Both sides now

Patriarch Alfonzo Abeyta during February shearing. It's a communal affair with neighbors from Mogote and Antonito pitching in. The shearers are mostly Amish from nearby Manassa and Bob Barr, who runs the crew, is Mormon. When the job is finished  his son Andrew Abeyta and his wife host a late lunch for forty of their closest friends. Alfonzo says that "We're clannish. We can talk about each other but you can't."

Alfonzo Abeyta says that he didn’t speak English until he began school in 1943. He went to high school in Manassa and was raised as Mormon but that ended when he made a date with a Mormon girl from school. “She liked me and I liked her. I offered to pick her up at her house but she said that wouldn’t work so she snuck out her bedroom window and met me. When her dad and brother found out they came after me and beat me so bad that I couldn’t eat anything but soup for weeks. After that I never went back to the Mormon church and converted to Catholic.”

Sheep Chute.

All hands on deck.

An experienced shearer can shear a sheep in two minutes.

Shorn.

And released.

His father Amos Abeyta could only afford to send one of his children to college. That college was even an option and that his daughter, the oldest, was chosen speaks volumes about the kind of man Amos was. Because Alfonzo couldn’t afford to go he joined the Marine Corps.

When he was discharged in 1961 he tried to buy more land to add to Amos’s 70 acres. But when he went to the bank in La Jara to apply for a loan he was told, “Your people are meant to work the land not own the land.” He says he was “so angry that he couldn’t speak” and that he and his wife Martha left the valley and moved to Denver. There he went to work for Martin Marietta where he became the first Hispano who wasn’t a janitor. Throughout his stint there and later with the telephone company in Pueblo, a total of more than forty years, he bought small parcels of land which he and his three sons worked every weekend. It’s a pattern common to rural Hispanos who must work full time to support the ranches and farms that are the cornerstone of the life they cherish. Today they own 700 acres.

Discriminatory lending practices were not limited to Conejos County or the San Luis Valley. In the landmark 2000 “Garcia vs. Vilsack” case brought by Hispano farmers throughout the country it was proven beyond doubt that those practices denied the Hispanos equal opportunity. And while they plaintiffs were denied class action status in 2006 because “commonality” in the discrimination wasn’t proven, two levels of compensation were mandated, $50,000 and $250,000. The Abeytas, who were party to the suit, received the $250,000 when it was demonstrated to the court’s satisfaction that the value of their lost opportunity was more than $2,000,000.

Racial and class discrimination is even reflected on the playing field where Anglo superiority is expected and unsportsmanlike conduct is unevenly penalized. Alfonzo's son Aaron Abeyta, a writer, poet and educator, tells the story of a particularly spirited football game between Mexican Antonito and Anglo Sanford where a Sanford player knocked down an Antonito player from behind and called him “a stinking Mexican.” The Antonito player was ejected from the game.

The Anglos go the better Conejos Schools in La Jara. The Mexicans, that's the operative term in the Valley, go to Antonito. Aaron resents it with every fiber of his being and was so disappointed at the education Antonito children were getting that he founded an alternative K-12 school with his wife Michele Trujillo, PhD.

The Great Migration

In April the sheep are herded back to the mountains where they will graze till fall. Here they are heading to a communal corral below Mount San Antonio in the distance.

Cuba and the timeless cycle of shearing, lambing, tending, breeding and selling sheep is the story of the rural Hispano culture of land, water, family and faith that permeates the valleys and villages of northern New Mexico and southern Colorado. They have lived a life from the land for more than two hundred years. Once upon a time a million and a half sheep grazed the grasslands of the Taos Plateau, the San Luis Valley and Rio Arriba County from Española to Chama. The roots of this deeply communal life pierce deep into the rocky soil of villages in the San Luis Valley like Antonito, Conote, Conejos and Mogote. It began with the great migration of Hispanic families from northern New Mexico in the years following the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. In 1848 Mexico ceded Nuevo Mexico to the United States. In the fifty years that followed most of the land owned by rural Hispanics in New Mexico was stolen when Spanish and Mexican land grants were not protected by the United States government as it had promised in the treaty. Deep-pocketed Anglo interests conspired to separate the Mexicans from their land. Speculators, lawyers and the courts collaborated to fleece the cash poor Spanish speakers. And they were easy pickings. First the communal land (ejido) was stolen and the private property left over was bought for as little as $1.00 for an entire homestead. For more please read Willian Debuys' River of Traps.

