Tag: Northern Arizona

• July 15, 2013

  A Farewell to Flagstaff

  

  Someone once wrote that all good things must come to an end. For the past twelve years, I’ve had the privilege of living in Flagstaff, AZ. Of all the places I’ve lived in my life, this one feels the most like home. I love it here. I love the eccentric people, the wild weather, the quirky culture. I came into my adulthood here, made friends and completed my education here.

  For all its charm, I know I cannot stay here forever. After so long in one place, I can’t help but feel that I’ve accomplished everything I can in Flagstaff. To pursue my career and relationship (as with any good tale, there is a love story at work here, as well), the time has come to move on. My girlfriend recently started a new job in Tacoma, Washington. So, on July 31, I’ll be loading up a U-Haul and heading north without knowing what lies ahead.

  I’m not making this decision lightly. For months, I’ve known that my time here was coming to an end. It’s time.

  The thought of leaving Flagstaff behind is terrifying. I’m comfortable here, but life is not about being comfortable. It’s about seeking out new challenges. I don’t have much of a plan — no job, nowhere to live — but I’m confident that I’ll find a way to make it work.

  I’m going to miss my little mountain town, but new adventures await. All good things must end, and likewise, all good things must begin.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ. Keep following this blog as he chronicles the beginning of his next adventure. If you know of any writing, editing, photography, social media, blogging or marketing jobs in Tacoma, you can contact him at eberle.jonny[at]gmail.com, on Twitter or on LinkedIn. Thanks for reading!

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• July 3, 2013

  Monsoon

  

  In the arid Southwest, the weather is extreme. Storms build in minutes, catching drivers and hikers off guard. Roads become rivers; slot canyons flood. Hail crashes down from the sky; lights flicker. The monsoons bring life-giving rain in the driest months of summer, but with life comes danger.

  You can see black thunderheads form over the trees on the eastern horizon in the late afternoon. You can feel the change in the wind and the cool breeze that overtakes the hot sun. Soon, sheets of rain are falling. Drainage ditches swell and overflow into the streets. And the parched earth is so unused to moisture that it cannot absorb it. Cold water flows over the hard dirt and pools in the roots of the Ponderosa pines.

  For an hour or two the world is dark and wet and cool. Afterward, the clouds will part and drift away, leaving broken twigs and pebbles on the road and rainwater in the gutters, until the next day, when the dry soil and raging wildfires will be quenched.

  

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ. Sometimes he stands in the rain, even though he owns an umbrella. You can follow him on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

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• April 12, 2013

  Flash Fiction Friday: Running Away

  

  Rick didn’t start panicking until he was 40 miles away from Flagstaff. He was now 20 minutes late for work and driving 80 miles per hour in the opposite direction. He intended to go to into the office as usual, but the moment he got behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition; felt the horsepower at his command, he felt the overwhelming need to run away.

  Without thinking, without calling, he got on the interstate east. He never left the fast lane. His ailing Jeep Cherokee coughed and struggled to maintain speed. In the rear view mirror, the San Francisco Peaks rose out of the flat desert to be shrouded by boiling monsoon storm clouds.

  “Take It Easy” came on the radio as the first fat drops pelted the windshield. 15 miles to Winslow. Still, he kept running. He ran from the phone calls, the emails, the calendar reminders, the meetings, the endless work hours that dogged him from the office to his apartment and back.

  The engine warning light blinked on and the oil temperature gauge spiked. Rick turned the A/C off to vent the excess heat, but he was losing power. Hot air swirled around his head.

  He pulled into the slow lane and semis began to overtake him. Finally, he turned off onto the narrow, dusty shoulder, but only when steam began to rise off the hood with every raindrop. The Jeep ground to a stop.

  Rick got out of the car and stood on the edge of the highway. Cold summer rain pelted his sweat-stained dress shirt and trucks kicked up long plumes of water, but he was unfazed. No one could reach him here, 10 miles from Winslow. The black clouds over the Peaks looked like a rising apocalypse to him. But to the east, beyond Holbrook and the Petrified Forest, blue skis beckoned.

