"A lenticular cloud is a lens-shaped cloud that normally develops on the downwind side of a mountain or mountain range. This occurs when stable, moist air flows over a mountain, creating a series of oscillating waves. If the temperature at the crest of the wave equals the dew point temperature, condensation occurs in a lens formation. As the air falls down the trough of the wave, where the temperature and dew point temperature are not equal, evaporation occurs. Thus, a wave cloud, or a series of lenticular clouds, is capable of forming." - Weather Underground
La Veta
After an amazing weekend in Santa Fe seeing Alvvays at Meow Wolf, I went west off I25 to the town of La Veta. It is a VERY tiny town of about 700 residents, which according to some locals I spoke to becomes even smaller in winter. The stores had began adopting their winter hours, closing at 5 PM. The hotel I stayed at, the La Veta Inn, was mostly empty. Tourism had obviously come to an abrupt halt. At 7,000 feet, most of the leaves were long gone. Everything was dead. I didn't know what to take pictures of. I knew I should have just driven straight home, I thought to myself, disappointed... But, I had to at least try. As expected, what little I got was decidedly underwhelming. Mediocre content can be saved with a little experimentation in editing programs, so at least I had a little fun making chicken soup out of chicken poop (a photojournalism saying that can be applied to many aspects in life!)
A bit of history: La Veta is most famous for being closely situated to the Spanish Peaks, two mountains formations that are National Natural Landmarks. Their indigenous name from the southern Ute tribe is "Wahatoya", meaning breasts of the earth.
Radiating from the base of the West peak is a geological dike named Devil's Stairway (or Staircase, Stairsteps.)
The last picture of Buffy
When I was 10, we came home from a party one night with a filthy and tick covered puppy who was fearful of tall men. Buffy had her quirks, but we loved her. She was a patient and gentle soul who could be full of energy and playfulness when you wanted her to be.
When I visited my parents in late June this year for my birthday, Buffy was approaching 15. She had a stroke a few months prior but looked to have made a full recovery. Old age had nearly taken Buffy’s hearing and sight, but she happily joined us on a hike along Oak Creek in Sedona which is where I took this picture.
It was earlier this month that Buffy developed a tumor on her throat. I thought I’d have a chance to see her one last time for Thanksgiving but the cancer was aggressively metastasizing. My parents made the difficult decision to put her down before it got any worse, scheduling the appointment for this morning.
My mom said she was peaceful and left this world quietly.
Mt. Elbert
Twin Lakes is a gorgeous slice of Colorado that we camped at this past weekend. After going through Leadville (the highest town in the United States at 10,152 feet!), you continue on Highway 24 alongside the Arkansas River which is a beautiful drive in itself. Mt. Elbert is what overlooks the lakes.
Sedona
Cathedral Rock from "Buddha Beach"
St. Mary's Glacier
The Flatirons
Ever since I visited Boulder for the first time, I fell in love with these unique geologic formations that make up a tiny yet stunning section of the Rockies. In a way, it reminded me of home on Maui. My favorite view of them is to the side, where you can see how they got their name.
Springtime can mean that Colorado's famed sunny days are nowhere to be found. Last night's rain brought low laying clouds to Boulder, gently enveloping the peaks in a serene mist...
Nigel in the Studio
My once minuscule kitten is becoming a lanky little teenage boy cat. His blue eyes have gone green, and chocolate chip of a nose turned pink.
Kelly & John's Wedding
My cousin John married his long time girlfriend, Kelly, at my parent's house in Cornville, Arizona.
Nigel
Meet Nigel, a barn bred tabby kitten that I picked up from some lady on a farm in Arvada.
That day, October 6th 2015, would be a big day for both him and I.
As soon as we put him in the crate to take him home, it hit me that I now had an animal that I'd have in my life until I was quite possibly 40 years old.
He calmly sat in the crate the whole way back, not making a peep even once. I watched his tiny face from behind the wire door quietly observe his surroundings. A small sense of pride came over me; what an easy-going little guy!
Like a baby, he sleeps a lot, and is just the right amount of playful when awake. It's astonishing to see how much he grows week by week.
