The Bride

They say that every picture tells a story. I guess that would apply to a photo as well. This is the story of one of my photos. For me, great photography is about 1/3 equipment. 2/3’s luck and 1/3 taking so many photos that at least one photo has to be good. Some fellow photographers call my approach “grip and rip.” On the other hand, my good friend Mike Brown is an excellent photographer and produces spectacular images through hard work, location research, post-processing, and other techniques of which I can only scratch the surface. 

 With those combined skills, Mike’s preparation and my ample supply of memory cards, we decided to take a photography trip to Utah and northern Arizona in late April and early May of 2024. I’ve known Mike for almost 25 years, having met when we both worked at the National Park Service. By that time, Mike was desk-bound, career-wise, but had been a Park Ranger in his previous professional life, including among other National Parks, the spectacularly beautiful Canyonlands in central Utah. 

 While Canyonlands and its vast untouched wilderness was to be the primary subject of our journey, we decided to add a number of other local attractions to our photographic agenda. Of course, in the western United States “local” can be 100 or more miles away. One of the attractions we decided on visiting was Antelope Canyon, a spectacular slot canyon on the Navajo reservation, nestled in the heart of Northern Arizona. Antelope Canyon is a geological wonder that feels like stepping into a surreal dreamscape. 

Carved over the millennia by rushing water and wind, Antelope Canyon is a masterpiece of nature’s artistry. Its sandstone walls are smooth and curvaceous, creating an otherworldly labyrinth of narrow passageways and towering slots. The hues of Antelope Canyon shift like a living kaleidoscope. In the soft glow of sunlight filtering through its narrow openings, the walls radiate shades of fiery orange, deep red, soft pink, and even purples and blues. The sunlight dances and reflects, creating beams of light that pierce through the canyon’s upper cracks, spotlighting the textured surfaces below and creating ephemeral moments of sheer magic. These light beams are especially prominent in the Upper Antelope Canyon during mid-day when the sun is directly overhead and pierce the canyon floor like a laser from heaven. The textures of the canyon walls are intricate and mesmerizing. Swirling patterns etched by centuries of erosion tell a story of powerful natural forces. The curves and striations feel almost fluid, as if the stone itself were frozen in motion. 

Walking through Antelope Canyon feels both intimate and immense; the tight spaces between the walls contrast with the soaring heights of the slots above, connecting you to the grandeur of nature while enveloping you in its embrace. Each twist and turn offer a new visual delight, making Antelope Canyon a favorite among photographers and adventurers alike. It’s a place where the Earth’s raw beauty and artistry come together in a symphony of light, shadow, and color, creating an unforgettable experience. 

 Antelope Canyon is a dream destination for a great photographer like Mike. I was also looking forward to the photographic potential. It was the Upper Canyon that Mike and I had set our sights on, so mid-morning we set out to the Canyon ticket office, hoping to get on a tour when the sun was directly overhead and the bright sunrays were piercing the darkness of the Canyon in sporadic intervals. We learned that we were too early in the year for maximum light penetration, but that we still we would have a number of great opportunities for photographing the Canyon walls on our 11:30 a.m. tour. We still had over an hour to wait so I sat at one of the tables inside the park’s entrance, sipping on a Diet Pepsi, and letting the experience of being in the presence of a beautiful natural attraction wash over me. Mike, in the meantime, was intently reading every sign and informational pamphlet hoping to garner that one last shred of information that would help him perfect his images. 

 The waiting area for Antelope Canyon is a blend of anticipation and natural beauty, offering a prelude to the awe-inspiring experience ahead. Visitors gather near the tour company’s staging grounds, situated on sandy desert terrain surrounded by low-lying shrubs and the rugged, rust-colored mesas characteristic of the Navajo Nation lands. The atmosphere is one of quiet excitement, with groups of people chatting softly or gazing out at the expansive desert vistas. Depending on the time of day, the light can dramatically influence the surroundings. 