  He popped the hood and let the rain calm the engine’s fire while he sat on a rock, listening to the static hiss of the radio and watching the clouds drift.

  — 30 —

  I’m a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ. You can follow my exploits on the Twitter machine at @jonnyeberle. Please feel free to leave a comment. Have you ever wanted to run away?

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• March 29, 2013

  Ripped from the Headlines

  

  A man was hit by a train in my town today. No one knows why he walked in front of the oncoming fright train as it barreled through Flagstaff early this afternoon. We’ll probably never know for sure whether he thought he could outrun it or if he intended to die there on the tracks.

  Life is full of these little stories. For a writer, the scraps of details we receive from the news aren’t enough to satisfy our hunger for the full story. Mystery writers in particular are famous for skimming the police logs for strange burglaries and unsolved murders. This very scenario — a man hit by a train — was the inciting incident of a novel I started working on in November.

  We rip stories from the headlines all the time. But when is it appropriate to do so? How long must a real life tragedy lie fallow before the seeds of fiction can be sown? I think fiction is a great way to wrestle with and explain the unpleasant accidents and cold realities of life and death. It allows us to process tragedy and maybe find meaning in the inexplicable. At what point is it okay to fictionalize real world headlines? Where do we strike that balance? I’m not sure I know.

  Some things are too painful to face immediately. It took years before novels set around the events of 9/11 were published. Surely the Newtown shootings will eventually make their way onto bookshelves and maybe even the man who stepped in front of 5,000 tons of steel and screeching wheels today. Writing and reading about death can help us prepare for it in our own lives. When times are darkest is when art is needed most.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ. You can find him on Twitter at: @jonnyeberle.

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• March 28, 2013

  Turning a Lens on Antelope Canyon

  

  There are few places on Earth so naturally beautiful that you literally fall silent at the sight of it. Lower Antelope Canyon, seven miles east of Page, AZ, is one of those special places. For years, I had seen it in photo books and magazine covers. Images of Antelope Canyon are iconic. But in more than a decade of living within a stone’s throw of the canyon, I had never been there.

  The entrance to the slot canyon is innocuous, almost hidden. A narrow crack in the desert floor, less than a foot across, guards a wondrous secret underground. As our group descends into the crevice, the canyon widens to admit us.

  

  The sandstone flows like water. It ebbs and rolls down the walls. The canyon feels like a living entity. Rocks formations like the Chief and the Pirate personify a space that is entirely alien. It doesn’t feel real, no matter how long you walk and climb through it.

  Never before have I seen such artistry in geology. I was so glad my camera was slung around my neck, because the gorgeous slot canyon begged to be captured. In some places, the roof is thrown wide open to the sky and sunlight falls in straight lines on the rock. Then, without warning, the top of the canyon closes up and sheathes the sandy floor in shadow.

  I snap away. The light is mostly diffuse. The walls play in pools of day and night in a range of colors from white to red to soft oranges and purples to deep, dark violet. The result is beyond breathtaking. It is staggering.

  

  It will never get tired of discovering these jewels in my backyard. The places you pass by and put off. The sights you can’t believe you’ve missed. Where a wisecracking guy in a baseball cap plays the guitar to himself in a stuffy booth between tourists. Where the rock is draped high above your head deep underground.

  Where the dull swath of sand and scrub conceals a hidden wonder.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer and consummate wanderer. He lives in Flagstaff, AZ, but you can drop him a line through the comments below on his fancy Twitter feed: @jonnyeberle. What gems have you discovered where you live?

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• March 21, 2013

  Shortcut to Sagebrush

  

  Navajo Route 20 is one of those roads you can only find if you’re looking for it. The epitome of rural, is stretches almost 40 miles from Gap, a town you won’t find on Google Maps, to Lechee, near Page. Only a few miles of either end are paved. The rest is a rough, washboard road that winds through the western desert of the Navajo Nation in northeastern Arizona. The only real marker of its existence is a flashing sign warning drivers that the road is closed — an attempt to keep curious tourists out.

