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I do this vindictively, while Betty and Clara are on their knees. I do not pray. I revenge myself upon the day. I wreak my spite upon its image. You are dead now, I say, school day, hated day. They have made all the days of June — this is the twenty-fifth — shiny and orderly, with gongs, with lessons, with orders to wash, to change, to work, to eat. We listen to missionaries from China. We drive off in brakes along the asphalt pavement, to attend concerts in halls. We are shown galleries and pictures. My father leans upon the stile, smoking.

In the house one door bangs and then another, as the summer air puffs along the empty passages. Some old picture perhaps swings on the wall. A petal drops from the rose in the jar. The farm wagons strew the hedges with tufts of hay. All this I see, I always see, as I pass the looking-glass on the landing, with Jinny in front and Rhoda lagging behind. Jinny dances. Miss Perry loves Jinny; and I could have loved her, but now love no one, except my father, my doves and the squirrel whom I left in the cage at home for the boy to look after. And my lips are too wide, and my eyes are too close together; I show my gums too much when I laugh.

So I skip up the stairs past them, to the next landing, where the long glass hangs and I see myself entire. I see my body and head in one now; for even in this serge frock they are one, my body and my head. Look, when I move my head I ripple all down my narrow body; even my thin legs ripple like a stalk in the wind. I move like the leaf that moved in the hedge as a child and frightened me. I dance over these streaked, these impersonal, distempered walls with their yellow skirting as firelight dances over teapots. When I read, a purple rim runs round the black edge of the textbook.

Yet I cannot follow any word through its changes. I cannot follow any thought from present to past. I do not stand lost, like Susan, with tears in my eyes remembering home; or lie, like Rhoda, crumpled among the ferns, staining my pink cotton green, while I dream of plants that flower under the sea, and rocks through which the fish swim slowly. I do not dream.

Now let me be the first to pull off these coarse clothes. Here are my clean white stockings. Here are my new shoes. I bind my hair with a white ribbon, so that when I leap across the court the ribbon will stream out in a flash, yet curl round my neck, perfectly in its place. Not a hair shall be untidy. But I will duck behind her to hide it, for I am not here. Other people have faces; Susan and Jinny have faces; they are here. Their world is the real world. The things they lift are heavy. They say Yes, they say No; whereas I shift and change and am seen through in a second. If they meet a housemaid she looks at them without laughing.

But she laughs at me. They know what to say if spoken to. They laugh really; they get angry really; while I have to look first and do what other people do when they have done it. That I admire. Both despise me for copying what they do; but Susan sometimes teaches me, for instance, how to tie a bow, while Jinny has her own knowledge but keeps it to herself. They have friends to sit by. They have things to say privately in corners. But I attach myself only to names and faces; and hoard them like amulets against disaster.

I choose out across the hall some unknown face and can hardly drink my tea when she whose name I do not know sits opposite. I choke. I am rocked from side to side by the violence of my emotion. I imagine these nameless, these immaculate people, watching me from behind bushes.

I leap high to excite their admiration.

Coyote Buttes and The Wave

At night, in bed, I excite their complete wonder. I often die pierced with arrows to win their tears. If they should say, or I should see from a label on their boxes, that they were in Scarborough last holidays, the whole town runs gold, the whole pavement is illuminated. Therefore I hate looking- glasses which show me my real face. Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness.

I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body. We must wait our turn to play. We will pitch here in the long grass and pretend to watch Jinny and Clara, Betty and Mavis. But we will not watch them. I hate watching other people play games. I will make images of all the things I hate most and bury them in the ground.

This shiny pebble is Madame Carlo, and I will bury her deep because of her fawning and ingratiating manners, because of the sixpence she gave me for keeping my knuckles flat when I played my scales. I buried her sixpence. I would bury the whole school: the gymnasium; the classroom; the dining-room that always smells of meat; and the chapel.

I would bury the red-brown tiles and the oily portraits of old men — benefactors, founders of schools. There are some trees I like; the cherry tree with lumps of clear gum on the bark; and one view from the attic towards some far hills. Save for these, I would bury it all as I bury these ugly stones that are always scattered about this briny coast, with its piers and its trippers. At home, the waves are mile long. On winter nights we hear them booming.

Last Christmas a man was drowned sitting alone in his cart. Jinny leaps higher too when Miss Lambert passes. Suppose she saw that daisy, it would change. Wherever she goes, things are changed under her eyes; and yet when she has gone is not the thing the same again? Miss Lambert is taking the clergyman through the wicket-gate to her private garden; and when she comes to the pond, she sees a frog on a leaf, and that will change.

All is solemn, all is pale where she stands, like a statue in a grove. She lets her tasselled silken cloak slip down, and only her purple ring still glows, her vinous, her amethystine ring. There is this mystery about people when they leave us. When they leave us I can companion them to the pond and make them stately.

