my first day on the road got me across california, through the sierra nevada and to the edge of the desert. i woke up before dawn in falon, nv and hit the road with a mission. when driving highway 50, the loneliest highway, i always made it a point to stop at the shoe tree. often i would leave shoes, and every time i would stop, take photos, check in. this morning i decided to try and get the morning light of dawn.
15 years ago on my first solo road trip from washington to colorado i had arrived at this same place at this same time and taken the best pictures i'd ever gotten of this tree. this tree. this tree and those photos are landmarks in the story of my life. it was taking and later enjoying those photos that made me decide on photography as a career, it was subsequent journeys that made me realize gypsying as a calling. it was on this highway i felt most at home, most free, and recognized myself fully. and it was this improbable feature of the barren landscape that represented all of this perfectly.
a tree in the middle of the desert - with nothing to speak of for miles. a 70 foot cottonwood, growing out of a wash, by a lonely highway, surrounded by sage and sand and covered - i mean covered - in shoes. i love everything about this. the desert, the ruggedness, the survival, the road, the romance, the symbolism. i loved thinking about this tree. i loved thinking about those shoes and the people that wore them; the dances they danced, the miles they walked, the places they went before ultimately meeting up in the middle of nowhere to hang on a tree in the desert. a signpost for travelers. a heaven for good shoes. a trophy of a tree.
yes i've romanticized it a bit.
you can imagine then, how the wind was knocked out of me, when i stopped this morning and.... it wasn't there anymore. the two smaller trees next to it were standing, with a smattering of shoes hanging from their branches, but the shoe tree, my shoe tree, was gone. i had attached so much meaning to this particular tree it was impossible not to wonder, "what does this mean?"
i investigated, looked for clues, alone on the side of the road in the morning light of the barren desert. a quick scramble down into the wash revealed a stump, a bit of burnt trunk a few random shoes and nothing more. the stump was spray painted with the words "we love shoe". a sign post was erected at the edge of the wash, once clearly holding a sign now gone, covered in the the graffitti of signatures and sayings.
what had happened to it? why would it be cut down? was it sick? dying? deemed a nuisance? even if it had died, why not let it stand - covered in shoes, a monument to itself? alone as i was without even a signal i had no immediate answers. instead, after taking photos i'd come to take and sitting there for a time, i drove on into the desert, pondering the personal meaning of this for mile after mile.
at every new chapter or pivotal point in my life i'd traveled past this tree and left shoes there. on the first roadtrip in my memory - as a child, i'd stopped there with my family and we left some shoes. the aforementioned solo roadtrip that led to me becoming a photographer and put me back in touch with my colorado roots, on the trip to my first photo show, with debra's shoes in hand.... and now on my trip back from san francisco - closing that chapter of my life officially and settling back in colorado... the tree was gone.
it doesn't make sense to most people to care this much about a tree, i know. but how to explain that this tree was a character in my story? it had been there my whole life. and now seeing it removed made me sad, and gave me a dose of what it means to grow older. what time can do. i'd already realized how quickly time moves and how strangely it passes, now my friends' children are old enough to start school and babies i'd held in my arms are teenagers. but this, this was different. this was something that had always been, had never grown old, that i assumed would always be. this comforted me. with it's disappearance something was dawning on me in a new way - time devours. devours, chews up, tears down and completely demolishes. it will eventually devour everything, things i never imagined changing, and myself.
finally upon reaching green river, checking into a hotel and getting internet service again i found out what happened to the tree. on new years eve of 2011 vandals had chopped it down. no one ever found out who did it or why. there was a memorial, which i had missed, which drew many others who were crazy enough to love a tree. all this had happened years ago and now all that remained was a stump. the signpost had once held a memorial plaque.
i felt like i'd gotten back from war and found out a family member had died while i was away. if you think that's dramatic you really would have rolled your eyes watching me cry and cry in that hotel room, mourning a tree that had been cut down 3 years prior.
the next morning i walked out into the dry, cool, desert air and got back in the car packed with all of my worldly possessions and every photo i'd ever taken of the shoe tree and drove to my new home across the mountains.