Patriarch Alfonzo Abeyta during birthing in March. It's a 24 hour a day effort with little sleep. Most ewes birth two or more lambs which are standing and nursing within five minutes.

A  24 hour day is written on Andrew Abeyta's weary face. If the ewe refuses to nurse Andrew and his sun Amos fill in. There's nothing sweeter.

Andrew and Amos with two newborns. Amos will to follow in his father's footsteps as Andrew followed Alfonso. 

Alfonzo Abeyta says that the Abeytas came to the San Luis Valley from Rio Arriba County during the historic migration of the 1850s. They came from near Española, most likely from the village of Chamita.  They first settled near Manassa in the 1850s. By the early 20^th century Serafín Abeyta, grandfather to Alfonzo, was living with his wife Luisa and three young children in Sanford. Then he abandoned his family and Serafín became the name not spoken. He may not have been a good man but he was a tough one. Reputedly he fought the Manassa Mauler himself, Jack Dempsey, to draw in warehouse after a day bucking 100 pound sacks of potatoes. They say the bout went 49 rounds before both men asked for a draw. Later Luisa Abeyta remarried Joe Garcia, the man Alfonzo considers his real grandfather.

“My great grandfather took in the Mormon settlers who came to Manassa in 1878. He built them a barn, gave them shelter through the winter and sold them land to grow crops. But they never wanted their daughters to marry our sons.” Alfonzo told me. It’s true that local Mexicans, that’s the term Alfonzo uses, gave aid to the Mormons and that a wealthy Mexican farmer sold them 1,200 acres on which they built Manassa. The Mormons were directed in their pursuits by Brigham Young from Salt Lake City and by his personally appointed emissaries called “elders”. Following the model employed with great success in Utah, the Mormons built the town on one side of the Conejos and divided the land on the other side of the river into 10 acre parcels, one for each family to farm. That was part of the well proven formula, to reside in the town and to irrigate and farm the bulk of their holdings. By 1880 they had arranged to buy an addition 2,000 acres from the State of Colorado and almost instantly the organized and prosperous Mormons had controlled Conejos county. To this day they dominate banking and government and treat the Hispanos as an underclass.

San Antonio Mountain to Antonito

Cuba and his Mauser España.

The day after Christmas in 2014 while on a driving tour with my family I turned once again onto TP 120, not even thinking about Cuba. But no sooner than we had passed between the Pinabetoso Peaks, Victor came walking toward us from his trailer. When he saw it was me, he rushed to his trailer and came out brandishing a polished lever action rifle. Then he posed for a photograph. While I photographed him he told me about his prized rifle. He described how it had been used by Pancho Villa or at least by his Villistas. I looked more closely at the glistening weapon and saw that the words “Mauser Español 1893” were etched in the metal by the bolt. The España 1893 model was, indeed, manufactured in Germany at the turn of the 20th century and was the preeminent bolt action rifle in the world leading up to The Great War. So, theoretically, the rifle could have been used by Villa, perhaps in the Villistas’ 1916 attack on Columbus, New Mexico.                           

Andrew Abeyta and Cuba.

Cuba and the herd in blowing snow. The Abeytas say herd not flock.

The Great Pyrenees on guard. At 140 pounds the dogs can seem as large as the sheep. They are placid yet fearless.

During our visit Cuba told me that he would be taking the sheep back to the Abeyta ranch in Mogote, Colorado on January 29 and 30.  He said that I could join him if I was interested. I was more than interested so I called Alfonzo the moment I got back to Taos that afternoon. He said that he remembered me but that If I wanted to photograph the sheep being herded back to the ranch, I’d have to call should his son Andrew, the real boss of the operation. He gave me his number and I called Andrew immediately to ask if I could join the them. He replied that, “I don’t see why not. Be there at 8am on Thursday.”

When Victor Hernandez stepped out if his campo on the morning of January 29, 2015 he would be trailing his sheep back to Mogote for the last time or so he said. For forty years Cuba had tended the Abeyta’s flock at the ranch in Mogote, on the llano of the Taos Plateau and in the mountains of the Cruces Basin beyond San Antonio Mountain. And at 76 he had told the Abeytas that this would be his last year tending their sheep before retiring to his own little spread on the Conejos River.

According to 77-year-old Alfonzo Abeyta, Cuba was hired by his father, Amos, in 1978. Cuba says 1975 and others say 1972. Amos’s dying wish was that Alfonzo would promise to care for Cuba when he couldn’t continue herding the sheep. On this raw January morning that eventuality seemed certain. But fate had another plan for Cuba.

