D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
March 2010
Southwest Storylines |
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Sonny Hale glances left and right, then leans forward as if whispering a confession.
"Anthropologists and archaeologists think there are about 350,000 petroglyphs and pictographs in New Mexico," he says, high-pitched voice raspy and brown eyes aglow. "I want to take a picture of every one of 'em that I can find."
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Sonny Hale takes
aim. (Photo by Erin Hudson) |
My eyebrows arch skeptically. Sonny is 74 years old and his once-black hair has gone completely white. He still gets around pretty well, but stopped hiking alone after suffering a mild heart attack last December. As our interview commences in a Hillsboro restaurant, the self-taught photographer has less than $8 in his bank account and a quarter of a tank of gas in his pick-up.
"I know I'll never get the job done," says the retired heavy-equipment operator with a shrug. "There are just too many, spread all over the state."
But assuming Hale falls short of his goal, it won't be for lack of trying. Or grit or gumption, for that matter. Since his quixotic quest began in the late 1990s, the self-taught photographer has captured over 4,300 images of Native American rock art. His collection includes a remarkable array of designs painted, chipped or scraped upon stone surfaces centuries ago throughout southern New Mexico. (By definition, "petroglyphs" are images pecked or carved into a rock surface, whereas "pictographs" are paintings applied using natural pigments, often in caves or beneath ledges.)
The creators of these long-enduring artifacts "were trying to preserve certain memories" or communicate specific information, Hale believes. "That's why they put them on rocks." While the exact meaning of the designs is open to conjecture — and probably ranges from providing simple directions to celebration of the sacred — it's hard to imagine the artists foresaw them being studied a thousand or more years later.
"I think they were, for whatever reason, trying to capture a certain feeling in every petroglyph and pictograph," says Hale. "Exactly what, I can't say. Those feelings are very much alive today, and I'm trying to do justice to them."
Many of the sites Hale documents are rarely visited and some have probably never have been photographed. Hundreds are sequestered in remote locations on private land, their coordinates revealed to Hale by cowboys, miners, ranchers, geologists and game wardens who roam the backcountry for reasons of their own. They've come to trust the white-haired bushwhacker and admire his passion for preserving these fragile relics.
"But you want to know something?" Hale asks me during our lunch, spoon hovering above a steaming bowl of chile con carne. "For the first three years, I didn't take a single good picture. Not a darn one."
Capturing decent photos of rock art, my dining companion insists, is much harder than finding it. Such vulnerable creations, weathered by the elements and overexposed to the Southwest's glare, often demand cloudy days or indirect light in order to be fully appreciated. Before he obtains the picture he wants, Hale sometimes makes a dozen or more visits to a location in various seasons or weather conditions.
"It can take me five years to get things just right," Hale explains. "You see, I'm trying to get the spirit of the petroglyph onto a piece of paper. So I just keep takin' it 'til it comes — and I know it when it does."
In order to understand better this late-life rock art obsession, it helps to know more about the early years of Embree "Sonny" Hale Jr.
"I've lived [in Sierra County] nearly all my life," says the slender fellow in a get-up that includes a pink neckerchief, red shirt, blue jeans and hand-tooled cowboy boots. His wide-brimmed black hat is adorned with a leather band delicately inlaid with silver and turquoise.
Hale is a regular at Hillsboro's General Store Caf, where I'm tucking into a plate of green chile cheese enchiladas. This tiny Black Range town was home in 1935 to his father and mother, an explosives expert and a schoolteacher, respectively. "My mother delivered me at the hospital in Hot Springs [now Truth or Consequences]," says Hale, "but I spent a good part of my childhood here." The family later spent time in or near the communities of Monticello, Winston, Hatch, Hot Springs, Nutt and Kingston. Both sets of grandparents had homesteaded in northeastern New Mexico over a century ago.
"I went to kindergarten at the old schoolhouse in Hillsboro," Hale remembers. "Then, up in Kingston, we had eight grades all taught together in a one-room school." During much of his childhood, the family camped out at job sites on ranches where Hale's dad, the senior Embree, was working with dynamite or bulldozers.
"My parents divorced when I was in grade school," recalls Sonny. "My new stepmother used to take me to her brother's ranch, near Winston. She liked to stop and look at some rock art that was right beside the road. She'd explain what they were and why she liked 'em. I still remember seeing my first petroglyphs there, when I was nine years old. They were kind of a mystery to me. I've been fascinated by them every since."
Later, Hale's father taught him the skills necessary to become a "powder monkey" and "cat skinner," which provided Sonny with a modest living in the outback of Sierra County, blasting holes (including graves) and leveling land (with bulldozer and backhoe). The occupational hazard of loud noise wiped out much of his hearing, evident now in the way Hale sometimes cups his right ear in order to follow a conversation.
"I still have all my fingers, though," he declares proudly, holding up all 10 digits for inspection.
| Learn more about Sonny Hale's photography or Erin Hudson's documentary at www.inplaceoftime.com or www.rotationfilms.com In Place Out of Time can be purchased via the latter for $21.95, plus shipping, tax and handling. Hale's work can be seen at the General Store Caf in Hillsboro and the Percha Bank Museum in Kingston. His book and framed prints can be purchased through Hale by visiting his gallery or calling him at 740-2694. |
At one point the younger Hale returned to the Kingston area to dig a hard-rock silver mine, which barely paid its way. This veritable jack-of-all-trades also did a two-year hitch in the US Army, got married, became a father, and divorced. His daughter and grandson live today in Albuquerque, occasionally visiting Hale at his modest house-trailer south of Hillsboro, near the ghost town of Lake Valley. The outfit lacks electricity and running water. Hale hauls from a well and must drive four miles to find a spot where his cellphone works. At night he cooks on a campfire and lights up his trailer with an oil lamp.
"I was always interested in [Native American artifacts]," recalls Hale, but perpetually living on the edge — "and sometimes falling off" — prevented further study. "I'd be out workin' on a ranch somewhere and find the ruins of old Indian dwellings. I never 'dozed any, but I'd see 'em. The cowboys and ranchers would show me petroglyphs they'd find when they were out ridin' the range."
A little over a decade ago, something shifted.
"A friend of mine took me to a [rock art] site near Rincon that had a petroglyph that was one of my favorites," says Hale. "I fell in love with it. You see, you develop a bond with these things. Going back to visit, it's like seeing an old friend."
Returning several years later, Hale was shocked to discover that his favorite petroglyph was missing, apparently stolen. Theft of rock art is a constant and growing problem in the Southwest, where sale of chipped-off petroglyphs is a lucrative — yet highly illegal — business.