Snow / Night
The electricity went out in our building when we were having dinner.
The snow glows with faint ambient light from elsewhere.
Toe chilblains aside, I am still captivated by winter.
If you're wondering, yes, that is a baby bottle.
No, we do not have a baby!
At the restaurant Le Refuge des Fondus in Paris, they serve wine in them.
It is my only souvenir from Europe other than some coins.
RMNP / Dream Lake
Summer is for hiking.
Megan / Betasso Preserve
When a lovely girl you meet has pink hair and also is graciously willing to pose nude, you take advantage of it (Thank you Megan!).
I am always impressed by how easy it is to access seemingly remote wilderness in Boulder.
The Blood Moon
A rare lunar eclipse occured in the early hours of April 15th, perfectly visible from Boulder's clear skies.
I took "artistic license", shall we say, to create this composite. In other words, it's not an accurate portrayal of a lunar eclipse phase. The shining orb appeared in the sky from the left and moved to the right, gradually fading away to reveal the highly anticipated "blood moon" in all its ominous glory, then repeated the process until it regained its pearly white innocence.
Self Portrait
They are awkward but necessary for those pesky "about me's" and profile pictures alerting everyone to what you look like at the time.
Phone pictures could technically work just fine, but years from now, I want decent images for my kids to look at one day and I can say, with a sigh, "Hard to believe, but I used to be young, too..."
Denver - Home!
I fell in love with Colorado so much that I had to move here. This is the view outside my window in Denver (I'm very fond of the skyline sliver you see in the distance.)
I've never lived in a city before. It's never quiet in my apartment. I can always near traffic on Washington Street (where that car is headed down) through the single pane window in my bedroom.
I've also never lived anywhere with snow before. When I took this photograph it was 10 degrees outside.
I have quickly learned that you don't brake hard in the snow when driving.
Moab to Boulder
I had the chance to visit my dear friend Molly in the northern Colorado town of Boulder. When we met up in Italy, she told me to visit her when I came back to the States. The quickest route's halfway point (clocking in at 6 hours) was to Moab, Utah, home of Arches National Park. Its most famous structure, the Delicate Arch, is a must-hike to witness in person. Utah is so proud that it's even depicted on their license plates.
I went out with the intention of staying there until night fall, then getting a long exposure of the arch with the night sky and stars.
Yes, be prepared for a lot of people. The hike is easy so it draws a fair crowd.
People began leaving and the kangaroo rats started scurrying about. I'm embarrassed to admit it but I definitely got a little creeped out being all alone in the dark. I didn't wait for the sun to drop down any further; I got my exposure and took off into the night, thinking of all the worst possible things that could happen to me.
I still like what I got, though. Moon shadows are a beautiful thing!
I set out in the morning for another 6 hour drive from the Moab KOA. The sweepingly beautiful and barren desert landscape transitioned to lush pine trees and a view of the Colorado River running right along the highway.
Boulder is nestled at the base of the Rocky Mountain foothills, offering both stunning outdoor accessibly and the metropolitan city of Denver in about a half an hour (without traffic!) It's also home to the University of Colorado at Boulder, where Molly is a student.
Molly and her mountain bike. Boulder has a big cyclist community, which she is now part of. I think I'd get into cycling too if I lived here...
Pamplona
What better Euro-Trip grand finale is there than to experience the Pamplona festivities of San Fermin? I decided on going about a month prior and it was almost impossible to find accommodations. I found a hostel that could take me for 3 days, but unfortunately was a day after it started. I would have loved to photograph the opening celebrations, but ah well. It seems that many other people suffered the same fate; when I arrived at the very tiny train station, it was mass confusion as hoards of tourists began hunting down taxis. Pamplona goes from a population of 200,000 to 1,000,000 for the week of San Fermin. When I made it to the hostel, they offered me a festival outfit package if I didn't already have the proper attire: a white shirt, white pants, red handkerchief, and red sash.
"Oh, I'm pretty much here just to photograph."
"Believe me, you're going to need it. Even the photographers wear the clothes."
