Eric Gofreed
Well-Known Member
Claret Cup: Also known as: Hedgehog Cactus, Mojave Mound Cactus, Kingcup Cactus, That Spiny Thing You’ll Regret Touching.
This cactus is the prom queen of the desert—short, spiky, and radiant in red. The flowers look like someone dipped a shot glass in cherry Kool-Aid and dared it to grow on a porcupine. It thrives in dry, rocky places where most plants say, “Nope,” and curl up to die. Not the Claret Cup. This one digs in, throws shade (literally none), and blooms like it’s starring in a spring fashion show for hummingbirds.
I love it because it’s tough, it’s gorgeous, and it only stabs you if you get too close, which is also how I feel about some relatives.
The Claret Cup Cactus Incident
They say you shouldn’t photograph flowers in someone’s yard, even if you’re standing on the side of the road, minding your own business, dressed like a responsible adult with a camera and clean fingernails. It’s unethical—a violation of an unspoken floral privacy agreement.
I hadn’t realized that cactus blooms had lawyers. Or modesty.
But there I was, pulled off on Verde Valley School Road, when I saw it. A perfect bloom. A botanical flirt. Scarlet petals practically waved me over. I stepped out of the car, stayed on the public side of decency and legality, clicked the shutter, and returned to my vehicle within a minute. No trampling. No trespassing. No loitering.
Later, a few of my photographer friends said, “Well, I would never photograph something in someone’s yard.”
To which I almost replied, “That’s because your lens cap is always on.” But I didn’t. Because etiquette matters.
Now, I understand ethics. I do. I don’t take candy from babies. I don’t photograph through windows. And I’ve never once said, “Smile!” to a mourning dove.
But if a cactus chooses to bloom like that—loud, vivid, and six inches from a public road—I think it’s practically begging for attention. And if taking that photo makes me some kind of cactus peeping Tom… well, then I accept my sentence.
Provided I can hang the photo in my cell.
This cactus is the prom queen of the desert—short, spiky, and radiant in red. The flowers look like someone dipped a shot glass in cherry Kool-Aid and dared it to grow on a porcupine. It thrives in dry, rocky places where most plants say, “Nope,” and curl up to die. Not the Claret Cup. This one digs in, throws shade (literally none), and blooms like it’s starring in a spring fashion show for hummingbirds.
I love it because it’s tough, it’s gorgeous, and it only stabs you if you get too close, which is also how I feel about some relatives.
The Claret Cup Cactus Incident
They say you shouldn’t photograph flowers in someone’s yard, even if you’re standing on the side of the road, minding your own business, dressed like a responsible adult with a camera and clean fingernails. It’s unethical—a violation of an unspoken floral privacy agreement.
I hadn’t realized that cactus blooms had lawyers. Or modesty.
But there I was, pulled off on Verde Valley School Road, when I saw it. A perfect bloom. A botanical flirt. Scarlet petals practically waved me over. I stepped out of the car, stayed on the public side of decency and legality, clicked the shutter, and returned to my vehicle within a minute. No trampling. No trespassing. No loitering.
Later, a few of my photographer friends said, “Well, I would never photograph something in someone’s yard.”
To which I almost replied, “That’s because your lens cap is always on.” But I didn’t. Because etiquette matters.
Now, I understand ethics. I do. I don’t take candy from babies. I don’t photograph through windows. And I’ve never once said, “Smile!” to a mourning dove.
But if a cactus chooses to bloom like that—loud, vivid, and six inches from a public road—I think it’s practically begging for attention. And if taking that photo makes me some kind of cactus peeping Tom… well, then I accept my sentence.
Provided I can hang the photo in my cell.
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I am one of those types that wanders around my neighborhood with a 100-500mm lens on my camera. And the lens cap is off.