The thin crust of ice crunched under our feet and our boots sank in six inches of mud as we started north to Colorado. San Antonio Mountain stretched its sloping form south to north on our left. We took a diagonal course toward US 285 as spitting snow stung our faces. The sheep, carefully tended by two Australian Sheep Dogs and two Great Pyrenees, spread across the llano west to east. The forms of the sheep and of Cuba, staff across his shoulders, were a dance troupe on a stage of prairie, mountains and sky.

The pace seemed leisurely yet I couldn’t get ahead to shoot the herd coming toward me. With time taken to stop, compose and focus I found myself playing catch-up the whole day. About half way to the Colorado border we came to a culvert. The sheep bunched up there, unwilling to cross the iced over stream that flowed through it. After half an hour of yelling and dogs nipping, Cuba and Andrew Abeyta gave up and we made our way north to the state line on the east side of 285.

The llano was strewn with black lava rock and specked with tufts of white sage. Low hills came into focus and Blanca Peak rose before us. Receding layers of prairie and low hills revealed the enormity of the broad San Luis Valley, the largest Alpine valley in the world.

I hitched a ride with Andrew so I could get ahead of the flock. Trailer in tow, he drove me to the Colorado border where Cuba would spend the night. From there I walked back south to meet the sheep coming toward me.

At 2pm Cuba arrived at his campsite for the night. The talkative herder was unusually quiet and distant. I was worried that I had offended him in some way. When I asked how things were going he replied, “Estoy cansado. Necesito dormir ahora.” I’m tired. I need to sleep now. I said, “Adios. Hasta mañana” and headed back to Taos, shins barking.

The Last Shepherd : The Taos Plateau to the San Luis Valley

Victor's campo, the Taos Plateau.

Driving north on US 285 toward the Colorado border I saw dozens of indistinct forms near the eastern horizon. To take a closer look I turned east on TP 120 toward a cleft between two low, rocky hills called Pinabetoso Peaks. I continued straight ahead as TP 120 bent south. Just as I passed the hills a figure with two Australian sheepdogs walked toward me. He greeted me in Spanish. “Me llamo Victor Hernandez.” I responded in kind, “Me llamo Esteban. Soy un fotógrafo.” I'm Steve. I'm a photographer. Behind him a flock of Rambouillet sheep grazed on the white sage strewn across the llano.

Victor with Daddy and Puppy, the Taos Plateau.

Victor told me that he had fled Castro’s Cuba in 1965 and had been herding sheep for his patron since 1975. Victor described commandeering a speedboat with a big “pistola” and sailing to Florida.” When I asked why he left the island he replied simply “Gobierno malo.” Bad government. I asked where he lived in Cuba, and he told me that he was from Villa Clara about 25 miles from Havana. Villa Clara is, in fact, a province that lies 180 miles east of the Capitol. Victor could neither read, write or count. So, where he once lived, how long he’d herded sheep in the San Luis Valley and how many sheep were in his charge were guesses. Besides Victor never let the facts get in the way of a good story. When I asked him how many sheep he was herding that January day he told me 600. The actual number was 325.

East of San Antonio Mountain.

White Sage and Borregos, San Luis Valley, Colorado.

As I spoke with Victor the skittish sheep spread out on the cerro (hillside), chomping on sage and eating snow to quench their thirst. I photographed him on the flats near his metal trailer that he called his “campo.” Then I walked up to the herd on the hill for some shots. When I came back down a pick-up truck laden with firewood and groceries arrived. A sturdy gentleman in his seventies eyed me suspiciously and asked, “What are you doing here?” I told him that I was a photographer from Taos and was fascinated by the scene of Victor and the sheep on the plateau. “I’m Steve.” He said his name was Alfonzo Abeyta that he was the patron of the outfit. He referred to Victor as “Cuba” or the “Cubano.”

I sent a letter to Alfonzo, one that I hoped would open a dialog. I even included matted photographs of Alfonzo and of Cuba in the package. But I heard nothing and set the project aside. Then three years to the day later another chance encounter launched me full tilt into my years with Victor, the Abeyta family and their sheep.

Their story will continue next week.

A Thousand Mondays

Cuba and his Mauser España. Taos Plateau, New Mexico.