When Miss Lambert passes, she makes the daisy change; and everything runs like streaks of fire when she carves the beef. Month by month things are losing their hardness; even my body now lets the light through; my spine is soft like wax near the flame of the candle. I dream; I dream. I must throw myself on the ground and pant.

I am out of breath with running, with triumph. Everything in my body seems thinned out with running and triumph. My blood must be bright red, whipped up, slapping against my ribs. My soles tingle, as if wire rings opened and shut in my feet. I see every blade of grass very clear. But the pulse drums so in my forehead, behind my eyes, that everything dances — the net, the grass; your faces leap like butterflies; the trees seem to jump up and down. There is nothing staid, nothing settled, in this universe. All is rippling, all is dancing; all is quickness and triumph.

Only, when I have lain alone on the hard ground, watching you play your game, I begin to feel the wish to be singled out; to be summoned, to be called away by one person who comes to find me, who is attracted towards me, who cannot keep himself from me, but comes to where I sit on my gilt chair, with my frock billowing round me like a flower. And withdrawing into an alcove, sitting alone on a balcony we talk together. Now the trees come to earth; the brisk waves that slap my ribs rock more gently, and my heart rides at anchor, like a sailing-boat whose sails slide slowly down on to the white deck.

The game is over. We must go to tea now. They have driven off in their great brake, singing in chorus. All their heads turn simultaneously at the corner by the laurel bushes. Now they are boasting. They are the volunteers; they are the cricketers; they are the officers of the Natural History Society. They are always forming into fours and marching in troops with badges on their caps; they salute simultaneously passing the figure of their general. How majestic is their order, how beautiful is their obedience!

If I could follow, if I could be with them, I would sacrifice all I know. But they also leave butterflies trembling with their wings pinched off; they throw dirty pocket-handkerchiefs clotted with blood screwed up into corners. They make little boys sob in dark passages. They have big red ears that stand out under their caps. Yet that is what we wish to be, Neville and I. I watch them go with envy. Peeping from behind a curtain, I note the simultaneity of their movements with delight. If my legs were reinforced by theirs, how they would run! If I had been with them and won matches and rowed in great races, and galloped all day, how I should thunder out songs at midnight!

In what a torrent the words would rush from my throat! He never waved his hand as the brake turned the corner by the laurel bush. He despises me for being too weak to play yet he is always kind to my weakness. He despises me for not caring if they win or lose except that he cares. He takes my devotion; he accepts my tremulous, no doubt abject offering, mixed with contempt as it is for his mind. For he cannot read. Yet when I read Shakespeare or Catullus, lying in the long grass, he understands more than Louis.

Not the words — but what are words? Do I not know already how to rhyme, how to imitate Pope, Dryden, even Shakespeare? But I cannot stand all day in the sun with my eyes on the ball; I cannot feel the flight of the ball through my body and think only of the ball. I shall be a clinger to the outsides of words all my life.

Lydia Bell – The Girl in Pink

Yet I could not live with him and suffer his stupidity. He will coarsen and snore. He will marry and there will be scenes of tenderness at breakfast. But now he is young. Not a thread, not a sheet of paper lies between him and the sun, between him and the rain, between him and the moon as he lies naked, tumbled, hot, on his bed. Now as they drive along the high road in their brake his face is mottled red and yellow. He will throw off his coat and stand with his legs apart, with his hands ready, watching the wicket. Only Bernard could go with them, but Bernard is too late to go with them.

He is always too late. He is prevented by his incorrigible moodiness from going with them.

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Shall I rescue that fly; shall I let the spider eat it? But they would forgive him; for he would tell them a story. The horrid little boys, who are also so beautiful, whom you and Louis, Neville, envy so deeply, have bowled off with their heads all turned the same way. But I am unaware of these profound distinctions. My fingers slip over the keyboard without knowing which is black and which white. Archie makes easily a hundred; I by a fluke make sometimes fifteen. But what is the difference between us?

Wait though, Neville; let me talk. The bubbles are rising like the silver bubbles from the floor of a saucepan; image on top of image. I cannot sit down to my book, like Louis, with ferocious tenacity. I must open the little trap-door and let out these linked phrases in which I run together whatever happens, so that instead of incoherence there is perceived a wandering thread, lightly joining one thing to another. I will tell you the story of the doctor. Now let us follow him as he heaves through the swing-door to his own apartments.

Let us imagine him in his private room over the stables undressing. He unfastens his sock suspenders let us be trivial, let us be intimate. Then with a characteristic gesture it is difficult to avoid these ready-made phrases, and they are, in his case, somehow appropriate he takes the silver, he takes the coppers from his trouser pockets and places them there, and there, on his dressing-table.

With both arms stretched on the arms of his chair he reflects this is his private moment; it is here we must try to catch him : shall he cross the pink bridge into his bedroom or shall he not cross it? The two rooms are united by a bridge of rosy light from the lamp at the bedside where Mrs Crane lies with her hair on the pillow reading a French memoir.