In the morning, like it was when Mike and I arrived, the air feels crisp, and the shadows of nearby rock formations stretch long across the ground. By mid-afternoon, the sun will cast a brilliant glow over the sand, creating a shimmering effect that heightens the sense of being in an otherworldly landscape. The waiting area features rustic benches, shaded structures, and a simple awning to shield visitors from the intense Arizona sun. 

Tour guides, typically members of the Navajo Nation, greet groups warmly and provide a brief overview of the upcoming journey. Informational signs or displays offer insights into the canyon’s history, geology, and cultural significance. One sign that particularly caught my attention said, “In case of rain, all tours will be immediately canceled. Flash Floods can kill.” 

A few minutes after I sat down, one of the Navajo tour guides sat down almost across from me eating an Indian taco. If you are not familiar with an Indian taco, I will digress from the main thrust of this story to enlighten you as I am somewhat of an Indian taco connoisseur. 

 An Indian taco is a mouthwatering fusion of Native American and Southwestern flavors, served atop a base of golden, pillowy fry bread. Fry bread, a soft and slightly chewy flatbread, is fried to perfection, giving it a lightly crisp exterior and a warm, tender inside. Its mildly sweet and rich flavor makes it the perfect canvas for its savory toppings. The taco is piled high with a hearty layer of seasoned ground beef or shredded chicken, infused with spices like chili powder, cumin, and garlic. Next comes a vibrant array of fresh toppings: crisp shredded lettuce, juicy diced tomatoes, and a generous sprinkling of shredded cheddar or Monterey Jack cheese. Cool and creamy sour cream adds a tangy contrast, while a drizzle of zesty salsa or a hint of spicy jalapeños gives it a lively kick. The fry bread’s slightly sweet undertone balances the savory toppings, creating a delightful explosion of flavors in every bite. I prefer my tacos saucy, so I tend to load it with enough sauce to completely cover the taco, and usually the shirt I am wearing. Served with a fork, or folded like a traditional taco if you’re feeling adventurous, an Indian taco is a satisfying and uniquely American dish. 

 I learned to eat an Indian taco from the Tribal chairman of the Turtle Mountain Chippewa Tribe in North Dakota. It was an educational experience I have practiced many times over the years. 

Back to the story. 

 The tour guide had the traditional features of a young Navajo Indian man who carries the strength and connection to his heritage in his appearance, reflecting deep ties to the land and traditions of his people. His skin is a warm, sun-kissed bronze, a result of life under the expansive desert skies of the Southwest. His hair was deep black and thick, worn long in Navajo fashion as a symbol of strength and cultural pride. It was tied back in a traditional tsiiyeel, a simple hair knot, secured with a leather tie. High cheekbones and a strong jawline, gave his face a distinct and dignified profile. His dark, almond-shaped eyes were expressive, which I thought probably reflected wisdom beyond his years, as well as a quiet confidence in his chosen profession as a tour guide. His physique was lean and athletic, shaped by his job of escorting tourists down into the Canyon and up into the surrounding mesas. His clothing blended modern and traditional elements—a Metallica T-shirt paired with jeans and sturdy boots, a vest of brown leather, complemented by a belt with a concho buckle. The badge on his vest read “Gerald.” 

 Having worked in Indian affairs at one time throughout my meandering and disconnected career path, I decided to engage Gerald in a conversation as to my experiences on the Navajo “Rez”. (I was trying to be cool and called it “the rez”). While he slowly ate his Indian taco, I explained how I had once worked extensively with the Navajo government and the Navajo Indian housing office and how much I enjoyed visiting Navajo country and getting to know the people. I mentioned the surnames of a few names of people that I had known, such as Begay, Yazzie, Chee and others. But in Navajo country, those names are as common as Smith or Jones elsewhere. There was no connection. Those expressive eyes I mentioned earlier, expressed quite clearly that he was wishing he had chosen another table. He couldn’t care less about my experiences with either the Federal or the Navajo governments. 

