"Wow... What a hole."
Hole in the Rock.
After a friend raved about a trail near her place—‘It’s picturesque,’ she said—I was off to the big city—not New York, but Phoenix—the place where most of my family was born and raised. Hell, most of them are still out there. Somewhere. Scattered across the desert.
A couple of hours and one of my favorite albums on repeat later, I arrived—somewhere between Downtown Phoenix and the desert. A place called Papago Park.
The towering steel and glass of Downtown contrasted with the green-brown hues of the desert landscape. Most of the people brought their dogs or lovers—or both. I brought a new-to-me camera wrapped in black with red trim. Reminded me of the Harley I wanted since I was a kid—matte black with flames roaring down the sides.
Walking up, I thought I’d have to role-play a damn yogi. You know—act like I cared about climate change and elevation gain. Turns out I role-played as a damn photographer—acted like I knew about lighting and composition.
Stammering to the top, taking a few deep breaths... I saw it—then muttered the greatest line in cinema history: “Wow… What a hole.”