Now, says the doctor, in two years I shall retire. I shall clip yew hedges in a west country garden. An admiral I might have been; or a judge; not a schoolmaster. What forces, he asks, staring at the gas-fire with his shoulders hunched up more hugely than we know them he is in his shirt-sleeves remember , have brought me to this? What vast forces? It is a stormy night; the branches of the chestnut trees are ploughing up and down. Stars flash between them. What vast forces of good and evil have brought me here? So there he sits, swinging his braces.

But stories that follow people into their private rooms are difficult. I cannot go on with this story. I twiddle a piece of string; I turn over four or five coins in my trouser pocket. But when they tail off absurdly and he gapes, twiddling a bit of string, I feel my own solitude. He sees everyone with blurred edges. Hence I cannot talk to him of Percival. I cannot expose my absurd and violent passion to his sympathetic understanding. I need someone whose mind falls like a chopper on a block; to whom the pitch of absurdity is sublime, and a shoe-string adorable.

To whom I can expose the urgency of my own passion? Louis is too cold, too universal. There is nobody here among these grey arches, and moaning pigeons, and cheerful games and tradition and emulation, all so skilfully organized to prevent feeling alone. Yet I am struck still as I walk by sudden premonitions of what is to come.

Yesterday, passing the open door leading into the private garden, I saw Fenwick with his mallet raised. The steam from the tea-urn rose in the middle of the lawn. There were banks of blue flowers. Then suddenly descended upon me the obscure, the mystic sense of adoration, of completeness that triumphed over chaos. Nobody saw my poised and intent figure as I stood at the open door. Nobody guessed the need I had to offer my being to one god; and perish, and disappear. His mallet descended; the vision broke. Should I desert these form rooms and libraries, and the broad yellow page in which I read Catullus, for woods and fields?

Should I walk under beech trees, or saunter along the river bank, where the trees meet united like lovers in the water? But nature is too vegetable, too vapid. She has only sublimities and vastitudes and water and leaves. I begin to wish for firelight, privacy, and the limbs of one person. It is my privilege. Duchesses tear emeralds from their earrings out of admiration — but these rockets rise best in darkness, in my cubicle at night. The day has been full of ignominies and triumphs concealed from fear of laughter. I am the best scholar in the school.

But when darkness comes I put off this unenviable body — my large nose, my thin lips, my colonial accent — and inhabit space. I am then the last scion of one of the great houses of France. But I am also one who will force himself to desert these windy and moonlit territories, these midnight wanderings, and confront grained oak doors. I will achieve in my life — Heaven grant that it be not long — some gigantic amalgamation between the two discrepancies so hideously apparent to me. Out of my suffering I will do it.

I will knock. I will enter. I have torn them off and screwed them up so that they no longer exist, save as a weight in my side. They have been crippled days, like moths with shrivelled wings unable to fly. There are only eight days left. Then my freedom will unfurl, and all these restrictions that wrinkle and shrivel — hours and order and discipline, and being here and there exactly at the right moment — will crack asunder. Out the day will spring, as I open the carriage-door and see my father in his old hat and gaiters.

I shall tremble. I shall burst into tears. Then next morning I shall get up at dawn. I shall let myself out by the kitchen door. I shall walk on the moor. The great horses of the phantom riders will thunder behind me and stop suddenly. I shall see the swallow skim the grass. I shall throw myself on a bank by the river and watch the fish slip in and out among the reeds.

The palms of my hands will be printed with pine- needles. I shall there unfold and take out whatever it is I have made here; something hard. For something has grown in me here, through the winters and summers, on staircases, in bedrooms. I do not want, as Jinny wants, to be admired. I do not want people, when I come in, to look up with admiration. I want to give, to be given, and solitude in which to unfold my possessions. I shall pass an old woman wheeling a perambulator full of sticks; and the shepherd.

But we shall not speak. I shall come back through the kitchen garden, and see the curved leaves of the cabbages pebbled with dew, and the house in the garden, blind with curtained windows. I shall go upstairs to my room, and turn over my own things, locked carefully in the wardrobe: my shells; my eggs; my curious grasses. I shall feed my doves and my squirrel.

I shall go to the kennel and comb my spaniel. So gradually I shall turn over the hard thing that has grown here in my side. But here bells ring; feet shuffle perpetually. I long that the week should be all one day without divisions. When I wake early — and the birds wake me — I lie and watch the brass handles on the cupboard grow clear; then the basin; then the towel-horse.

As each thing in the bedroom grows clear, my heart beats quicker. I feel my body harden, and become pink, yellow, brown. My hands pass over my legs and body. I feel its slopes, its thinness. I love to hear the gong roar through the house and the stir begin — here a thud, there a patter. Doors slam; water rushes. Here is another day, here is another day, I cry, as my feet touch the floor.

