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 Café 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.
"I was completely devastated," says Hale, eyes wide and still shaking his head in disbelief. "That petroglyph meant so much to me — and now it was gone. I immediately made a vow to start taking pictures of as many petroglyphs and pictographs in New Mexico as I could, knowing any one of them could disappear at any time." (Besides theft and vandalism, much such artwork is also lost to weathering: Freeze-thaw cycles slough off chunks of rock, rain stains cliffs with mineral deposits, and sun bleaches away peck marks and pigments.)
At age 65 Hale quit work, sold his backhoe, and headed into the hills and canyons, devoting himself virtually full-time to the documentation of rock art. "I'm not a scientist, anthropologist or archaeologist, and I've never been to a camera school," he says, without apology. This is a man on a mission, notwithstanding his lack of access to fancy equipment or wealthy patrons.
Ninety percent of Hale's photos have been taken with a pocket-sized film camera — he is uncomfortable with digital technology — either hand-held or tripod-mounted. Processing is done at the Walmart in T or C, with large prints made by professionals in Hillsboro or Las Cruces. Even though friends have taken to donating him their old cameras, most of his pictures are still taken on an inexpensive, point-and-shoot Olympus.
"Somehow I had the idea that I could make a living by selling my pictures," says Hale, collapsing into a paroxysm of infectious laughter. "Boy, was I wrong. In fact, tryin' to make money at it kinda gets in the way."
As it turns out, he barely earns enough to cover the cost of making the pictures themselves. A few years ago, Hale opened a tiny, one-room gallery behind the General Store Caf, which also displays some of his work. Occasionally a gallery in the area will show and sell his pictures, which illustrate a line of note- and postcards as well. A few years ago Hale self-published a limited-edition coffee table book, One Man's Quest, that he sells for $120 apiece.
"I just want to do what I want to do," Hale says firmly, "and I think it's worth it." The ongoing project keeps him busy and focused, following a calling that has filled this retiree's life with new meaning. He recalls the admonition of one local resident who insisted Hale was "too old" to pursue such an ambitious goal.
"No," he replied. "Now is when I need one more than any other time. I've seen too many people who say that some day they're going to do something and then they just get too old and can't get out of the bed or the car or the chair or whatever. So I'm going to do this while I still can, for as long as I can."
Hale's obsession eventually caught the eye of Hillsboro photojournalist Jan Haley, who mentioned her neighbor in an article published by New Mexico magazine and later advised Albuquerque cinematographer Erin Hudson, who spent two years making an award-winning documentary about Hale entitled In Place Out of Time. The 45-minute production has screened on PBS affiliate KRWG-TV Las Cruces and at various film festivals. Described as "a poetic portrait," the film follows Hale as he searches far and wide for rock art he has not yet photographed.
The immediate area around Hillsboro, he points out, actually has few petroglyphs, which prompts Hale to sometimes drive hundreds of miles in pursuit of unexplored territory.
"I call him 'the king of the wild frontier,'" jokes Bonita Barlow, a Kingston-based painter. "Sonny is the sweetest man you will ever meet."
Others in the community confirm such assessments, describing Hale as the kind of person who is always willing to lend a helping hand. He, in turn, is convinced he would not be able to survive without the benevolence of Hillsboro's 200 or so residents.
"Sonny is a man who truly follows his heart," Hudson told me in a recent telephone conversation. "He is a fourth-generation New Mexican with a genuine attachment to a place, a landscape, and the memory of those who were here before us. His life isn't easy, but his passion keeps him going."
Hudson's film is surprisingly intimate, showing her unabashed subject grappling with an overdrawn bank account, broken vehicle, uncooperative weather, and high gas prices. Yet Hale seems always to confront every obstacle with a wide grin and disarming guffaw.
"I have a bond — a kinship — with this place," he allows. "Life is so fleeting, and yet these petroglyphs are constant. I know they'll be here after I'm gone, telling their stories and sharing their mysteries. I'm not trying to offend any Indian people in what I do. I just want to try to do justice to as many of their [petroglyphs and pictographs] as I can, for just as long as I can. This is what I live for."
Richard Mahler is a free-lance writer in Silver City, where
he leads
walking tours of the historic district. Learn more at www.richardmahler.com