Postcard from Dance Hall Rock

This is the second image I’ve show you from my one-day visit to Dance Hall Rock in southeastern Utah. In case you don’t remember, Dance Hall Rock is 39 miles down a very rough, unimproved dirt road called “Hole in the Rock Road.” It lies east of Escalante. If you don’t know where that is, it is about 60 miles east of Bryce Canyon National Park, along Highway 12.

In my first blog about this big rock, I told you how the holes in the sandstone rock are created and how, over time, the wind blows dirt down into the hole, allowing plant life to eventually get started. The first image I showed you was of a hole only a few feet deep. Obviously, this one is much, much deeper. It is deep enough that if I fell in, it is doubtful I would survive. And this tree is very, very tall.

I had to work my way around it to get the right location for the best shot. Trust me…I was very careful negotiating around this deep hole. Although you can’t see it, the hole is quite wide and there is a garden of desert plants all along the bottom. It is quite something to see. To find these holes one must walk all around the top of Dance Hall Rock. They are not really obvious to the eye until you get near one. There are no trails or signposts…and even getting up on top of the rock itself requires a bit of scouting, then climbing. Not easy to do at my age. 

Finding and photographing this tree has been on my bucket list for a number of years, ever since I saw a photograph of it in a book on southern Utah. Finding its exact location was also a bit of a challenge. It took some careful scanning of Google Earth before I found its exact location. I only wish I could have arrived there earlier when the sun was higher in the sky. This was late afternoon and the deep shadows down in the hole were in large contrast to the sunlit top. It took all of my Lightroom and Photoshop skills to make the shadows a bit brighter.

I managed to wander around the top of Dance Hall Rock for a little while longer, looking for more holes. But soon I had to head down and get off the rock as the sun was starting to set behind some nearby hills. It was pitch black when we finally got back to Highway 12. I was tired, and relieved to get off that damned dirt road and back on to a paved highway…but I got the shot!! 

Postcard from Val d'Aosta

In the very upper northwest corner of Italy lies the beautiful Val d'Aosta, or in English: the Aosta Valley. It is a magnificent valley, surrounded on three sides by the Alps. There are two main roads that begin in the city of Aosta. The road west climbs slowly through small towns such as Pre-Saint Didler, Aumavilles, Introd…finally ending in the well-known Italian ski resort town of Courmayeur. 

Did you notice that the towns I mentioned all have French names? Why? Because it was first populated by the French as early as medieval times. It has a long and checkered political history too detailed to go into here. Remember, Italy did not become a nation until 1861. French was the official language for many years. It was Mussolini who forced the Italian language on to the residents. Many of the people who lived here back then chose to migrate to France and Switzerland. Today, both French and Italian are spoken here and most residents know both.

Back to the highway west. I mentioned the resort town of Courmayeur. That is where the Aosta Valley ends…at the foot of Mount Blanc. But wait, the road does not end there. There is a 7.2 mile tunnel through the mountain. When you emerge at the other end, you are in France.

The other road I mentioned runs north out of Aosta. Take it for a few miles and you enter Switzerland. Technically that road does not go through the Aosta Valley, so I won’t elaborate on it.

One of the most interesting facts about the valley is it contains around 100 genuine castles and 50 smaller fortified homes, all built ages ago when such things were in style. The castle above is Saint-Pierre Castle (notice another French name). It was built in the 12th century. Occupied for most of its life by French noble families, it was restored back in the 19th century by an Italian nobleman. He eventually gave it to the city of Saint-Pierre.

I took the original photo on slide film, then converted it to digital. I then sketched the image using digital pastel chalk to render what you see here. The mountain in the background is Mount Blanc.  I spent two days roaming the Val d’Aosta, taking photos and just enjoying the incredible scenery. If you are ever in northern Italy, be sure and make the trip. It is only about 1.5 hours north of Torino and is an easy drive. Bring your best camera!!

PS…Mount Blanc is not the tallest peak in the Italian Alps. That honor belongs to the Matterhorn. I bet you thought that mountain was in Switzerland. On a clear day, the Matterhorn is visible all the way from Torino.

Postcard from Italy

 

Italy in One Day

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
served within a cup for you to savor,
I’d begin in sunny Sorrento
south of Naples,
the morning air perfumed by lemon trees
whose fruit is distilled into the liqueur
that the locals pride themselves in making;
you hold a small espresso cup between index finger and thumb
and wrinkle your nose at the bitter flavor
of a first tentative sip
between nibbles of cheese and bread and fruit
in a tiny cafe that overlooks the Mediterranean
and the hazy outline of the island of Capri in the distance.

 
If I could feed you Italy in one day,
pressed between the slices of a fresh panini,
I’d take you to the Tuscan hills
far from the beaten paths of tourists
north of Siena,
the afternoon as fresh as laundry
drying on the lattice of clothesline
of the apartment across the piazza;
women’s voices dart like birds overhead,
flying in and out of open windows
as we share bites of our sandwich,
thick with tomato, cheese, and basil—
simple ingredients that yield a complexity
of tastes washed down with swallows of cold beer
under an ice blue sky.

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
prepared al forno like a primo piatto of lasagna or gnocchi,
I’d take you to an obscure osteria just outside the Duomo
in central Florence,
where the waiters sing you to your table
with operatic theatricality
and the vino della casa is the rich ruby colors
of the evening as it settles on the city,
soft as a silk scarf slipping through your fingers;
we feel the heat of the kitchen
press against the cool of coming night,
our noses florid with the spices of our meals
as we feed each other forkfuls from our plates;
the streets are alive with the commotion of traffic
and the banter of voices bouncing like balls
down the cobblestones of the Via.

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
poured like dark grappa in a delicate tulip glass,
I’d end at a taverna in a remote campo
in the heart of Venice,
where the tables are draped in checkered linen
under quiet awnings far from
the chaos of the Grande Canal;
the sweetness of the day lingers
in the echolalia of lapping water
and the sounds of gondoliers at work;
we indulge ourselves in the ablutions
of vin santo, biscotti dipped in sweet wine,
in limoncello or amaro sipped
from chilled glasses,
in espresso black
as the Venetian sky at night.

If I could feed you Italy in one day,
would we ever feel the need to eat again?

Poem by Mike Orlock

Digital Painting by J.R. Corkrum - “Portal of San Rocco”