plain. The land was alive in geological time, though to human eyes it appeared frozen in a grand and silent repose.
They wandered farther, and now the truck was a small shape behind them on the roadside pullout. Neither man minded. The road was empty; no other vehicle had come along for a while, and only a lone set of headlights glimmered many miles away, moving slowly, probably a rancher or a late tourist heading home. The two travelers were alone with the land and sky. Overhead, the first stars were coming out in earnest, timid specks appearing in the dome of night. The moon was higher now and bright enough to cast shadows. The tall profile of Big Indian was cut into the moonlit sky, unmistakable and solemn, and on the valley floor the leaning spire of Gray Whiskers stood lit on one side by the cold glow. Away to the east, the open desert beyond the valley was falling into darkness, a great stretch of unknown country into which the highway disappeared. And still the west flared with afterlight — a band of deep red on the horizon, fading to gold, then greenish and up into the endless blue-black. It was a sky that seemed too vast for the world.
The younger man found a boulder at the edge of the flat and sat down. He removed his hat and set it beside him. The stone felt cool now under his legs. The heat of the day had fled so quickly that the air itself seemed to crackle with cold. He drew a deep breath and let it out. The land gave back only silence. A great and ageless solitude reigned here, the kind that makes its home in deserts and high places where man has no authority. He could feel it pressing in, not unkindly. It was the solitude of a world largely unchanged long before humans and likely long after. Under that eternal sky and the gaze of those stony sentinels, their own lives felt momentarily trivial. Yet the feeling was not bitterness or despair. Rather, it was humbling and strangely reassuring, as if all the griefs and triumphs that had ever marked a human life were nothing next to the calm presence of these rocks. The earth endured. The earth would always endure. Time and wind would wear down even mountains, but until then these mesas would keep witness over the days and nights, the storms and still mornings, the generations of men who came wandering through seeking something larger than themselves.
The older man walked over and eased himself down on the same boulder. He groaned softly as he sat, rubbing one knee. They both looked out over the emerging night. For a long while, neither spoke. Far in the distance, a coyote yipped — a brief, high sound, then silence again. The younger man smiled in the dark.
“The cold is coming fast,” the older man said after a time.
“Yeah. It does that quick out here.” He picked up his hat and dusted it off, though no dust truly could be kept off in this country. Dust was the true sovereign of the valley — red dust that coated boots and clothes, that hung in the air at midday, that settled on skin like a fine powder. It would ride back with them in their vehicle no matter how well they shook their coats. It had a way of clinging on, a reminder of where one had been.
“You ready?” with a tilt of his head back toward the truck.
The younger man took one last sweeping look over Monument Valley. The forms of Sentinel Mesa and its neighbors were nearly indistinguishable from the dark of the sky now, save where the moonlight etched a line or two along a cliff. The valley floor was lost in shadow. In the east, a few scattered clouds caught a faint silver luminescence from the risen moon. The beauty of the scene was stark and almost aching — a kind of beautiful emptiness that a man carries away inside him, knowing he has witnessed something that can never properly be told. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply nodded and got to his feet. They began walking back toward the truck, side by side.
Behind them, the desert night continued its slow unfurling. One by one, stars pierced the darkness. The moon climbed higher on its silent arc. The great stone silhouettes stood unchanged, as they had through countless nights. In a few hours the dawn would come and paint them in rose and gold once more. But for now the valley slumbered under the pale glow of the moon. As the two men reached their vehicle and the engine turned over, its headlights flaring to life, they took one last look across the plains of Monument Valley. Then the truck pulled back onto the highway and receded down the lonesome ribbon of asphalt, two red taillights diminishing and finally vanishing into the boundless Navajo night. The land remained as it was, vast and indifferent to their departure. Sentinel Mesa and Mitchell Mesa stood like opposing pillars at the great gateway of the valley, keeping their eternal watch. The wind sighed over the road and across the sleeping rocks. The footprints the men had left were already beginning to blur with settling dust. Above, the indifferent stars traveled their courses. And the red earth of the desert stretched away in all directions—ancient, patient, and still, beneath the enduring sky.
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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The Louisa Duemling Meadows celebrate conservation and biodiversity, showcasing vibrant flora and honoring Louisa Duemling’s legacy as a steward of nature.