It may be a bruised day, an imperfect day. I am often scolded. I am often in disgrace for idleness, for laughing; but even as Miss Matthews grumbles at my feather-headed carelessness, I catch sight of something moving — a speck of sun perhaps on a picture, or the donkey drawing the mowing-machine across the lawn; or a sail that passes between the laurel leaves, so that I am never cast down.

I cannot be prevented from pirouetting behind Miss Matthews into prayers. I shall wear necklaces and a white dress without sleeves at night. There will be parties in brilliant rooms; and one man will single me out and will tell me what he has told no other person. He will like me better than Susan or Rhoda. He will find in me some quality, some peculiar thing. But I shall not let myself be attached to one person only. I do not want to be fixed, to be pinioned. I tremble, I quiver, like the leaf in the hedge, as I sit dangling my feet, on the edge of the bed, with a new day to break open.

I have fifty years, I have sixty years to spend. I have not yet broken into my hoard. This is the beginning. Here I cannot let it grow. Somebody knocks through it. They ask questions, they interrupt, they throw it down. The diamonds of the Imperial crown blaze on my forehead. I hear the roar of the hostile mob as I step out on to the balcony. Now I dry my hands, vigorously, so that Miss, whose name I forget, cannot suspect that I am waving my fist at an infuriated mob. I am fearless. I conquer. This is a papery tree.

Miss Lambert blows it down. Even the sight of her vanishing down the corridor blows it to atoms. It is not solid; it gives me no satisfaction — this Empress dream. It leaves me, now that it has fallen, here in the passage rather shivering. Things seem paler. I will go now into the library and take out some book, and read and look; and read again and look.

Here is a poem about a hedge. I will wander down it and pick flowers, green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured May, wild roses and ivy serpentine. I will pick flowers; I will bind flowers in one garland and clasp them and present them — Oh! There is some check in the flow of my being; a deep stream presses on some obstacle; it jerks; it tugs; some knot in the centre resists.

Oh, this is pain, this is anguish! I faint, I fail. Now my body thaws; I am unsealed, I am incandescent. Now the stream pours in a deep tide fertilizing, opening the shut, forcing the tight-folded, flooding free. To whom shall I give all that now flows through me, from my warm, my porous body? I will gather my flowers and present them — Oh! I will give; I will enrich; I will return to the world this beauty.

I will bind my flowers in one garland and advancing with my hand outstretched will present them — Oh! The introduction has been made; the world presented. They stay, we depart. The great Doctor, whom of all men I most revere, swaying a little from side to side among the tables, the bound volumes, has dealt out Horace, Tennyson, the complete works of Keats and Matthew Arnold, suitably inscribed.

I respect the hand which gave them. He speaks with complete conviction. To him his words are true, though not to us. Speaking in the gruff voice of deep emotion, fiercely, tenderly, he has told us that we are about to go. On his lips quotations from the Bible, from The Times, seem equally magnificent. Some will do this; others that. Some will not meet again. Neville, Bernard and I shall not meet here again. Life will divide us. But we have formed certain ties. Our boyish, our irresponsible years are over. But we have forged certain links.

Above all, we have inherited traditions. These stone flags have been worn for six hundred years. On these walls are inscribed the names of men of war, of statesmen, of some unhappy poets mine shall be among them. Blessings be on all traditions, on all safeguards and circumscriptions! I am most grateful to you men in black gowns, and you, dead, for your leading, for your guardianship; yet after all, the problem remains. The differences are not yet solved.

Flowers toss their heads outside the window. I see wild birds, and impulses wilder than the wildest birds strike from my wild heart. My eyes are wild; my lips tight pressed. The bird flies; the flower dances; but I hear always the sullen thud of the waves; and the chained beast stamps on the beach.

It stamps and stamps. This is the last of all our ceremonies. We are overcome by strange feelings. The guard holding his flag is about to blow his whistle; the train breathing steam in another moment is about to start. One wants to say something, to feel something, absolutely appropriate to the occasion. And then a bee drifts in and hums round the flowers in the bouquet which Lady Hampton, the wife of the General, keeps smelling to show her appreciation of the compliment.

If the bee were to sting her nose? We are all deeply moved; yet irreverent; yet penitent; yet anxious to get it over; yet reluctant to part. The bee distracts us; its casual flight seems to deride our intensity. Humming vaguely, skimming widely, it is settled now on the carnation. Many of us will not meet again. We shall not enjoy certain pleasures again, when we are free to go to bed, or to sit up, when I need no longer smuggle in bits of candle-ends and immoral literature. The bee now hums round the head of the great Doctor. I have known one mad boy only.

I have hated one mean boy only. He alone does not notice the bee. If it were to settle on his nose he would flick it off with one magnificent gesture. Now he has made his joke; now his voice has almost broken but not quite. Now we are dismissed — Louis, Neville and I for ever.

