Sedona, AZ.

Dense smoke from the 3,500-acre nearby Whiskey Fire blankets the Verde Valley as hot air balloons rise in the morning air. Our pilot, who has been flying over Sedona for 45 years, says he has never seen it like this.

Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, Arizona. (1 of 2).

I watched the sun rise over the most beautiful desert I've ever seen...

Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, Arizona. (2 of 2).

...then I stood at the fence until border patrol chased me away.

Nebraska.

Photo featured in "Us of America" magazine, Winter 2018.

Scenic, SD.

"...there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years." - Willa Cather, O Pioneers!
Northwestern Nebraska.

On the Way to the Holy Land.

Belle Glade, FL.

Stark, beautiful, and harsh…South Florida moves me like no other landscape. So much so that I have cried - in joy and in sadness - when returning there after being away for too long. And I’ve seen others do the same, moved by feelings found only it seems when looking at that unforgiving and shelterless sea of grass.

To me, this photo captures all that is deeply moving - wonderful and terrible - about the environment of Florida. The rich and flat land, the vultures perched on the poles in the hot sun, the drainage canal that never runs dry, and the rickety power lines that are no match for hurricane winds all seem to point out the human folly of trying to control the Everglades. I cry for their beauty, for their loss, and for all the countless, unnamable souls who have toiled under the hot sun there.

The title to this post is a play on words, by the way. The Holey Land is a wildlife management area owned by the state of Florida.

Become a supporter of the Coalition of Immokalee Workers. They do good work.

"This is the assembly of life that took a billion years to evolve. It has eaten the storms - folded them into its genes - and created the world that created us. It holds the world steady." - Edward O. Wilson

Morning in Everglades National Park, FL.

Somewhere in the northwestern corner of Nebraska.

Olympic National Park, WA.

Thunder Basin National Grassland, WY.

Joshua Tree National Park, CA.

Oglala National Grassland, Nebraska.

“East from Bill, north of Bill, the dirt roads north and east of Bill - whatever exactly it is, it is potent up there: unadorned curve of the earth.” - Merrill Gilfillan, “Magpie Rising."

Bill, WY.

Apache, AZ. A Raven is a Hole in the Sky
In the remote southeastern corner of Arizona, there's a place where the hard desert landscape seems to soften and the endless road rises gently for miles. Out here, state lines and international borders seem like weaknesses of the human mind. The locals sometime refer to this land as "Baja Arizona," and Mexico seems just as close as the US.
There's only one paved two-lane highway. Along the roadside is a rounded monolith made of smooth stones held together by concrete. Standing alone under the open sky, it’s the monument that commemorates the final surrender of Geronimo and his followers to the US Government in 1886 at nearby Skeleton Canyon.
History is burdensome here. One can't help but think of that weary band of the last Apache holdouts being pursued by thousands of soldiers across this land until hunger and despair overtook them. For white America, it's considered the event that marks the end of the Indian Wars of the 19th century.
Looking south, one imagines the vast deserts rising into the great Sierra Madre that anchors our continent to the Earth. Close to the northern side of the highway, however, stand the much smaller, but no less rugged Chiricahua Mountains. They are a mecca for wildlife, birders, and researchers. Home to perhaps the greatest biodiversity in North America, they are my destination. It's where my eyes wander.
Here, the Americas come together. The mountains and the deserts, plants and animals, the land and the sky. Local monsoons, Gulf of California storms rolling toward the Great Plains...and people.
Those whom I've gotten to know here are more likely to leave bottled water hidden under a cactus for the struggling wanderer than they are to demand a border wall. They'll tell you that there's no wave of human migrants here. It's a harsh and difficult place to move about on foot. And enough border agents and surveillance are already in place to make sure that hardly anyone slips through.
I've met the agents and seen them work myself. Most of them are young, with limited prospects in this remote region, and in a way they seem trapped here by circumstance. Many are compassionate when they can be, tougher when they must.
For many years now, I’ve stopped at this point in the road on an annual trip into these mountains with my students. The afternoon sun is always warm, but never too hot. A comforting wind from somewhere far away blows strong and steady. The stalks of the agave rustle, and if the wind picks up, the wire fence along the roadside will begin to sing.
A rusted and rattling metal carport canopy shades a pair of picnic tables. So close to the highway, so exposed to the elements, it's hard to imagine anyone willingly stopping here to eat a meal.
I choose not to sit, however. Ignoring the ugly monument, I hold my camera in the middle of the road, where one can see for miles. And I always get the same feeling…of being very far from home while being very close to where I want to be.
Once, where the mountains end, was a tiny black dot, a raven. Some things know no borders, some things need no roads. No fences. No walls.
A raven is a hole in the sky.