Not Alone

The ground – uneven, sloping, then dropping, just enough to make each step uncertain. I’d been following what looked like a trail for a while, but by the time I reached the curve, it had faded into sand and stone. There was no sound—not even insects. Just the occasional shift of heat rising off the rock and the steady pulse in my ears from the climb.

At some point, I had to stop and shed the weight. The pack wouldn’t fit through the narrow cut ahead, and I didn’t want to risk catching it on the rock. I marked the spot in my mind—stone to the left shaped like a boot heel, juniper root curling over the right—and left everything but a single body and lens. No filter. No shutter release. Just what I could carry in one hand. I’d been walking for hours, or maybe it had only been one. Out here, time softens just like the edges of the light.

I almost missed it. The tree sat low, pulled in tight to the sandstone as if trying not to be noticed. No dramatic pose, no perfect symmetry—just a solid form against the wall, green pressed against rust-red. I didn’t walk any closer. There wasn’t a need. Everything I’d come for was already in front of me, even if I didn’t know what I was looking for until I stopped.

I stayed longer than I expected. The sun was still high, but the light felt filtered, like it had tired out before it reached the canyon floor. I didn’t feel awe or wonder. I just felt still. And in that stillness, the photo became less about what was growing—and more about what waited in the quiet around it.