  The road cuts through the heart of the arid ancestral lands of the Diné. The desert between Tuba City and Page is perhaps one of the last true wildernesses in the southwest. The only signs of human habitation are the horses that munch on patches of sagebrush and grama grass, the cows standing under a windmill to escape the scorching sun and the road itself.

  In places, the road is deep, loose sand. Gaping pits wait to devour unsuspecting vehicles. In others, the road is smooth sandstone that has been worn down by winter rains and truck tires. In some places, the road almost disappears entirely; swallowed up by the hungry desert.

  Even in my SUV, the road was treacherous. The washboard texture rattles the frame and sharp rocks leap out to slash at tires. Smaller cars than mine would not be able to make the trip. The only reason to be here at all is to avoid the 3-hour detour around a section of US-89 that collapsed last month. Long forgotten Navajo Route 20, which runs parallel to the 89, is now the fastest way to Page. And the adventurous or foolhardy are trickling in.

  Near Lechee, at the northern terminus of N20, construction crews are trying to level the dirt road in preparation for paving. Power lines loom on the horizon as they converge on the Navajo Generating Station to the north. The modern world is forcing its way in. There is pressure to make this road safe for travelers. The 89 is going to be out of commission for at least nine months to shore up the ground beneath the highway and Scottsdale elite want access to their houseboats on Lake Powell.

  The desert, like everything else in Indian Country, is being tamed. But the desert has its own way of existing that puts it at odds with developers and governments that want to control it. Wind may bury the road in sand; a flash flood may wash it away.

  Maybe they’ll succeed in transforming Navajo Route 20 into a corridor for commerce and tourism. Or maybe it will fight back.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer, photographer and driver of dangerous roads. He lives in Flagstaff, AZ and in the Series of Tubes, where you can follow him on Twitter: @jonnyeberle. Thanks for reading!

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• March 13, 2013

  Smells Like Spring

  

  I wasted no time in throwing the curtains and sliding the glass door open when I got home. My dingy, cave-like apartment half-buried in the hillside was immediately filled with a soft, cool breeze.

  Stepping out onto the porch for the first time in months, there was almost no sign of the 15 inches of snow that fell last week. Even on the Peaks, at 12,000 feet above sea level, snow is receding up the slopes like seawater on the beach.

  The air same air that stung my face is now sweet and almost warm. Almost. There is a definite shift in the weather and with it comes renewed energy and creativity. There is something about breathing the thin air up here that makes me want to write for hours on end (if there were time for such things).

  The pungent odor of a skunk drifts up the hill on the breeze. Yep. It’s spring alright.

  

  — 30 —

  I’m a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ, a town that seems to be brimming with absurdly creative people. All this thin air must mess with our brains. If you’re in Flag (or just wish you were), you can find me on Twitter — @jonnyeberle — where today I’m cracking Pope jokes.

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• March 12, 2013

  The Most Important Vote You’ll Ever Cast

  

  It took four-and-half hours of planning, blocking, messing up and fine-tuning, but the hard work finally yielded that one perfect take. For some time, a script had been languishing on my computer, unrealized. A riff on the Old Spice Guys commericials, I was hoping to put a cool/quirky spin on my workplace. And as I yelled, “Cut!” for the final time, I knew it was finally going to see the light of day.

  I don’t do nearly as much film work as I would like, so when I get a chance to make a video, I don’t pass it up. It was this and a contest through Expect More Arizona that brought this particular project to fruition. For an entire afternoon, the staff cleared their schedules to take part in my latest crazy plan: A one-minute promo with 20 prop and costume changes in one single, uncut shot.

  No wonder it took us so long to do.

  At first, the process was slow as I tried to get everyone to see what I was imagining. Props were mixed up, lines were flubbed, focus drifted. But gradually, the team honed in on their tasks and a beautiful ballet of coats and superhero masks and money boas fell into place.