We take our highly polished books, scholastically inscribed in a little crabbed hand. We rise, we disperse; the pressure is removed. The bee has become an insignificant, a disregarded insect, flown through the open window into obscurity. Tomorrow we go. There is Percival in his billycock hat. He will forget me. He will leave my letters lying about among guns and dogs unanswered. I shall send him poems and he will perhaps reply with a picture post card. But it is for that that I love him. I shall propose meeting — under a clock, by some Cross; and shall wait, and he will not come.

It is for that that I love him. Oblivious, almost entirely ignorant, he will pass from my life. And I shall pass, incredible as it seems, into other lives; this is only an escapade perhaps, a prelude only. I shall be free to enter the garden where Fenwick raises his mallet. Those who have despised me shall acknowledge my sovereignty. But by some inscrutable law of my being sovereignty and the possession of power will not be enough; I shall always push through curtains to privacy, and want some whispered words alone. Tenderly W. Time Remembered Bill Evans.

Unforgettable George Gershwin. Unit 7 Sam Jones. Very Early Bill Evans. Virgo Wayne Shorter. Waltz for Dave Chick Corea. Waltzin' Victor Assis Brasil. Watercolors Pat Metheny. Watermelon Man Herbie Hancock. Windows Chick Corea. Yes or No Wayne Shorter. Billy Strayhorn - Take The a Train. Charles Lloyd - Florest Flower. Count Basie - Good Bait.

David Raksin - Laura. Errol Garner - Misty. Harburg - Over The Rainbow. George Shearing - Lullaby of Birdland. Glenn Miller - Moonlight Serenade. Harold Arlen - Over The Rainbow. Hoagy Charmichael - Skylark , Stardust. Horace Silver - Nica's Dream , Peace. Hubert Laws - Morning Star.

Jaco Pastorious - Chicken, The.

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Joe Farrell - Molten Glass. John Lewis - Django. John Scofield - Ivory Forest. Johnny Mercer - Autumn Leaves. Keith Jarrett - Memories of Tomorrow.

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Kenny Dorham - Blue Bossa. Kurt Weill - Speak Low. Larry Coryell - Bloco Loco. Leon Russel - Masquerade. Lyle Mays - James. Pastorius , Nefertiti. Mongo Santamaria - Afro Blue. Ogden Nash - Speak Low. Oliver Nelson - Stolen Moments. Pat Martino - On the Stairs.

Paul Desmond - Take Five. Richards Rodgers - My Favorite Things. Sam Jones - Unit 7. Scott LaFaro - Gloria's Steps. Scott Joplin - Entertainer, The. Sonny Rollins - Airegin. Stanley Turrentine - Sugar. Steve Swallow - Falling Grace. Thad Jones - A Child is Born. Tony Williams - Pee Wee. Toots Thielemans - Bluesette. Gross - Tenderly. Le Real Book.

  1. Coyote Buttes and The Wave?
  2. Jupiter Remembered: A Memoir.
  3. Apocolocyntosis In Plain and Simple English (Translated).

Partition gratuite en C. Le bassiste Steve Swallow et le pianiste Paul Bley ont pris en charge la transcription du livre. C'est pourquoi leurs compositions et celles d'autres personnes de leur entourage constituent une large partie du Real Book, parmi des standards et des compositions classiques de jazz. In there were three heat related fatalities at the Wave, and there was another heat related death in Go prepared. If you plan to stay the whole day you will need to find shade.

A space blanket can help, you need to elevate it with hiking sticks, rocks, bushes, A good place to find natural shade is on Toprock at the Alcove. Finally bring at least one gallon of water per person in July and August. You will need it. I have seen recommendations of nine liters per person per day when temperatures are this high!

Keep water inside your pack so it stays cooler, and bring some of it in the for of ice. There is a good possibility of afternoon thunderstorms or even hail. Mornings are cooler, often clear, and have little wind. It's likely you can get a good photograph in the morning, and if the weather cooperates you may get a great one in the afternoon!

With luck there will be water at the Wave or in the water pockets south of The Wave. Water pockets won't last long given the average July August temperatures though. If there are water pockets look for tadpoles and tadpole shrimp. If there's a lot of water you may even hear toads croaking! Permits, though still difficult, are easier to get than during the peak months.

Favourite Lines

Excellent months for visiting, Page and Kanab are less crowded than during summer vacation, and cloud cover and temperatures are reasonable. Permits are very difficult to get. Another good source of climate information based on the Page airport data can be found at Weatherspark. The Notch is no longer actively publicized by the BLM. The trail from the Notch is poorly defined. I strongly recommend access from the Wirepass parking lot.

