We'd discussed a long weekend in New Mexico as both preamble to traveling the world together and an opportunity to work on Brian's photography. He'd hoped to turn professional someday; I never had the heart to tell him that spending thousands on a DSLR system would not compensate for his lack of talent. I couldn't tell him because emotions trumped logic...and I would have done anything to protect his feelings.

Months after he abandoned me, New Mexico—and its magical photogenic light—still burned bright in my mind. The last thing I needed was to haul my still-broken heart on my next overseas trip. I hoped a change of scenery would thrust the pain aside...since nothing else had worked.

I'd wanted to photograph the red rocks of Jemez Pueblo by sunrise, but waking alone in the pitch black proved difficult. I settled for watching the sun cast its purple morning glow over a beautiful adobe church in San Ysidro. I desperately wished Brian were here to share it...and hated myself for the traitorous thought.

Although I would likely never take my tripod traveling—especially since I'd bought it more for its vintagey cuteness rather than ease of use—I studiously set it up, trying to take my photo vacation seriously. I even got out my notebook and wrote: "Fuji Velvia. 6:30AM. 24mm. Frame 1." A pickup truck pulled up behind me.

"Can you send me a picture?"
Excuse me?
"I live right next door, but I don't have a fancy camera like that...could you send me a copy?"

Puzzled, I looked down at my 25-year-old OM-2N perched on the junky, sticky-legged, brass German tripod and thought...fancy? But I promised the hopeful man he'd get his photo.

Back on the road, I got confused and wasted a bit of the morning light; turning off the main trail, I ended up driving through the narrow dirt lanes of a little residential bit of Jemez Pueblo. No one seemed to question this behavior at 7AM, and in fact most of the Indians waved and offered solemn smiles. Walatowa Visitors Center turned out to be so large I was embarrassed that I hadn't realized it would be more obvious.

Guidebook writers love their clichés. In Syria, every souk was "labyrinthine." In New Mexico, all red landscapes are "lurid." As silly as this seems, when I arrived at the pueblo's visitors center about an hour out of Albuquerque, I couldn't really think of a better word to describe the glowing rock surrounding the area. Outsiders aren't really allowed into the pueblo itself, but this is the most photogenic spot anyway.

I stopped in the visitors center, where I picked up some brochures and chatted with the friendly staffers, who warned me a flash flood hit Bandelier recently. After polishing off the best breakfast burrito ever from the truck parked at the center, I made my way slowly along the trail, pulling off at various picnic spots to take photos. I was practically the only car on the road. Well into mid-morning the landscape radiated beautifully, when in New York harsh sun and high humidity would have been firmly in place. I knew Brian would have loved it.

As the sun grew brighter I switched to digital infrareds; the technique was great fun for a trip like this, when I didn't really have a place to chill out during the blazing midday sun but didn't want to waste photographic opportunities along the road. With my little Canon A630, an R72 filter, and patient long exposures, I could turn the already-gorgeous landscape into something dreamy, off-colored, evocative.

Digital infrared from the Jemez Mountain Trail

I consoled myself that Brian never grasped the concept of light, which produced his countless dreadful photos. He would have continued snapping away at noon, never understanding why his results always looked flat and boring. Perhaps worse, he genuinely didn't see it that way because he lacked a critical eye.

It didn't comfort me much. But I loved my infrareds.

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