 Never being one to give up on a conversation, I decided to change the subject and asked about the flash flood sign. “Gerald”, I said, “what about the flash floods? Do they occur often?” His eyes seemed to wake up a bit. And, without pausing from his Indian taco feast, pointed his Indian taco-laden fork at a ridge adjacent to the waiting area. At first, I was more transfixed on the tasty bite of taco dangling precariously from the fork, but then my eyes turned towards the area that Gerald was showing me. What I saw was an area of utter devastation. Battered trucks, picnic tables and benches bent into every imaginable shape, and piles of broken concrete which were once walkways and roadways into the canyon. As I later learned through my own research, flash floods in the vicinity of Antelope Canyon can dramatically transform the serene desert landscape into a scene of violent and destructive force. These sudden deluges occur when intense rainfall, often miles upstream, funnel into the narrow slot canyon, leading to rapid and violent water flow. Looking beyond the man-made debris, I saw other results from the flash flood. The rushing waters carried an array of debris, including branches, rocks, and sediment. across the landscape, creating a chaotic and cluttered environment. The powerful currents eroded the sandy soil, altering the topography by carving new channels and deepening existing ones. As the water receded, it deposited layers of silt and mud, leaving behind a fresh, uneven coating on the ground. Plants and shrubs in the flood’s path were uprooted and buried under sediment, leading to patches of barren land where lush vegetation once thrived. 

 I asked Gerald when all of this damage occurred and he mumbled, “about ten years ago, I think.” I asked if anyone had died in the flood, which prompted posting the sign I read upon entry, and he said that people died all of the time walking through the canyons when they shouldn’t be. He then briefly mentioned the strange and sad story of two visitors who came to the Canyon many years ago and who, he said learned about the danger the hard way. 

 With one last bite of Indian taco, Gerald grunted, stood up and wandered over to his waiting tour group. I was interested in finding out more about the missing couple; and to have an Indian taco when the tour was over – not in that order. A few minutes later, Mike walked over and we headed to the waiting area for our tour group. Though we still had about twenty minutes until our assigned group left, our guide was already waiting. 

 Hoping for a more scintillating conversation than I had with Gerald, I approached “Toughie” (as it said on his badge), and asked him about the missing couple. I must say I was surprised when Toughie knew their names and said that the Abernathy’s were “Bilagáana” (the Navajo term for white people and pronounced bih-luh-GAH-na) and on their honeymoon when they decided to visit Antelope Canyon. He couldn’t remember the year. But he knew it was long before the Tribe had established Antelope Canyon as a tour operation and when anyone could simply drive up to the canyon entrance and enter and explore whenever they wanted. He said they went into the Canyon and never returned. Toughie said that when the wind is blowing you can hear a particular whistling through the Canyon, but sometimes when the air is calm, you hear a soft moaning flow through the Canyon from one end to the other with no apparent source. He also mentioned that many of the tour guides experienced cold spots in the canyon that couldn’t be explained. 

 The canyon temperatures typically deviate from the outside on most days. When the thermometer hits 105 outside, the Canyon maintains a cool 70 degrees. But Toughie said there were times, for just fleeting moments and within a circle just a few feet around, that the temperature would drop so far that water that had seeped through the rock would freeze for an instant. He didn’t specifically attribute these phenomena to the long-lost Abernathy’s, but it was the impression that I was getting. 

 I am not a believer in the supernatural, conspiracy theories, or anything that can’t be verified in Wikipedia or Facebook, so I dismissed Toughie’s suggestion as total fiction. But for reasons, you will soon understand, I decided to learn more about the Abernathy’s and what happened. 

This is the Abernathy’s story. 

Raylin and Anna Abernathy were newlyweds, having married in the spring of 1934 in St. Louis. Raylin was a dentist and older at 35 years than Anna at 20 years of age. They were married on April 30, 1934, coincidentally exactly 90 years to the day Mike and I arrived at Antelope Canyon. And quite a wedding it was. Described in the society pages in all four St. Louis newspaper, it was called the cultural event of the season. Raylin Abernathy’s family had made a fortune in the import/export business in the Port of St. Louis, the busiest port on the Mississippi north of New Orleans. Anna nee Ferguson Abernathy’s grandfather opened the largest mercantile store in St. Louis and was the primary supplier for the hundreds of pioneer trains starting the long journey on the Oregon Trail. 

