The Wave

Back in 2007, I’d read an article by Hugo Martin from the Los Angeles Times where he said, “Apparently, you can’t call yourself a landscape photographer if you haven’t snapped a photo or two of the Wave.” I wasn’t much of a photographer then but somehow those few words stayed with me. They would nudge me now and then—during moments of contemplation … during moments of loneliness.

So there I was, huddled in a room with other hikers, in a nondescript Bureau of Land Management (BLM) office, hoping to win the lottery that’ll get me a permit to visit the Wave. As the winter storm Cleon was expected to hit the Arizona-Utah border the next day, a BLM staffer rightfully warned us of the dangers of hiking in such an adverse weather before beginning the ritual. As if that wasn’t enough, he went on to say that many hikers get lost while hiking and never discover the Wave. There are also a few cases of reported deaths due to extreme weather conditions or from falling in the slot canyons after getting lost in the dark. That I think was enough to scare the bejesus out of almost everyone in the room. Eventually, it became a non-event as only seven hikers including me and my family remained (a lottery is held if more than ten persons are seeking a permit). You can get more information regarding the permits here.

Though it was easy enough to get the permits, I knew it would be a tough hike and wasn’t so sure whether my wife and son can tag along with me. Unfortunately, Cleon did hit us at night and me and my wife were no more willing to take a chance with our son. However, my wife was only willing to let me go if I hired a professional guide. I thought that was a good idea as I wasn’t keen on getting lost in a blizzard.

So I hired Bret and off we went for supposedly one of the most daring adventures of my life. It was a moderately difficult six-mile hike through snow, mud, and inclined slopes of the buttes. At 20°F and 20-30 mph winds it wasn’t getting any better. Thankfully, as we hiked, the sun came out and warmed us up a bit.

After almost a couple of hours, as my hands were starting to feel numb, I entered a dreamlike world of swirling colors and psychedelic patterns through a narrow passage.

At mind altering temperatures and high winds, I wasn’t so sure what I was looking at was real. Was I looking at Jurassic-age Navajo sandstone—190-million-year-old sand dunes turned to rock? Or was I simply hallucinating?

Everywhere I looked I saw those psychedelic patterns—undulating walls lined with burnt sienna, pink, gray, turquoise and pale green. The bands mostly ran horizontally, but at spots they zigzagged and shimmied before falling back into their previous pattern.

I think I had lost track of time while trying to gather what seemed to me as my hallucinating and fragmented consciousness. Touching the walls helped.

However, something still seemed missing. I wasn’t seeing the same patterns as the images on the Internet. I walked to the South end, turned around, and there it was—the Wave in all its glory.

As the sun moved in and out of the clouds the vibrancy of the colors changed—subtle shades became deeper and richer in minutes. Thereafter, I climbed higher and got a bird’s-eye view of the buttes.

It’s a rare experience to have the Wave completely to oneself. I felt blessed to have experienced it in a way it’s meant to be—in isolation … in complete seclusion.