Cliff Palace

Author's Comments

The photograph that everyone takes is from the overlook across the canyon, and I will not pretend I have not made that picture myself. It is the wide shot, the alcove framed by canyon wall, the dwelling small and improbable beneath its sandstone ceiling. Mid-afternoon in late September is when that frame works hardest, when the light angles into the alcove rather than skipping past it, and the sandstone goes from pale to the color of warm bread. The towers cast shadows that did not exist an hour earlier. The kivas read as deep wells of dark against the lit stone. But the photograph I keep thinking about is the one I made on the tour itself, standing inside the dwelling among the rooms, looking out rather than in. From within the alcove the canyon becomes a frame, and the light pouring in from the south side hits the far wall of the structure and bounces back soft and golden. The detail shots happen here. The handprint of mortar pressed eight hundred years ago. The small T-shaped doorway. The texture of the stone where a wall meets the natural curve of the overhang and the masons simply let the cliff do the work. You will be on a ranger's clock and you will be among forty other people. Accept this. The tour moves, but it moves slowly enough that a patient photographer can find the gaps. Travel light. A single lens is enough. The ladders do not forgive a heavy bag, and the place asks you to be present in a way that gear tends to interrupt.

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