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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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Find here a serene visit to Glendalough, highlighting the ancient beauty of its landscape, monastic history, and the deep sense of peace felt among the gravestones.
We arrived in Glendalough on a bright spring morning, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of grass and distant water. Even before stepping out of the car, I sensed something ancient in the air, as though the centuries themselves lay waiting among the stones. The peaks of the Wicklow Mountains rose around me, their slopes draped in verdant forests that whispered of forgotten tales. In the distance, shimmering like a secret, the Upper Lake beckoned under the watchful hush of rugged hillsides. I took a deep breath and started my wander.
One of the lakes for which the valley is named, above the headstones in the mid-distance
Walking through the monastic settlement, I felt enveloped by a hush both reverential and oddly comforting. The path led me to a cluster of gravestones leaning gently askew, each marked by Celtic crosses standing guard over the memory of those buried below. One cross, carved from sturdy stone, immediately drew my attention with its intricate knotwork etched deep into the surface. The front of it bore swirling designs reminiscent of interwoven vines—symbols of eternity, continuity, and faith. I found myself imagining centuries of pilgrims, each pausing here, hands gently resting on the weathered carvings, offering up their prayers and hopes.
Memorial from a mother to her 6 year old son and husband
A bit farther on, I came upon a small grouping of headstones bowed in silent unity. Ferns and moss carpeted the ground in bright greens, creating a natural tapestry that wove together life and memory. The slightly overgrown grass softened the entire landscape, allowing each stone to stand quietly yet firmly in the earth. From behind these markers, I caught my first glimpse of the shimmering lake, framed perfectly by the slopes of the valley. The water’s surface reflected the sky’s azure brilliance and accentuated the gentle hush that fell upon the graveyard like a comforting quilt.
As I paused to take a few photographs, I felt a hint of magic floating through the air—an indefinable sense that beyond what my eyes perceived, an age-old spirit thrived. The Celtic symbols on the headstones seemed alive, their swirling knots hinting at the cycle of life and death, the oneness of the world, and the bridging of earthly existence with the mystic realm. I found myself recalling old Irish legends: stories of saints who could converse with animals, of spirits dwelling in hidden glades, of holy wells that healed weary travelers. It felt as though those tales were all around me, wrapped in the tapestry of this timeless valley.
Looking out toward the remains of the stone church—its walls crumbled yet proud—my imagination conjured the chanting of monks, their voices echoing off the surrounding hills. The same forest that sheltered me now would have encircled them all those centuries ago, shifting from season to season. It was easy to picture them gathering by the lake’s edge, cups of cold, clear water cupped in their hands, or moving reverently among the graves of those who had come before them. Here, time seemed an illusion. The line between past and present faded as I stood among these enduring stones.
Winding paths of grass guided me to another section of the cemetery, where weathered inscriptions told the stories of families, lineages, and deep connections to the land. Some headstones were so old that the lettering had nearly eroded, but others still proudly bore legible names and dates. Names like Power, Byrne, and Keane were etched in memory, followed by poignant words of affection and devotion. The place felt both solemn and comforting at once—a harmonious interplay of remembrance, reverence, and the gentle pulse of nature.
Valley walls are dramatic and steep
A sudden breeze rippled through the trees, setting the leaves to dance and carrying the lilt of birdsong across the valley. I turned to admire the view once more, and there, between towering yew trees, the lake glowed like a polished mirror. Soft clouds glided overhead in a pale blue sky. The entire scene seemed woven from a single, unbroken strand—mountain, forest, gravestone, lake, and sky merging in a spellbinding harmony. It was the kind of moment that invited awe, a moment in which to lose oneself and yet feel more fully found.
I left the cemetery with a deeper sense of peace than I had known in some time. The photographs I took may capture the beauty of Glendalough’s ancient crosses and serene landscape, but it’s the intangible hush of centuries and the gentle brush of magic that remain with me. With every step back toward the car, I felt the warmth of timelessness, and as the day’s golden light enveloped the stone monuments behind me, I carried away a tiny spark of the valley’s enchantment—a reminder that some places are truly touched by the divine.Look closely at the carved scroll at the foot of the cross.
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 