Beauty From Within, Not Above

What canyons taught me about humanity and my natural tendencies.

Overlooking Zion Canyon in Zion National Park. All photos taken by the author.

I am a photographer. I am also a hiker. On every one of my hikes, there is always a camera in my pocket, strapped to my chest, or in my bag. They are my shadow, coming with me wherever I find myself. Since picking up photography 2 ½ years ago, the craft has revolutionized how I view the world. I no longer see only the grand spectacles such as mountains, valleys, and oceans. Now, I notice the changing colors of umbrellas as they line a balcony in New Orleans. I notice the steeples perched atop regal structures — the details etched into each pillar and the symmetry (or lack thereof) of the architecture. I even casually took up birding, attempting to photograph them all. Over these past two years, my perspective has slowly shifted toward the more intimate details around me.

I love summiting ridges and mountains. There is such a surreal sense of accomplishment after the grueling ascent, usually in heat and humidity, to find that you can see the vast terrain from which you came. Even beyond this accomplishment, there is beauty. Miles upon miles are yours to gaze upon and appreciate. These views also make fantastic (and relatively easy) pictures. For that, I chased this euphoric achievement. I have gone on plenty of hikes all across the United States, and I can attest with certainty that the scenes derived from mountain peaks are hard to beat.

The Canyonlands

I now live in Utah — first by Zion National Park, but now in Moab — where I exist in the land of canyons. It seems that wherever you are in this state, you can drive to a canyon within 45 minutes. I have spent my fair share of time within them.

There is comfort in succumbing to the jagged walls around you. Though encompassed by desert, there is vibrant life within the confines of the canyon. Carved out by rivers, the valley has grass and trees all around. The cottonwoods and willows shelter you from the sun as the junipers combine, creating a tunnel of greenery to hike through. White firs fill the air with an oh-so comforting scent reminiscent of Christmas. The long-horned sheep scale the mountainside while the squirrels, mice, and frogs expand, relatively undisturbed. At the base of the canyons, “mountain-top views” come alive. Their character comes to life, and you get to know the canyon on a more personal level — like a dear friend you can’t wait to come back to.

There is a distinction to be noted between mountains and canyons (other than their obvious geological differences). Mountains stand before the masses on a stage and preach of greatness and the vastness of our world. They grant humanity a taste of omnipresence — seeing the world all at once. They imbue our spirits and foster big aspirations for the future.

Canyons invite us in and show us their hand-selected collection of coffee mugs. They show us the family scrapbooks and sit with us as we learn how they were once young too. They point to their scars and explain how the river — how their friend — forged them over 150,000,000 years. Canyons welcome us into their life, and let us fall in love with the beauty that rests within. A host unto its own ecosystem and a protector from the harsh world around it.

Look Inward, Think Smaller

Taken from the base of Kolob Canyon on the Taylor Creek Trail.

Mountains are celebrities, while canyons are our friends. We cling to the grand gestures around us. We flock to charismatic leaders who make us feel powerful. Starstruck by any celebrity with an ounce of fame, giving us a story to tell later. We see the summit of a mountain that we can’t resist, and we ascend it with that one destination in mind, wiping the memory of anything else. The tunnel-vision is necessary. It drives brilliant discoveries and secures goals. But what about everything else that we overlook to reach a final destination?

We can seek inspiring, powerful people for guidance in our lives, but the relationship we have to them is extremely limited. These people we lift up on a pedestal can’t change us anymore than a good book can. And let me say, books are transformational. However, nothing can fortify us and strengthen us like someone close to us. The person we decided was worth letting into our lives — into our entire lives — can cultivate more change than 1000 books or 1000 speeches. Let us not lose sight of the fact that we are a social people who deserve genuine connection. I don’t care what politician’s speech gave you the power to fight. I’m sorry, but I don’t. What I do care about is what your friend told you today. Did they say anything that made you feel heard? Uplifted? Did they listen to you with open ears and an open heart? Did you feel special when they showed you their collection of coffee mugs? I promise you that these moments will aid your growth, far surpassing any talking-head or book.

All I want you to see here is that you deserve a canyon. A friend that invites you in, gives you a place to rest, and cares for you. They share their passions with you because they are excited, and you are an important person to experience that. We need someone to laugh with and cry with, mourn with and fight with, and when everything is done, they remain. There is still a place for the grand, euphoric speeches. But remember that from the top of a mountain, you can see everything but nothing. You see concepts of grandeur, but nothing deeper, nothing detailed. From within the mountain, within a canyon, you can see everything and more. You can see what makes life go. You see what inspires growth and what causes pain. You see joy and promise as well as trials and tribulations. From within, we see life, while from above, we see a pretty picture.

Thank you for reading my work, a part of a collection I call The Contemplative Nomad. It means the world to me that you are hear, and if you made it this far, I hope you enjoyed this read as well as gleaned something from it. Please consider subscribing to see my future work.

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