 As described in the newspaper accounts, Raylin cut quite the dashing figure in a grey morning suit and top hat. While Anna was described in one newspaper as a “beautiful bride standing radiantly in a stunning white satin wedding gown that gleamed softly under the light. The dress featured a fitted bodice with a sweetheart neckline, delicately adorned with subtle lace embroidery and shimmering beads that catch the eye with every move. The satin fabric flows seamlessly, hugging her silhouette before flaring out into a dramatic, cascading train that pools elegantly behind her, creating a sense of grandeur. Her long train, edged with intricate lace details, sweeps gracefully across the floor, adding an air of timeless sophistication. Her veil, sheer and ethereal, draped lightly over her shoulders, extending just beyond the train for a layered, harmonious effect.” Their good life was to begin that day. 

Their plan was to drive Route 66, which had been established in 1926 only eight years earlier, all the way from their home in St. Louis to the Santa Monica Pier outside of Los Angeles. Back then, the Santa Monica Pier was known throughout the United States as a wonderful honeymoon destination. Route 66 went right through the heart of the Navajo reservation. 

Raylin bought a new 1934 Chrysler Airflow for the journey and two days after the ceremony they left St. Louis on their honeymoon. As they motored across the west, Raylin expressed his interest in taking a slight detour to Antelope Canyon, a destination he had read about in a recent issue of Life magazine. Anna was eager to do whatever her new husband wanted and having never been outside of St. Louis in her twenty years was eager to see anything and everything. 

They left the paved Route 66 at Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation and traveled for almost 300 miles on unpaved, dirt roads, with potholes the size of moon craters and large boulders and sharp rocks just waiting to puncture a tire. It was much more than the slight detour that they anticipated. But once they started down the road, they were determined to reach their destination. After careful driving and 8 grueling hours, they reached Antelope Canyon. 

Unfortunately, they overlooked one important detail. There were no motels anywhere. In fact, the last motel they saw was on Route 66 itself. It wasn’t the honeymoon suite they were hoping for, but they found the Packard relatively comfortable and tucked themselves in for the night. Cars were much bigger in the ‘30s and bucket seats had yet to be invented. 

 At first light, around 7:00 a.m., Raylin and Anna roused from a restless sleep and decided to quickly see the Canyon and then get back on the road. They knew it would still be a long drive to Santa Monica, and they had not planned on such a long detour. Raylin had booked the honeymoon suite at the Georgian Hotel in Santa Monica which sits directly across from the Pacific Ocean with its luxurious décor and Art-Deco architecture. Her restaurant and bar, The Red Griffin, gained quite the reputation amongst the rich and famous (and infamous), with guests like Carole Lombard, Clark Gable, “Bugsy” Siegel, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, and Rose Kennedy all seeking refuge and a stiff drink within this notoriously exclusive secret watering hole. 

Raylin wanted to show his bride an entirely new world. Back then there were no maps or guidebooks, but they found the entrance to the Canyon relatively quickly, tucked behind some sage. With candles that Raylin thoughtfully remembered to bring they began their trek through the approximately 660-foot-long canyon. With walls in the canyon rising to almost 120 feet, once you entered the only way out was through either end. 

Just as they entered, Raylin and Anna heard thunder off in the far distance. Of course, the threat of floods never entered the minds of two flatlanders; and they figured they would have more protection from the rain in the Canyon in any event. They began their meandering through the dark canyon with only occasional glimpses of sunlight coming through the slots a hundred feet above them. It was still too early for the direct sunlight to flood the canyon, but they wanted to return to Route 66 and “civilization”, so they plunged ahead.