House Rock Road is normally passable by passenger cars. Do not take this road if it is wet. It is clay based and impassable even to 4WD vehicles when wet. When the road is muddy it is like driving on ice and there are drop-offs. When dry take House Rock Road for 8. You can dry camp at the Wirepass trailhead, and a toilet is present. Better camping with fire pits, tables, and pit toilets is available at the Stateline Campground, one mile further south just off House Rock Road.

Begin your hike to the Wave by signing the trailhead register and crossing House Rock Road. Follow the well defined trail east for fifty yards until you enter the wash. Wirepass wash feeds into Buckskin Gulch, the longest slot canyon in North America. Continue walking down the wash. Turn right and follow the good trail up the hill and across the sage field. At the end of the field you will cross a wash. This wash also flows into the Wirepass slot canyon one half mile downstream. Total distance across the sage field to the wash is about.

After crossing the wash hike up the slickrock to a sometimes cairned saddle.

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  • If you have a GPS mark this location. You are now in the permit area. From here there may or may not be cairns and they may or may not be accurate. There are a small number of BLM sign posts in the area at critical locations, one can be seen about 50 yards east of the saddle. Note its location, on your return this marker will tell you where to turn to the west. From the saddle proceed south, after.

    Jacob Lee - Ghost

    Continue heading almost due south aiming for the crack in the cliffs to the south. After another. There should be a clear trail up the sand dune unless it had been very windy overnight. You will shortly arrive at The Wave. It is about 2. It is fairly easy to get back to your car, even at dusk. The small sign posts installed by the BLM will glow in the dark if a flashlight is shined on them. Make sure that when you return you do not try to cross the ridge too early after heading north.

    Look for the sign post referenced above, it will tell you when to turn to cross the ridge. It should be easy to cross over the small ridge; if not you have turned west too early. Conversely if you go too far north you will end up in or overlooking Wirepass slot canyon. If so turn around and try again. For an interesting story of someone who got lost on the return, see Trouble in Coyote Buttes. If you get lost or injured and need help try to gain elevation.

    You may be able to get a cell signal. So you've finally gotten a permit and want to make the best use of it. There is a nice loop hike starting and ending at The Wave. It covers most of the best photo sites in Coyote Buttes North and, if you are willing to be out most of the day, you can hit all of them in good light. Being out all day is dangerous in the summer months, so only do the loop from September through May.

    The loop does not include Top Rock, unless you are a very strong hiker save this for a second trip. The first stop on the loop hike is The Wave. The Wave gets good light about an hour after sunrise, before then parts of it are in shadow. It takes about 90 minutes to hike from the Wirepass trailhead to The Wave. Most people start their hike very early in the day and end up leaving when they run out of energy, usually before best light.

    If you have the stamina to stay out hours begin hiking at dawn; otherwise I suggest you start your hike later. Do not start hiking too late as shadows start to hit the south wall of The Wave before mid-day. After shooting The Wave explore the area around it for an hour or two. There are usually some nice water pools yards southeast of The Wave. Ginger Rock is a good subject mid-day. It can be found about yards north of The Wave. Leave The Wave by retracing your steps back down the sand dune to the wash below. At the foot of the dune turn west, cross the wash, and ascend to the area with the dinosaur tracks.

    The tracks are located in red stone very close to the wall. If you are not experienced in finding tracks they can be hard to locate even with GPS coordinates. The tracks are three toed and hand sized. They usually come in a small cluster arranged in a line. I left a small circle of rocks around a pair of footprints about ten years ago, as of mid the circle was still there. After visiting the dinosaur tracks continue south about. Fifty yards or so to the west lies a small brown and yellow striped area with some rocks that look like a D tic-tac-toe board lying on the stripes. The area was named "The Boneyard" by photographer Michael Fatali.

    The loose rocks are called lace or box rocks. Please do not move them, they are fragile. Wait until the cliffs to the northwest of The Boneyard are in shadow before shooting; the dark background of the cliffs contrasts with The Boneyard nicely. Stay until the sun goes behind the cliffs to the west and The Boneyard starts to fall into shadow. If you are feeling energetic you can Note that The Boneyard is also very good at dawn, light hits it just after sunrise with March and September being optimal times to shoot it at dawn. After leaving The Boneyard head down the sandy wash which runs south-east.

    Continue up Sand Cove Wash about yards and hike up to the teepees to your east left. This area contains beautiful sandstone curves and is called Sand Cove. It is best captured late afternoon just before it goes into shadow. A wide-angle lens is needed. Sand Cove is largely in shadow in the morning. Stay at Sand Cove until it starts going into shadow. From Sand Cove hike east north-east and scramble up the cliff until you reach a flat area just before a much steeper cliff. The Second Wave is at the foot of this steep cliff.

    It is a great late afternoon location, but only fair the rest of the day. Shoot it from the small sand dune a few yards south, or from the rocks to the south east about ten feet above it. Make sure the cliffs to the west are in shadow. Shoot until the Second Wave goes into shadow. Leave a bit earlier if you are concerned about hiking back to your car after sunset. To return to the Wirepass parking lot head north passing back through The Wave. After leaving The Wave head down the sand dune, cross the wash, and head north to retrace your steps back to your car.