Oh, really now. Still not entirely convinced, I went ahead and took the package anyways... Which I'm so glad I did. Maybe about 10% of people were not wearing the outfit and stuck out like sore thumbs. Even though I wasn't partying like the rest of the revelers, I still felt part of the experience, which made it that much better just being there to document. It was amusing seeing the "sexy" variations of the clothes worn by young women, like white booty shorts instead of pants, or red bras underneath sheer white tank tops. I think the one uniting factor for everyone was the red handkerchief tied around the neck. It seemed like the most important aspect of a San Fermin outfit. On the last night there is a solemn midnight ceremony called "Pobre de Mi" where candles are lit and the handkerchiefs are removed.
BULL RUN, DAY I
The daily celebrations begin each morning with the infamous running of the bulls, the encierro, starting at 8 AM. I arose at 5 to make sure I could find my way down to the town square and locate a good spot somewhere along the streets. I barely caught a wink of sleep because of the heat during the night, fiercely missing my air-conditioned hotel room in Madrid. Around the hours of 4 to 9 AM it finally cools off and feels glorious, and was a blessing for watching the bull run.
Well, of course people stay up partying all night long, so the streets are filled with drunken revelers that have already claimed their fence spots. The only other option of viewing the race, which many people find much more favorable, are balconies that overlook the streets. These must be reserved months in advance and cost quite a bit of money.
I met some Ecuadorians who saw my camera and invited me to sit with them on the front fence. It was also their first day. We were unaware that the front fence is reserved for press, police, and medics, so we scrambled to get another spot when were told to get off about 30 minutes prior to the run.
When the group ran by, we jumped off and made our way into the street to see the runners and the bulls inside Plaza de Toros. Don't ask me why the police didn't say anything to us, but apparently the race wasn't quite over. So many people participate nowadays that the run is divided into two sections. We suddenly saw more runners flying by, heard the pound of hooves, and before we knew it, more bulls came barreling down the cobblestone street. It was a very surreal moment as they passed by just feet away.
We continued our way into the Plaza de Toros, where participants are funneled in and run around with a single bull if they so choose. The runners, still intoxicated (most of them anyways), think it's great fun scurrying around and agitating the frightened bull, who is also subjected to the screams of belligerent people by the hundreds. I was pulled into the frenzy by the Ecuadorians at one of the entrances... Quite literally pulled. It was like being at a concert. As I was squeezing by, my pockets were quickly felt up and rooted through. This is why putting your money into shoes, preferably boots, is ideal. I was told that thieves from all over Spain come to Pamplona for the amazing pickpocketing opportunities during San Fermin.
BULL RUN, DAY 2
The second morning, I went out in hopes of finding a spot that was situated closer to the front fence and on a curve so I could get a better view of the action as it came towards me. I found a decent place and quickly claimed it, defending my position until 8 AM finally rolled around and the run began. With my 70-200mm lens, I was able to reach past the people on the front fence, but they still got in the way occasionally. I envied the press who arrived just ten minutes before, taking their spots on the front fence with completely unobstructed views.
All the gorings happened the day I left. There was a 20 year old student from Utah who got a horn through the abdomen and had his spleen removed, a Spanish man who was pierced in the thighs and buttocks, and a 23 year old Australian woman whose chest was perforated and suffered broken ribs and a punctured lung. There's no way I can feel sorry for these people though, because they essentially have 'done it to themselves'. The bulls attack when people fall and try to get back up, or when a bull gets separated from his herd and panics.
Aside from the bull runs and bull fights, people celebrate throughout the streets of Pamplona, all in honor of the city's patron saint San Fermin.