It wasn’t long before they began to feel a slight rushing of wind from behind them and only a few moments later, a trickling of water around their feet. Raylin anticipated that there could be more water coming through the Canyon and they knew they needed to get to the other end as quickly as possible. Raylin shouted to Anna, “start running”, and it wasn’t long before the trickle of water covered their feet, then their ankles and then over their knees. In the darkness, they had to feel their way through the Canyon, having lost their candles as they began their mad dash to the end. It was hard to talk, as they sound of the rushing water drowned out any chance of discussion. Raylin could see the light at the far end of the Canyon and began running as quickly as he could. He assumed Anna was on his heels, but just before he exited the Canyon a large torrent of rushing water hit him from behind, picked him up, and pushed him the remaining distance at, literally, break-neck speed. Raylin turned to get Anna’s hand but she was nowhere to be seen and then heard her faint cry from still deep within the Canyon. 

Upon exiting the Canyon, Raylin was able to grab onto a dead tree branch extending over the rushing water and slowly pulled himself up the crumbling dirt bank. It was now raining hard at the Canyon and the bank was very slippery. For every two steps he took, he slid back one with the ever-rising waters nipping at his heels. The thought that one misstep would plunge him into the raging waters and further away from his beloved Anna terrified him. Eventually, he found firm footing and with one last effort made it to safety on the bank. He turned and peered into the dark Canyon, hoping and praying that Anna would emerge any second. But she never did. 

The rain continued for days with Raylin sitting along the bank, his head in his hands, softly crying out Anna’s name. Eventually, some Navajo sheep herders came upon his car and then crossing over the Canyon they found Raylin half-dead lying on the banks having not had any food or water for a number of days. The Navajos took Raylin under their care, providing for him at a nearby hogan, the traditional Navajo home Raylin distraught with grief wanted to search the Canyon, but the waters had not yet receded enough and the Navajos explained that it could take weeks to get through as the Canyon was now quite dangerous with rocks and boulders precariously perched overhead and waist deep mud on the bottom. They promised Raylin that they would search for Anna as soon as it was safe. 

Raylin reported the loss of his beloved Anna to the local authorities; and the circumstances of the tragic event eventually made its way back to St. Louis and was published in great detail in the now defunct St. Louis Globe-Democrat from where this account was obtained. Raylin returned to his home in St. Louis in his Packard, with a heavy heart and grief that he would carry for the remainder of his life. 

Anna was never found. 

As Mike and I entered the Canyon, I forgot everything Toughie told me about the doomed couple and focused on the great photo opportunity coming my way. Each group consists of about 9-12 people. The groups are spaced out at intervals of about ten-fifteen minutes. So, you have time to take photographs, but you also have to keep moving or the group behind you catches up and there is confusion as to where everyone needs to be. Photographing a slot canyon is a challenge. You have a combination of shadows, almost complete darkness, and then bright rays of sunshine. Photography buffs know that this is called a high dynamic range. To photograph the Canyon properly, I really needed a tripod. But they are not allowed, and even if they were, I didn’t have the time to set it up with crowds pressing me from behind. So, I had to maintain a firm, steady grip on my camera and ensure my seven pounds of camera equipment had all the right settings for shutter speed, aperture, ISO, and white balance. I had to decide which of the four lens, total weight of 12 pounds, I was carrying was best suited for this challenging environment, remove any filters on the lens and set the lens Vibration Reduction to “On.” Or I could use an iPhone. 

The trick is to be at the front of the group so you can take a photo without other people in the picture. It is politeness bordering on chaos and anarchy as everyone jockeys for position. “Real” photographers, such as Mike and me, usually find ourselves in intense competition with Selfie Kings and Queens. Antelope Canyon was a battlefield fought with elbows and hips. One misstep and you lose position and any chance for a great photo.  

For the most part, you walk through mostly darkened canyon walls interspersed with periodic occasions of bright sunlight flooding the canyon floor with a variety of shapes and angles. The walls lighting up in rich gold and brown colors. While the sunlight rays are quite distinctive on their own, the tour guide will often throw a handful of sand into the ray so that it gives the sunlight more composition and depth. Mike and I were quite successful in maintaining our dominant positions in the Canyon queue. Mike is tall and angular, and I am well-rounded, so to speak. 