This is my 1,000^th post. I'm more amazed than you are. I’ve been building up to this milestone for weeks and the prospect of writing this post has highjacked my remaining brain cells since April. That's when I realized I was on the brink of this monument to tenacity and habit. I’ve looked back at the arc of my blog since its baby steps in 2006. In those fledgling days I offered a single photograph and a few lines of text. It wasn’t until 2009 that I posted every week, and the posts became longer and more story driven. Certainly, the blog has been photocentric, but it morphed into stories beyond the where, when and why I photographed the subject. There have been stories about friends and strangers living and dead, stories about places left behind, a heavy pour of memoir, even fiction. When I revisit my posts, I see an arc of growth and the occasional jewel. It beckons me to continue to grow in late middle age.

Writing became as important as photography somewhere along the way. Many of you have underscored that belief. Thank you for that. And thank you for enjoying my Monday morning story with your coffee through the years. Many of you have been on my journey of discovery since its start in 2006. I treasure your support and fellowship.

In this commemorative tome I want to offer a taste of 1,000 posts, 5000 pages in a single post. But, as I type these words, I’m not sure how. Do I post a Best of or try to display the gamut of my efforts? As I often do, I’ll let the words take me where I should go.

Let’s try one and see what happens.

The Last Shepherd

Winter Dance, San Luis Valley, Colorado.

Arguably The Last Shepherd is the most important story I’ve told. It’s the fruit of six years following Victor “Cuba” Hernandez as he herded the Abeyta’s flock of sheep from their ranch in Mogote, Colorado to the Taos Plateau and the Cruces Basin of New Mexico and back again. It’s a story of an illiterate herder who escaped Castro’s Cuba and herded Los Abeyta’s sheep for thirty years. All those years Cuba tended the sheep alone in his metal trailer, he called it his campo, in the mountains and high desert for seven months a year, his only human contact being his patron Andrew Abeyta’s delivery of food, water and supplies. More broadly, it’s the timeless story of rural Hispanic life of Family, Faith and the Land, a story little changed in a hundred years.

The Edge of What's Left

I have a fascination for places left behind. The desert west is strewn with the desiccated reminders of man’s failed attempts to tame a savage land, a land with too much sun, not enough water and a barren garden of dashed dreams.

Presbyterian Church, Taiban, New Mexico.

Taiban, New Mexico is such a place. Driving across New Mexico’s barren plains and 20 miles east of Billy the Kid’s grave stands a proud church built in 1908 for $250, the last vestige of a short-lived railroad boomtown that beckoned settlers when the Atchison Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad built a station, appealed to dreamers and lasted 30 years. The town, Taiban, grew to 400 souls, the railroad left town and only a brace of saloons, brothels and cock fights survived. The shell of the handsome clapboard church beneath an epic sky closed in 1937 and Taiban will forever be known as the bootleg capitol of eastern New Mexico and West Texas.

Jackrabbit Homestead, Wonder Valley, California.

Meanwhile in the wake of World War Two the federal government began homesteading the parched Morongo Valley of the Mojave Desert. Its target audience was newly discharged soldiers, sailors and marines who were awarded five acres of sand at no cost as long as they developed the property within three years. Kit homes were sold by Sears and Roebuck for $650 and a short lived race was on. Most of the so-called Jackrabbit Homesteads returned to the earth but of lately a plague of carpetbaggers remodel the tiny houses and market them as luxury rentals.

Under a Big Sky

Driving west on I-70 from Denver I saw a rocky escarpment on my right as I passed the Palisade, Colorado exit. I was captivated by the striated cliff face and the commanding sky. I got off at the next exit, made a U-turn on surface roads, found the high point of land across from the Book Cliffs to get this shot. Later, I learned that the cliffs run for 250 miles from just east of Grand Junction to Moab, Utah and it's the largest continuous escarpment in the world.

Book Cliffs, Grand Junction, Colorado.

White Mesa, Teec Nos Pos, Arizona.

Where US 64 ends in Teec Nos Pos, Arizona, the road bends southwest toward Kayenta and becomes the Navajo Highway. Almost immediately I saw a glowing mesa with walking rain to its left as I photographed the majesty. It stopped me in my tracks as an epic sky and layers of dark to light marched across the horizon.

Monumental Heads

Alain Comeau, North Conway, New Hampshire.

Mizahn, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The series Monumental Heads began in New Hampshire. I purloined Weston’s name for the portraits, really headshots, that he made in 1920s Mexico City. His coterie of players included Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Leo Trotsky and his lover of the moment Tina Modotti, the actor, model and a noted photographer in her own right. Weston believed that a featureless sky was the world’s finest light source. As early as 2002 I emulated the master with my willing models, John Snyder and Alain Comeau at Schartner’s Farm in North Conway. That handsome afternoon launched a series that continues to this day.

