What's Left Behind
A Pilgrimage Through Grief, Silence, and Desert Light
I made this work during a journey through the American Southwest to mark my 50th birthday—an emotional milestone shaped by the recent death of my estranged father. We hadn’t spoken in years. There was no final conversation, no resolution, only a lingering sense of unfinished history. With so much unsaid, I felt the need to move, to step out into a place wide enough to hold it all. My wife made the trip with me. Her presence grounded me in a way I didn’t know I needed. Though the emotions were mine to process, I wasn’t alone. She gave me space when I was quiet, shared the awe of each new view, and bore witness to the moments I couldn’t yet explain. Together, we moved through the vast silence of the desert, canyon by canyon, mile by mile.
I’ve always felt closest to God in nature. There’s a sacredness in these places that speaks without words. And during this trip—through Utah and parts of Arizona—I felt that presence more deeply than ever. The land listened. The land held steady. These images are part documentation, part reflection. They’re not just about the beauty of the terrain, but about what I carried into it: questions, grief, the weight of years, the complexity of family, and the quiet strength of love beside me. I didn’t find closure. That was never the goal. What I found instead was space to feel it all honestly—and a deeper sense of connection to something eternal, something that asked nothing of me but to be there.
What’s Left Behind is about more than a physical landscape. It’s about spiritual ground, emotional weather, and the enduring grace of being seen—even when the path ahead is uncertain. These photographs are a record of that pilgrimage—toward understanding, toward presence, and toward peace.
"Homestead"
I was standing on the side of Highway 163 in Utah, the iconic stretch of blacktop that leads into Monument Valley, which became even more famous thanks to the movie 'Forrest Gump.' I was waiting for traffic to pass so I could set my tripod in the middle of the road to capture the perfect shot. As I glanced to my left, I was greeted by a breathtaking view of towering sandstone mesas and buttes. In the foreground, there was a small, isolated homestead. The contrast between the homestead and the massive rock formations, along with the stunning clouds and the beautiful afternoon light illuminating the textures and tones of the desert floor, inspired me to capture this image.
"Canyon Awakening"
I made this image just after sunrise in Canyonlands National Park, standing at the edge of a cliff as the first light spilled across the desert. The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon, but it had already started to paint the rock formations in warm, golden tones. The spires in the foreground—sharp, weathered, and impossibly sculptural—glowed against the hazy layers beyond. What moved me most was the sense of depth and silence stretching into the distance. It felt ancient and eternal, like I was witnessing the desert slowly awaken from a thousand years of sleep. This image is about reverence—for light, for time, and for the raw, quiet power of the land.
"Canyon at Twilight"
I made this image near twilight from one of Canyonlands’ high overlooks, watching as the day’s last light skimmed the mesas and carved deep shadows into the valleys below. The Green River curled through the vast expanse like a silver ribbon, the only moving element in a landscape that felt almost prehistoric. As the sun slipped behind the distant plateaus, the canyon walls glowed with burnt oranges and subtle purples, revealing layers of time etched into stone. In that hush between day and night, the sheer scale and stillness of the desert left me humbled. This photograph is my attempt to preserve that moment when the land itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for darkness to fall.
"Fisher Towers"
The first time I laid eyes on Fisher Towers, I was struck by how otherworldly they felt—like something from a dream carved into the desert. These formations have a raw, ancient presence that stops you in your tracks. I arrived just as the clouds were building, and the moody light played across the spires in a way that felt almost theatrical. I didn’t want to just document the scene—I wanted to translate the sense of reverence it stirred in me.
"Shadowed Canyon"
Canyonlands has a way of making you feel small in the best possible way. I stood at the overlook watching the last light fade, the deep canyons falling into shadow while the distant river caught one final glint of the day. It was quiet—almost reverent—and the vastness of the landscape felt like a living memory carved by time and water. I tried to capture that sense of weight and stillness in this frame: not just what I saw, but what I felt in that moment—solitude, wonder, and a deep respect for the ancient beauty of the land.
"Sunrise Silhouettes"
This morning in Canyonlands was one of those moments that sneaks up on you and stays. I got to the overlook well before dawn, bundled up against the chill, waiting in silence as the first light touched the rock. The silhouettes of the buttes and mesas slowly emerged from the shadows, layer by layer, like an ancient story being revealed. I didn’t rush to shoot—I just watched as the land breathed in the day. When I finally took the photo, it felt less like making an image and more like holding onto a memory that would otherwise slip away.
"Monument Valley Sunset"
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky above Monument Valley ignited in a symphony of warm hues. Pam and I were treated to this beautiful sunset panorama from the balcony of our room at The View Hotel (yes, that's really the name of the hotel.) From this perfect vantage point, the iconic buttes—West Mitten, East Mitten, and Merrick Butte—stood in silent grandeur, their rich red tones deepened by the fading light. It was one of those moments where time seemed to slow down, and the vast desert landscape became a canvas of color and stillness. I had to capture it.
"Navajo Sunrise"
I made this image deep within the Navajo Nation, in a place you can only reach with a native guide. The journey there was unforgettable—part adventure, part reverence. We started our hike in total darkness, the kind that erases all sense of distance or direction. As we moved quietly through the sand and brush, the guide suddenly stopped, raised his hands, and with calm authority said, “Rattlesnake.” The way he said it—low, steady, almost sacred—froze me in place. It was a reminder that out here, we were guests, and the land had its own rhythm, its own rules.
By the time we reached this overlook, the first light of day had begun to rise. The sandstone formations were still holding onto the cool blues of dawn while the sky above them bloomed with soft pastels. After the tension and silence of the hike, the view felt even more profound. This image carries that whole experience for me—the mystery of the desert, the wisdom of those who know it best, and the quiet power of witnessing a new day from a place few ever reach.
"Sunrise Silhouettes"
This morning in Canyonlands was one of those moments that sneaks up on you and stays. I got to the overlook well before dawn, bundled up against the chill, waiting in silence as the first light touched the rock. The silhouettes of the buttes and mesas slowly emerged from the shadows, layer by layer, like an ancient story being revealed. I didn’t rush to shoot—I just watched as the land breathed in the day. When I finally took the photo, it felt less like making an image and more like holding onto a memory that would otherwise slip away.
"Gentle Glow"
This image was made just after sunrise on the same unforgettable morning I mentioned before—the one that started in the dark, guided by a Navajo elder, and briefly paused for a rattlesnake encounter. After that moment of tension and awareness, we continued on in silence, letting the landscape unfold with the growing light.
As the sun broke over the horizon, it cast a golden wash across the desert brush. I noticed this tiny, backlit caterpillar suspended on a single thread, glowing softly against a sea of yellow wildflowers. It felt like the quietest kind of miracle—fragile, fleeting, and completely unexpected. After the intensity of the hike and the stark beauty of the desert views, this small, intimate moment reminded me to keep noticing the gentle things too. This image is about lightness, wonder, and the grace of being exactly where you are.