But I made a critical error. All of a sudden, the battery light on my camera started flashing. I could not believe I had made that rookie mistake which would cause me to stop, fumble through my pockets for a fresh battery and change it in near darkness; and lose my desired place in front. But stop I did and fell to the back, stung by my humiliating defeat to the selfie mob. The only strategy that you have at the back of the group is to wait until everyone takes their photo and proceeds around the next curve when you can get a people-free photo op, at least, until the group behind you starts coming on your heels. “Seriously lady, do you need your photo taken a hundred times in every sunray?”, I groused to myself. 

 At the back of the group, you can’t take advantage of the sand and dust thrown by the tour guide to enhance your photograph. Plus, you have to move quickly to not fall too far behind. So, as I approached the next slot opening, envious of Mike’s great position and forced to wait for the selfie crowd to finish their narcissistic approach to capturing beautiful scenery, I slowed my pace waiting for them to round the turn. Once they were gone and out of my field of vision, I started to frame my photo in the viewfinder. 

Almost immediately, I started to feel the rushing of a cold wind at my ankles. I thought it was coming from the movement of the group behind me, but I turned and realized they were still a few turns back. And suddenly, there was not a sound to be heard either from behind me or in front of me. If there really is “dead silence” that is what I was experiencing at that moment. It felt like I was the only person on earth in this dark sliver of rock, a gash in the earth’s crust. 

I again started to frame my shot when I noticed my fingers were freezing and that the temperature had really dropped in that part of the Canyon. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I quickly blew on them to warm them up. I snapped three quick photos, knowing they wouldn’t be very good because they were rushed, didn’t have the extra sand and dust tossed by the guide, and I was pretty sure I was shaking too much and would have a lot of camera blur; and I just wanted to leave that particular spot. 

I caught up to the group and eventually regained my place near the front of the horde, except for Mike. He was not yielding to anyone. We finally exited the Canyon into the warm and brilliant sunlight, Mike and I exchanging opinions on how we thought our photos had come out. 

From there we continued on to Canyonlands and a variety of interesting sites, such as where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had their hideout in Utah, Capitol Reef National Park, and other incredible areas in Utah National Parks. When I returned home ten days later, I didn’t immediately check out my photos. When you take a couple of thousand photos, you have to set time aside to start going through them. 

This trip was no different It took me almost three months to find the time to start looking at my Antelope Canyon photos because a month after I returned, I embarked on a trip to Africa for a four-country, month-long safari where I added another five-six thousand photos. Upon returning from Africa, I had email from Mike with some of the great photos he took on our trip, including some beautiful images from Antelope Canyon. So, I decided to take a quick look at my Utah/Arizona photos before I dove into my African images which I knew would take weeks of work to sort through. 

I looked for the photos from Antelope Canyon with great anticipation. On the first run through, I typically discard almost 50 percent immediately because the lighting can’t be fixed, they are blurry from excessive shaking, or they just aren’t very good. Of the remainder, there is usually about 1 in 10 that are decent photos and then only a handful of those that I want to share with the world. 

They are digitally arranged on the memory card in the order you took them, so it was like descending into the Canyon again as I slowly looked at each image. It is amazing how different colors and hues come out in a photo that you didn’t see in the camera’s viewfinder when taking the shot. I was pretty satisfied with my photos as I re-stepped my way through the Canyon, in a digital sense. 

I particularly liked the photos where there was a decent amount of sand and dust in the air which highlighted the sunrays. I’m not sure they were as good as Mike’s, but I was pretty pleased. Eventually as I moused through the photos, I reached the three photos where I had fallen to the back of the group.

The first one was okay. Nothing special. Some sunlight, very little dust in the sunray so it didn’t have anything special that I hadn’t already seen in the previous photos. I was disappointed. The second one had too much shake as I was starting to get very cold, my hands were trembling almost uncontrollably, and I could feel the cold rushing wind whistling around my ankles and knees when I snapped the shutter. I deleted it immediately. 

The third image was “The Bride.”