15 years ago on my first solo road trip from washington to colorado i had arrived at this same place at this same time and taken the best pictures i'd ever gotten of this tree. this tree. this tree and those photos are landmarks in the story of my life. it was taking and later enjoying those photos that made me decide on photography as a career, it was subsequent journeys that made me realize gypsying as a calling. it was on this highway i felt most at home, most free, and recognized myself fully. and it was this improbable feature of the barren landscape that represented all of this perfectly.
a tree in the middle of the desert - with nothing to speak of for miles. a 70 foot cottonwood, growing out of a wash, by a lonely highway, surrounded by sage and sand and covered - i mean covered - in shoes. i love everything about this. the desert, the ruggedness, the survival, the road, the romance, the symbolism. i loved thinking about this tree. i loved thinking about those shoes and the people that wore them; the dances they danced, the miles they walked, the places they went before ultimately meeting up in the middle of nowhere to hang on a tree in the desert. a signpost for travelers. a heaven for good shoes. a trophy of a tree.
yes i've romanticized it a bit.
you can imagine then, how the wind was knocked out of me, when i stopped this morning and.... it wasn't there anymore. the two smaller trees next to it were standing, with a smattering of shoes hanging from their branches, but the shoe tree, my shoe tree, was gone. i had attached so much meaning to this particular tree it was impossible not to wonder, "what does this mean?"
i investigated, looked for clues, alone on the side of the road in the morning light of the barren desert. a quick scramble down into the wash revealed a stump, a bit of burnt trunk a few random shoes and nothing more. the stump was spray painted with the words "we love shoe". a sign post was erected at the edge of the wash, once clearly holding a sign now gone, covered in the the graffitti of signatures and sayings.
what had happened to it? why would it be cut down? was it sick? dying? deemed a nuisance? even if it had died, why not let it stand - covered in shoes, a monument to itself? alone as i was without even a signal i had no immediate answers. instead, after taking photos i'd come to take and sitting there for a time, i drove on into the desert, pondering the personal meaning of this for mile after mile.
at every new chapter or pivotal point in my life i'd traveled past this tree and left shoes there. on the first roadtrip in my memory - as a child, i'd stopped there with my family and we left some shoes. the aforementioned solo roadtrip that led to me becoming a photographer and put me back in touch with my colorado roots, on the trip to my first photo show, with debra's shoes in hand.... and now on my trip back from san francisco - closing that chapter of my life officially and settling back in colorado... the tree was gone.
it doesn't make sense to most people to care this much about a tree, i know. but how to explain that this tree was a character in my story? it had been there my whole life. and now seeing it removed made me sad, and gave me a dose of what it means to grow older. what time can do. i'd already realized how quickly time moves and how strangely it passes, now my friends' children are old enough to start school and babies i'd held in my arms are teenagers. but this, this was different. this was something that had always been, had never grown old, that i assumed would always be. this comforted me. with it's disappearance something was dawning on me in a new way - time devours. devours, chews up, tears down and completely demolishes. it will eventually devour everything, things i never imagined changing, and myself.
finally upon reaching green river, checking into a hotel and getting internet service again i found out what happened to the tree. on new years eve of 2011 vandals had chopped it down. no one ever found out who did it or why. there was a memorial, which i had missed, which drew many others who were crazy enough to love a tree. all this had happened years ago and now all that remained was a stump. the signpost had once held a memorial plaque.
i felt like i'd gotten back from war and found out a family member had died while i was away. if you think that's dramatic you really would have rolled your eyes watching me cry and cry in that hotel room, mourning a tree that had been cut down 3 years prior.
the next morning i walked out into the dry, cool, desert air and got back in the car packed with all of my worldly possessions and every photo i'd ever taken of the shoe tree and drove to my new home across the mountains.
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