  I’m proud of what we accomplished that afternoon. It’s fun, informative and ambitious. But, that’s not enough to win this thing. For help, I’m turning to you. I don’t usually use this platform to ask you for anything, but I’m going to break that precedent this once. All I ask is your vote.

  Head to this link and vote for my video: http://www.expectmorearizona.org/excellence-tour/stories/because-youre-awesome/. You can vote once per day per device from now until Friday, March 15. At stake is a $1,000 grant for our little nonprofit and/or an iPad for the office. All it takes is two clicks and I’d very much appreciate your help.

  You’re awesome.

  — 30 —

  Jonny Eberle is a writer and photographer in Flagstaff, AZ, but he also has a real job. And if you help by voting for his video, you’ll help him keep that real job. So, really, your vote has a real impact on the economy. You can also follow his thoughts on all things great and miniscule on Twitter: @jonnyeberle.

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• December 4, 2012

  Waitin’ On a Train

  

  In the summer of 1882, deep into monsoon season, the first railroad tracks reached a small community at the foot of the San Francisco Peaks in the wilderness of the Arizona Territory. The railroad brought workers and the workers attracted saloons, dance halls and gambling, transforming a few isolated lumber mills into the town of Flagstaff. Today, between 80 and 100 trains barrel through Flagstaff every day. They are no longer the lifeblood of the town, but they are a reminder of our past.

  When I first moved to Flagstaff in middle school, the trains were required to blow their horns at every railroad crossing. Many nights, I fell asleep to the mournful train whistle in the distance. Then, a few years ago, the city introduced wayside horns that you couldn’t hear from far away. The trains went silent, but I can still hear the rumble of freight cars on the tracks in my apartment on exceptionally quiet nights.

  So, when I started work with some friends on a web series about life in Flagstaff, I knew I needed some footage of trains. So, this weekend, I sat at the corner of Beaver and Route 66 with a tripod in my backpack and a video camera tucked into the front pocket of my blue NAU hoodie. And I waited. I waited for the long arms of the railroad crossing to lower, for the red lights to flash, for the wayside horn to sound.

  And I waited there for an hour. On an average day, 3-4 trains an hour come through town. I usually get stuck waiting for trains at least two or three times a week, but on the day when I actually wanted one to block traffic, it didn’t come. I guess Saturday is just a slow day for the BNSF.

  I was pretty upset with the railroad when I went to bed that night. I set the alarm on my phone, switched off the bedside lamp and pulled my comforter up to my chin to keep out the advancing cold.

  I was just starting to doze off when I heard that old, familiar sound — a mournful train whistle in the distance — and my frustrations were carried off with the wheels as they rolled west into the night. I’ll try again another day.

  — 30 —

  If you liked that, please like, comment, share or follow me on Twitter: @jonnyeberle. And if you’re feeling particularly generous this holiday season, why not do all four?

  Sources: The History of the Railroad in Flagstaff. Flagstaff Visitor Center. http://ow.ly/fOJEH

  The short film “Blow No More” is a Shot By Gunn production, directed by Flagstaff documentarian Chris Gunn. It premiered at the Flagstaff Mountain Film Festival in 2010. His newest project is called “Staying Sane in an Insane World.” More info at www.shotbygunn.com.
• October 27, 2012

  Flash Fiction: Roasting Chiles

  

  Heat ripples through the air. Ash is carried on the breeze, where it tumbles off like fall leaves. The barrel rolls over hot coals and inside the cage, bright green New Mexican hatch chiles char slowly. Their flesh blackens, toughens. Spice stings my nostrils and lingers around my head. Steamy Ziploc bags. Five dollars a piece for the last smoky taste of summer.

  A woman buys two bags. She unzips them in her car and breathes chile to remind her of what she left behind on a dirt road so long ago.

  — 30 —

  Please let me know what you think in the comments and follow me on the Twitter machine: @jonnyeberle.