BULL FIGHT
Every evening at 6:30, there is a scheduled bull fight at the Plaza de Toros. The stadium (third largest in the world) is divided into two halves: sol or sombra, sun or shade. Shade is more expensive, understandably, and people serious about the sport of bullfighting sit here. The people who sit in the sun are slowly roasted for two and a half hours, but are too busy dancing to the peñas (social club brass bands) and pouring sangria on each other to watch the bullfight or care about the heat. I waited for 2 hours the following day to purchase my ticket from the official ticketing counters, getting there extra early before they opened to ensure that I'd get a favorable seat the following day. Scalpers lurk everywhere trying to sell off tickets that are more than likely counterfeit, and as a tourist there's no way of gauging authenticity. Ideally, I wanted a shade seat in the first tier of the stadium. After learning that the cost would be around 150 euros (close to 200 dollars), I opted for the middle seats, which drastically brought the price down to 40. When I got to the ring the next day, I found myself seated directly in front of a pillar. The people sitting next to me didn't seem to mind when I invaded their personal space to get around the pillar.
The event starts with a parade around the ring of everyone involved in the bullfight (the cuadrilla) as the peñas begin to play. The toreros remain in the arena as the bull is released. The four toreros work together, teasing and tiring the bull as it charges their fluttering magenta and canary yellow capes, catching the attention of the agitated bull. Usually only one of the toreros holds the title of matador, being the most experienced bullfighter of the group.
Two picadores arrive at the scene, dressed in attire just as intricate as the toreros on blindfolded and armored horses. They hold a spear with a short blade that is plunged into the bull's neck when it notices the horse and attempts to gore it. This is the first stage of the fight; Tercio de Varas. It is remarkable watching the horses as they are literally lifted into the air by the bull and remain impressively calm. The stab weakens the bull's charging force and also drives it into a wounded frenzy.
The picadors exit as the toreros continue to tire the animal, taking turns running at it with banderillas, decorated barbs, that they plunge into its back. This is part 2, Tercio de Banderillas. The bull is a sorry state at this point, with blood sometimes beginning to stream down its back. Its tongue lolls out, breathing frantically.
The matador exchanges his cape for a bright red one, the muleta, and is handed a sword. With controlled poise and ballerina-like grace, he performs the final act, Tercio de Muerte, with the exhausted beast. It is a dance of death both beautiful and saddening, a clash of visual splendor and brutality.
When the matador senses that the time is right, he drives the sword into its back, usually dropping the bull to its knees. He is given a shorter blade which he stabs into the neck, delivering instant death by severing its spine.
If the matador is truly skilled, the first sword plunge will successfully kill the animal. The crowd roars with approval if this is the case and the matador will triumphantly throw his hand up, showing his appreciation of the pleased crowd. The brass bands begin to play music again and onlookers cheer voraciously as three decorated horses are led out. The carcass is attached to the horses and they run out of the arena.
To watch this tremendous animal come bounding into the ring at the full height of its power to 20 minutes later being dragged away bloody and lifeless is quite something. To watch this six times in a row was a little overwhelming, I'll admit it. I knew I'd be a little uncomfortable watching a blood sport but when you're in Rome, do as the Romans do. I came, I saw, I documented. If I was going to experience San Fermin as a whole, the bull fight was just as important as any other element. I realize how significant bull fighting is to Spanish culture, but it's a shame that the animals have to endure such torment.
Madrid
Barcelona was a bust. After the fiasco just getting there, I came down with a cold and did nothing but sleep in my air-conditioned hotel room. I hate when people tell me that Barcelona was their favorite European city of all. I was sick, tired, and a little burnt out after 4 months of non-stop traveling. A few days later and feeling better/not so sorry for myself anymore, I moved onto Madrid, determined to make the best of my last country to visit.
I had positive site seeing experiences by way of the Palacio Real de Madrid (Royal Palace) and the Prado/Reina Sofía art museums. The Royal Palace's interior was stunningly ornate and in immaculate condition. I couldn't take any photographs but snuck some phone ones.
The Prado Museum houses an impressive collection of European art stretching from the 12th to early 19th century. The highlight of the collection is paintings from the Spanish greats like Goya, Velázquez, and El Greco. They even had a few Hieronymus Bosch works including his most famous, The Garden of Earthly Delights. That was a great surprise and worth the entire visit for me.
The Reina Sofía museum, or the Queen Sofia Arts Center, is Madrid's modern art mecca. There was a special Dalí exhibition that displayed a wonderful assortment of his works but the famous melting clocks, The Perception of Memory, was not included (gotta go to New York's MoMA for that.) I was just happy to find my favorite painting of his, Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening, again having to sneak phone pictures of.