Found Art

Butternut Squash, East Conway, New Hampshire.

Not long after Monumental Heads began, I started seeking something special in the ordinary. Fittingly, my artist statement says that “I hope to reveal the beauty of the subject no matter how ordinary or simple.” The first test of that objective happened as we were driving back to North Conway from the Fryeburg Fair in Maine. It was drizzling when we stopped at an open air farmstand selling all manner of squash. Because of the murky sky and moisture laden air, the squash glistened as if they were polished and the dim light touched the surface of the squad but fell off to shadow within six inches. It was magical and I consider Butternut Squash among my best.

Silk Roses, Bethlehem, New Hampshire.

Driving west on US 302 to Putney, Vermont with writer and photographer John Snyder we stopped in Bethlehem, New Hampshire to photograph clapboard buildings on our right. In the rear window of an early 19^th century dwelling were barely lit silk roses on the windowsill. Like the squash the surface of the fabric flowers was touched by the sun before fading into the darkness.

Too Many goodbyes

Juma Archuletta, The Good Cutter.

Right of high school in Las Animas, Colorado Juma Archuletta escaped to Denver to become a barber. Knowing the erudite, art collecting bon vivant as he approached 70 that goal seemed like a modest calling. He told me that to be Hispano from the wrong side of the tracks in Las Animas was not his dream. So, he went to barber school, was hired by the owner of the most popular shop on Capitol Hill and before he turned 21 owned his own shop for 30 years. Then he moved to Taos where he owned a shop for 25 years. He told me, “I was really lucky that I learned from a Good Cutter. In his obituary I wrote about his barbering, being the unofficial mayor of Taos, and his fictional alter ego Raul, the disappeared barber. The Raul ruse concocted by Juma and local wag Bill Whaley was so convincing it was covered in the NY Times and the Washington Post. Juma didn’t live to celebrate 50 years as a “good cutter” which was his goal. At the end he was cutting hair in his garage two days a week for pocket money and manly banter.

Encounters of the First Kind

Ken Tingley, Arroyo Hondo, New Mexico

I was photographing the roaring Rio Hondo when a skinny gent in a too large tied dyed tee shirt yelled “Hey, take my picture. I’m getting married today.” It was an impertinent request, but he was a real character and I went with the flow. I photographed him by the overlook then followed him back to his 1970s trailer. All the while he was telling me his life story which was, shall we say, marinated. When we got to his trailer he stepped into the cabin, poured himself two inches of bourbon and lit a smoke. He pointed at a shrine on the table. He pointed at a photograph of a man in twenties. “That’s my son. He died 15 years ago. See the tee shirt he’s wearing? I’m wearing it right now.”

A little street music

Campesino, Mercado Central, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

Pet Chicken, Philmont Scout Ranch, Cimarron, New Mexico.

Candid photographs, especially when the subject is unaware or if I’m caught in the act, are a vicarious thrill with just a hint of risk. Other times the victim will nod that they’re game and they’ll run through their poses like pros. The boyish frontiersman from Rolla, Missouri did just that. It was not his first round up.

The Fog Series

Silent Running, Putney, Vermont.

Canopy, Point Reyes National Seashore, West Marin, California.

Occluded Sun, Petaluma-Point Reyes Road, West Marin, California.

Fog may be my favorite condition for photography. The mystery and heavy silence envelop me. My earliest shot of a barn just inland from Mendocino was more than 50 years ago and evokes a feeling for the California Coast that I’m still chasing. It was 40 years before another image joined it and less than a year ago when another became a member. Silent Running dates to 2006, Canopy 2014 and Occluded Sun 2024.

Sketches of Winter

Lines of Defence, Valles Caldera, New Mexico.

s

Duet, Brazos Pass, New Mexico.

Inky Shadows, Brazos Pass, New Mexico.

The polar opposite of the rich, thick and quiet Fog Series is Sketches of Winter, a portfolio that grew from an incidental photograph of weeds piercing fresh snow. I was photographing a lay chapel called a morada when I observed the impudent weeds and took a single picture. It was an afterthought at best. But when I processed the file, I saw that there was something special about it and there was a theme to be plumbed. Shortly in the winter of 2009 I was in the field building on the idea. By 2010 I’d had two one person shows of the work and recently as 2024 another in Taos at Wilder Nightingale Fine Art. In 2024 the portfolio was as fresh as it had been 15 years before. And like the first show at the gallery, viewers deemed the minimalist images to be more like pen and ink drawings than photographs. As in 2009 I took that as a compliment. The work was its own category. And all the sales were to visual artists, mostly painters.