    You will need a long lens to shoot them. If you hurry you should be able to get back to your car minutes after sunset. Warning - if you do not have good navigation skills or have a GPS and know how to use it, you should leave The Second Wave well before sunset. This is especially true in the summer and winter when extreme temperatures, lightning, or snow cover tend to keep visits short.

    In view of this I've added some thoughts on how to photograph just The Wave. A gallery showing what I believe to be the classic images of The Wave is here. The Wave opens up in three directions, to the north the direction you came in on , to the east, and to the southwest. Each of these openings has a good photo associated with it. Below is a map showing the topography of The Wave. Permits to The Wave are so hard to get that I'd suggest you shoot from all three directions on your first trip. All can be shot in the morning in good light.

    In addition to these images there are many other possibilities, see the main Wave gallery for some ideas. This image is best mid-morning. By late morning the wall on the left the south wall is starting to go into shadow, especially in the winter. You'll need a wide or ultra-wide for best results. The image shown was shot at 14mm. The "Eye of The Wave" is shown on the right.

    It is a great example of soft-sediment deformation. Great photos to the west can be had at night too. This image was shot at 24mm. The moon shining through the slot lit the center of The Wave and its north wall. This image is best about an hour after sunrise when the south wall is in light, and the side walls are in shadow. A few hours later the side walls are partially lit and the image suffers. Water is often found at the entrance to The Wave, especially in summer.

    Only a little water is needed to get a good photo, even one inch will do. Shoot close to ground level to emphasize the little rocks in the water, with a wide angle to normal lens. Both vertical and horizontal compositions work. This is my favorite image of The Wave. It is best from May through August when the center of the Milky Way is in the southern sky. The south wall was lit by an LED panel, and the other two walls were light-painted with a warm temperature flashlight. This image shows the entrance to The Wave.

    It is best mid-day and in the afternoon when clouds are present. This image was shot at dusk. A warm LED panel was used to light the walls. The image was shot at 14mm. The last image, is of a short slot canyon which gets excellent reflected light in late morning. Watch your DOF when shooting this. You may want to smooth out the sand in the slot using a cloth, jacket, or rain jacket before shooting. It is very difficult to remove the footprints in this sand using Photoshop.

    This image of the slot canyon wall shows a superb example of soft sediment deformation. This occurs during the early stages of sediment consolidation when the sediment is unsolidified or liquid like. Many people are unhappy with the current system, how might it be changed? I've left images of the " Eye of the Needle " in place, however the arch collapsed sometime in early-mid and is not longer worth shooting.

    The road to Adeii Eichii Cliffs is very rarely taken, be sure to download a track from the maps page before undertaking it as the road is very faint in places. I have added a gallery of images from the western side of Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument and the surrounding area. Travel directions to Inchworm Arch have been added, and directions to the Flag Point Track Site are available upon request. I have not added travel information for The Great Chamber as the fins in the alcove are very fragile and the area will not support a large number of visitors.

    The Bureau of Land Management is tentatively proposing an increase in the number of visitors allowed to visit The Wave each day. Currently 20 visitors are allowed, under the proposal 96 visitors per day would be allowed. As a first step, the BLM has asked that interested parties comment on the increase and on the permit process in general. Comments can be submitted to:. Three public hearings will be held in early June to review these comments. Once all comments have been received and issues evaluated an Environmental Assessment EA will be ordered. The EA will be available for public review once complete.

    The entire process of determining the scope of the EA and ordering it, completing the EA, and implementing a revised permit system could take a year or more to complete. Visitation for Coyote Buttes South will remain at twenty visitors per day. Thank you Mark and Tanner! The route they took back to the their car was enough shorter than the route I was familiar with via Wahweap Creek, 2. The hike itself is straightforward, from the reservoir off road K north of Churchwell hike ENE about 2. There is a well defined drop down into the canyon via a sand and clay dune at The hike down the dune is steep but quite easy.

    Full travel directions to Sidestep Canyon can be found here. Once you are in Lower Sidestep you'll find it quickly slots up. The slot is very narrow and you will need to remove your pack to get through. There was a little water in the canyon. Since we were low on time we only went in a short distance but still found many good opportunities for photos and plan to go back again and spend more time. The West Fork of Wahweap Creek is also very scenic with many hoodoos and side canyons to be explored.

    While the West Fork is best at sunset the trail back to the rim can be easily seen from a distance. I've added a few images of the Trona Pinnacles to my Lone Pine Area gallery and updated the Alabama Hills map with the locations of several additional photogenic arches.