Barcelona
No photos, just bitching about losing my wallet which made my journey to Spain a nightmare.
I completed the 10 hour bus ride from Dubrovnik to Split and boarded another overnight train. I was so pleased to finally get a night train with a bed, although it was the top bunk with about 6 inches of space between the mattress and the ceiling.
I woke up to an employee banging on the door. We had arrived in Munich. Still waking up, I went down the stairs to the bathroom, opening up my wallet to pay the 50 cents required to enter. I left the wallet in my hand, dragging all my belongings into the stall. I must not have put my wallet back in my purse. I again dragged all my things out of the stall, forgetting my wallet which I probably put on top of the toilet paper dispenser. I went back up the stairs and to the luggage lockers. I reached in my purse for my wallet to pay… Where was my wallet? I remembered the bathroom. I bolted back down. It must have been about a 5 minute time period. I yelled to the janitor to let me back in so I could get it. This has happened to me before in life, much more when I was younger. I've become far better at not forgetting my belongings by learning the hard way, but shit still happens. It wasn't there. I hoped for the next best situation, that an honest person discovered it and turned in my missing wallet. I was wrong. In the 4 hour waiting period for my train to France, then to Spain, I went back numerous times to lost and found. Nothing. I could only be thankful that my passport and travel documents were still with me, but it still didn't help the situation of having absolutely zero money (okay I had about 20 cents but you can't purchase anything in Europe for under one full euro.)
I felt incredibly vulnerable being alone in a foreign country with no ability to purchase anything, especially not sustenance. There were of course problems with a Western Union money wiring and instead of being able to receive in minutes, it would take 5 hours. I would be on a train at that point, in fact I'd be on a train all the way into the next morning. I would only have to endure not eating for a good 24 hours, which was disappointing, but thought all the millions of people who starve on a day to day basis. I would be fine. I suddenly realized the predicament of paying for a metro ticket in Paris to transfer trains. All I needed was 1.70 euros, but I only had 20 cents. I would have to beg, there was literally no other way. I thought about how utterly embarrassed I would be, how shameful I'd feel… Then I realized that I'd been collecting coins from every country I'd been in so far. Maybe the currency exchange would take my coins! I dashed over to the counter 20 minutes before departure. They said they'd take my pounds which was converted into a little over 2 euros. I was saved! Hungry, but everything would be okay... Until my metro ticket didn't work.
It happened to us a few times in Paris; the machine says your ticket is good but the revolving bars don't turn. That wasn't going to stop me. I shoved my luggage under the bars and hopped over them, and never was yelled at. I didn't have loads of time to make this transfer either, so talking to a security guard just couldn't be on the agenda, nor was buying another ticket in a line that was getting increasingly longer. I finally boarded my night train heading for Spain with two other British girls munching on a wide assortment of snacks in their bunks. I was too proud to ask for some. Too proud!
The next morning I navigated my way to the nearest Western Union. It was a seemingly never-ending walk, but I could see the light at the end of this tunnel... Until I was notified that not all Western Unions in Spain let you receive money. I sat on the street outside with my belongings in the hot, mid-morning Spanish sun and cried. People walked by and stared. What if the next one to receive was miles away? I couldn't pay for a bus or a taxi. With my phone I was able to find out information leading to a currency exchange that would do it just across the street. The information was wrong, but they were able to tell me that any post office in Spain can do it. Why didn't the first Western Union tell me that? The language barrier can be a real problem. A post office was a 10 minute walk away. I waited in line with an American who had lost his debit card and phone the night before (heavy drinking was the culprit.) The woman didn't speak any English but somehow the transaction was made and I came away with a glorious wad of Euros. Unfortunately, this was the wrong country to carry large amounts of cash in but c'est la vie, or should I say "que es la vida"? I went immediately into a cafe and had vegetable paella to break my fast. It sure wasn't top quality seafood paella from a 5 star restaurant but I had never had paella before. It was one of the best meals I've ever had.