December 13, 2013
Seasons Greetings and Glen Canyon Dam. Nov. 2013. 
Photo by Jonathan P Thompson/gin+gelato

Seasons Greetings and Glen Canyon Dam. Nov. 2013. 

Photo by Jonathan P Thompson/gin+gelato

December 13, 2013
Navajo Mountain, Navajo Generating Station, Truck. Page, Arizona, Nov. 2013. 
Photo by Jonathan P Thompson/gin+gelato

Navajo Mountain, Navajo Generating Station, Truck. Page, Arizona, Nov. 2013. 

Photo by Jonathan P Thompson/gin+gelato

December 13, 2013
Tree. Little Colorado River Gorge, Arizona, Nov. 2013. 
Photo by Jonathan P Thompson/gin+gelato

Tree. Little Colorado River Gorge, Arizona, Nov. 2013. 

Photo by Jonathan P Thompson/gin+gelato

November 18, 2013
Another one from Glen Canyon Dam and the Bureau of Reclamation’s High Flow Experiment. Read more about it here. 
Photo by gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

Another one from Glen Canyon Dam and the Bureau of Reclamation’s High Flow Experiment. Read more about it here. 

Photo by gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

November 18, 2013
I was driving the first time I saw the Golden Gate Bridge, and so befuddled was I by the sight that I almost swerved off the road. I had grown up amid spectacular mountains and canyons, but had never seen anything human-made on that scale. It simply didn’t seem possible. My friend and I, both 19, screamed with awe, fascination and a little bit of terror.

A quarter of a century has passed, and my reaction to larger-than-life infrastructure hasn’t dulled. I’m the dumb hick who gawks up at the skyscrapers in a city, and who cringes in fear as he drives down the casino canyon of the Las Vegas Strip. But to me perhaps nothing is as awesome to behold as Glen Canyon Dam. Like the Golden Gate Bridge, the dam is a spectacle, dwarfing much of the natural world all around. I can stand for hours on the vertigo-inducing bridge that spans the cold, green Colorado just downstream – a 1,000-foot long steel spiderweb suspended gracefully over a 700-foot deep void – simply trying to comprehend Glen Canyon Dam’s concrete enormity: 300 feet thick at its base, 1,500 feet long at the crest. More than that, though, is what it represents: Our effort to control what was once a muddy, wild, tumultuous river, to rein it in with a colossal concrete plug, holding back billions of gallons of water and flooding hundreds of miles of once-sublime canyons.
Read the rest of the essay: Drought, Glen Canyon Dam, climate change and God. 
Photo: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

I was driving the first time I saw the Golden Gate Bridge, and so befuddled was I by the sight that I almost swerved off the road. I had grown up amid spectacular mountains and canyons, but had never seen anything human-made on that scale. It simply didn’t seem possible. My friend and I, both 19, screamed with awe, fascination and a little bit of terror.

A quarter of a century has passed, and my reaction to larger-than-life infrastructure hasn’t dulled. I’m the dumb hick who gawks up at the skyscrapers in a city, and who cringes in fear as he drives down the casino canyon of the Las Vegas Strip. But to me perhaps nothing is as awesome to behold as Glen Canyon Dam. Like the Golden Gate Bridge, the dam is a spectacle, dwarfing much of the natural world all around. I can stand for hours on the vertigo-inducing bridge that spans the cold, green Colorado just downstream  a 1,000-foot long steel spiderweb suspended gracefully over a 700-foot deep void  simply trying to comprehend Glen Canyon Dam’s concrete enormity: 300 feet thick at its base, 1,500 feet long at the crest. More than that, though, is what it represents: Our effort to control what was once a muddy, wild, tumultuous river, to rein it in with a colossal concrete plug, holding back billions of gallons of water and flooding hundreds of miles of once-sublime canyons.

Read the rest of the essay: Drought, Glen Canyon Dam, climate change and God. 

Photo: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

November 17, 2013
Glen Canyon Dam outflow pipes, cliffs, bridge and Colorado River. 
Photo: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

Glen Canyon Dam outflow pipes, cliffs, bridge and Colorado River. 

Photo: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

November 12, 2013
Transmission tower, Navajo Generating Station, Lake Powell, smog. Page, Ariz.
Source: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

Transmission tower, Navajo Generating Station, Lake Powell, smog. Page, Ariz.

Source: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

October 10, 2013
Look at what the dreams dragged in.
Photo/illustration by gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

Look at what the dreams dragged in.

Photo/illustration by gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

September 30, 2013
RUNNING HOPI
I run. And I weep. My tears may come from the fact that it’s 6 a.m., or perhaps from the burning in legs and lungs as I try to hold the pace of the leaders. But I’m pretty sure my sobs come from a deep joy inspired by the way the rising sun lights up the ancient buildings of Old Oraibi on a mesa distant, and the way it does so at the very moment that gravel road gives way to a narrow rain-dampened trail. This trail, I imagine, has been trod for centuries by runners vying against one another, or heading off to distant farms to tend to the corn. My 97 fellow runners and I, it seems, have transcended time.
It’s early September, and this is the 40th annual Louis Tewanima 10 kilometer footrace, which takes place in and around the Hopi village of Shungopavi in northern Arizona. The race is named after a Hopi who was yanked as a young man from his home in Shungopavi in 1907 and shipped off to boarding school in Carlisle, Penn. There, the cross-country coach noticed the youngster’s talent, and Tewanima began running competitively. He finished 9th in the 1908 Olympic Marathon, and won the silver medal in the 1912 Olympic 10,000 meter run, setting an American record that held until Billy Mills, a Sioux, broke it in 1964.
Read the rest of the story.
Photo of Miss Hopi, her first attendant and runners at the 2013 Louis Tewanima Footrace, and story by: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

RUNNING HOPI

I run. And I weep. My tears may come from the fact that it’s 6 a.m., or perhaps from the burning in legs and lungs as I try to hold the pace of the leaders. But I’m pretty sure my sobs come from a deep joy inspired by the way the rising sun lights up the ancient buildings of Old Oraibi on a mesa distant, and the way it does so at the very moment that gravel road gives way to a narrow rain-dampened trail. This trail, I imagine, has been trod for centuries by runners vying against one another, or heading off to distant farms to tend to the corn. My 97 fellow runners and I, it seems, have transcended time.

It’s early September, and this is the 40th annual Louis Tewanima 10 kilometer footrace, which takes place in and around the Hopi village of Shungopavi in northern Arizona. The race is named after a Hopi who was yanked as a young man from his home in Shungopavi in 1907 and shipped off to boarding school in Carlisle, Penn. There, the cross-country coach noticed the youngster’s talent, and Tewanima began running competitively. He finished 9th in the 1908 Olympic Marathon, and won the silver medal in the 1912 Olympic 10,000 meter run, setting an American record that held until Billy Mills, a Sioux, broke it in 1964.

Read the rest of the story.

Photo of Miss Hopi, her first attendant and runners at the 2013 Louis Tewanima Footrace, and story by: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

September 24, 2013
One of the Hopi Buttes, big, dark, volcanic formations scattered across the high desert grasslands in Northern Arizona, between Winslow and the Hopi Mesas. 
Photo: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

One of the Hopi Buttes, big, dark, volcanic formations scattered across the high desert grasslands in Northern Arizona, between Winslow and the Hopi Mesas.

Photo: gin+gelato/Jonathan Thompson

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