    The Trona Pinnacles are about 90 minutes south of Lone Pine and are an excellent location for night photography while the Milky Way is out. To aid in shot planning I have added a table showing when the center of the Milky Way becomes visible by month. The table was created using the excellent app Photopills which is available for both Android and Apple phones. I've added many images from a trip to Yellowstone to the Yellowstone gallery , and updated the Yellowstone map with many shooting locations. The trip was in May which is a good time to go as the crowds are much smaller than in summer.

    Some roads in Yellowstone, like the south entrance road, are still closed in early May so if you do go then I suggest going later in the month. Winter remains my favorite time to visit the park. Yellowstone is currently open despite the government shutdown though some services are not available. Images have also been added for the incredible balanced rock seven miles south of Tuba City.

    The Coal Mine map has been updated and travel directions added for these new locations. The girl was seen last seen at 2PM that day, and was reported missing by her parents at 4PM. An Arizona Department of Public Safety helicopter was dispatched and located the body of the girl at the bottom of Horseshoe Bend that day. Due to darkness search and rescue teams recovered the body on Christmas day. Preliminary investigation indicates the fall was accidental. The Wave itself is open so if you have a permit go.

    If you do not have a permit and are considering bagging The Wave illegally keep in mind that BLM law enforcement personnel are still on duty and will be patrolling the permit area. The BLM walk-in and online lotteries are closed until further notice. If you have already applied online for an April permit I'm sure the lottery will be held once the BLM reopens. My best guess is that if you have not yet applied and the government remains shut past December 31st you probably won't be able to apply online for an April permit.

    There have been twenty US government shutdowns since , lasting seven days on average. We are now in the fourth day of the shutdown. Of the twenty shutdowns nine have lasted four days or more, with an average length of twelve days, so it is certainly possible that the current shutdown will run into the new year. The White Pocket is open. Vermilion Cliffs and the Grand Staircase National Monuments are open for hiking but visitor centers are closed and BLM emergency response is unavailable.

    Local government response is still available, so call in an emergency. May the holiday season bring only happiness and joy to you and your family and may your New Year be filled with fun and adventure. I have updated the Arches gallery and map to include two new locations: Cove Arch, and Cobblestone Arch. I have also updated the Covert Arch gallery with shots taken in good light at sunset. Cove Arch is in the Windows section of the park and frames Double Arch nicely.

    It's close to the road but access requires you cross a narrow ledge with exposure. Cobblestone Arch is 0. It gets great light at sunrise but is close to the ground and difficult to shoot. Covert Arch is my favorite arch in the park. It's in a great setting and gets good light at sunset. It is seldom visited since access requires a long drive from Moab and an off-trail 2. I have now been there three times and have not seen another person during these visits. If you're looking for some solitude in one of America's busiest parks try these out, you'll be glad you did.

    The Rimrocks is an area of hoodoos and badlands in south central Utah about thirty miles east of Page. I have divided the area into three sections. The first section contains the well known Toadstool Hoodoo , a very photogenic reddish brown and white hoodoo. Access is easy. Only a 2WD vehicle and a 0. On the cliffs above Toadstool is a second area of hoodoos, The Upper Rimrocks. To access the hoodoos on top of the cliffs take Cottonwood Canyon Road for 3. Below you you'll find over one hundred hoodoos of all sizes and shapes in an area known as The Hoodoo Forest.

    There are several faint usage trails leading from the rim to these hoodoos. Be careful as the sandstone is very soft and the way down is steep and exposed. Unlike Toadstool the hoodoos in this area are primarily white. They photograph best at sunrise and sunset when they take on a golden color. The third section of hoodoos is The Lower Rimrocks. They lie below the rim about one mile west of Toadstool. To access them park in the small turnoff on the north side of Highway 89 just opposite the Paria Contact station at milepost Hike about one mile northeast to an area with a hoodoo known as Skinny or Long Necked Hoodoo.

    Skinny is in a small side canyon and probably is never lit at sunrise or sunset. The best chance for good light is at the winter solstice. A gallery with images of the hoodoos can be found here , and a map with road and hiking directions can be found here.

    Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, is the busiest shopping day in the United States. It is also the busiest day for walk-in permits at the Kanab BLM office. Last year over people applied on Black Friday for a permit to visit The Wave. Permits were given out for three days for ten people each day, making the odds of getting a permit less than ten percent.

    If you hate crowds like I do I suggest you look to work off Thanksgiving dinner elsewhere. Wind Pebble is a collection of three short slots the first two of which are quite photogenic. The canyons are named after the moqui marbles embedded in their walls. The Wind Pebble canyons are on Navajo land and you must take a tour to visit them. Tours are offered by Antelope Canyon Valley Tours.

    The hike to the slots is 2. It ends with a climb up three well secured ladders and a gain of feet in elevation. A gallery of images of the Wind Pebble canyons can be found here , and a map with travel directions and photographic tips here. A gallery of images of Cardiac Canyon and Canyon X can be found here , and a map with travel directions and photographic tips here.