All of these themes and subjects enjoyed at least one full blog post of their own and most many more than that. The Last Shepherd had three exhibitions and an article in High Country News. If any of my work warrants a museum show or a book The Last Shepherd is it.

I think this was a worthy effort to show the breadth and style of my efforts since 2006. For those of you have joined me on my journey these many years I hope you've enjoyed the look back. If you are new to my blog I hope your interest is piqued and you'll join me for more adventures with images and stories. 

There's a handy Subscribe link on the right side of the first page of each post and a convenient blue Post to Blog link at the bottom. Please use both. I thank you very much for both.

 

Test Pattern

This is a test. My efforts to use the so-called Short email announcing Monday’s post have been lackluster. The Short email cannot include an image and includes the erstwhile image’s title in the snippet of text. It’s not pretty.

Today I’m trying a workaround that may solve part of the problem.

Thanks for listening.

Sangre de Cristo Chapel, Cuartalez, New Mexico.

What's your story?

Luis Ocejo in Llano San Juan.

I’ve seen that when you first meet a kindred spirit, they’ll share the most important things in their life in the first five minutes. Standing In front of the Catholic Church in Llano San Juan, New Mexico Luis Ocejo blurted, “You don’t mess with a Viet Nam veteran.  We’re tough.”

Rudy Mauldin, Cline's Corner, New Mexico.

Rudy Mauldin, who managed a cattle ranch on US 285 near Cline’s Corner told me he’d been a cowboy his entire life. He’d cowboyed in New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Texas. So had his father. He’d gone to high school on the Pojoaque Pueblo and had been beaten up so many times he couldn’t count that high. The experience gave him ulcers. The highlight of his working life, he told me, was being an undercover agent for the Bureau of Land Management in Utah. He was part of a team that caught a Mormon rancher looting Native American artifacts on Federal land. It was the first conviction of its kind using DNA evidence.

Clarence Vigil. Cundiyo, New Mexico.

Right off the bat Clarence Vigil told me that he was a Jehovah’s Witness. “We’re very strict but it’s worked for me. You know I built Mother Ship in Brooklyn.” Then he said he hadn’t wanted to fight in Viet Nam. Instead, he served two years in a Federal Penitentiary near Safford, Arizona. He became a wildland firefighter there, a common assignment for inmates even now. “It wasn’t that bad” he said. “Then I became a carpenter and a contractor. My wife and I have been everywhere even China. We’ve had a good life”

“I can tell you’re a good guy. You want a dozen eggs? These are so fresh they’ll last three months.” Then he pitched me on joining his church. I told him that  “I’m not a believer, Clarence.” He smiled, “We all have doubts.”

Ken Tingsley, Arroyo Hondo, New Mexico.

As I was photographing the roaring Rio Hondo, a scruffy gent yelled, “Take my picture. I’m getting married today.” I took several shots at the overlook and followed Ken Tingsley back to his 1970s trailer. He stepped into the cabin, poured himself two inches of bourbon, lit a cigarette and pointed at a shrine with a picture of a young man in a tied died tee shirt. “That’s my son. He died 20 years ago. I miss him so much. I’m wearing his tee shirt right now.”

Amy French, Mary Coulter's Watchtower, Grand Canyon.

The first words out of Amy French’s mouth as I photographed her behind Mary Colter’s Desert View Watchtower at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon was, “I’m a breast cancer survivor. I’ve just finished treatment.” She and her partner Dave who had been campground hosts throughout the west before she became the manager of the Watchtower. She gave me the world’s best tour of iconic tower and its sweeping view. We shared stories of endurance sports. She and Dave were competitive distance runners. She told me, “My sweet spot is the moderate distances like 40-50 miles.” I shared that I had been a triathlete in the mid-80s. “That may have been the best time in my life, to be so fit in your mid-forties and at the peak of your powers, mentally and physically. I miss that feeling.”

John Bustos, Heart Mountain Internment Camp.

John Bustos was an impressive man. Only 5’8” Master Sargent Bustos carried 210 pounds and was all chest and neck. Bustos who had served in Viet Nam was commanding the honor guard at the Heart Mountain Reunion in Powell, Wyoming. Heart Mountain is a monument to the infamous Japanese American Internment camp in Powell. He led the honor guard through their salutes. When the volleys were finished, he whispered, “You know we always keep an extra round in the chamber. Mine’s for Obama.”