Through Trial and Error

A while ago I posted about my struggle with portraiture and how important I think it is for me to connect with the subject on an emotional level. While that might not be true for everyone, it’s still something that I struggle with. Through trial and error, I’ve learned to deal with my anxiety in different ways. One way that works for me is using an instant film camera to make the initial interaction less awkward and more friendly.

This often comes into play when traveling around places where the population doesn’t necessarily have the means to go out and get prints themselves.

While I was over in Niger this last year, documenting a project on paleontology, we ran into quite a few semi-nomadic families moving around the desert herding various types of animals. We would stop and chat through an interpreter to see if they’d seen any massive dinosaur bones when traveling. During these stops, I’d pull out the instant film camera and through a small amount of miming, convince them to pose for a portrait, that I would then give to them. 

I realize that I’m not solving any large-scale social problems, and maybe I’m really just doing all of this for myself, but It does seem like it makes people genuinely happy to receive a small gift like that and if it’s an easy thing to do, why not do it?

The Injustice of Poverty

We see the inequality. The unfairness; The world has left you behind, staggering across the desert. Hungry and alone; chasing after an idea that the slow march of time will one day stop for you to catch up.

We hear you cry out, begging to be heard. Pleading to an unseen creator. “Help me”, you shout. Your neck craned upward toward the heavens. Your voice drown out by the bitter winds of selfishness and greed.

We feel your heartache at the injustice of poverty. The painful recognition that you have done nothing to deserve the life that you live, that simply because you came into existence you will be trapped until you die.

We act as though you don’t exist, placated by the thought that your time will come in the afterlife, when the unseen creator will bestow upon you the glory that you deserve.

We refuse to admit that we are wrong.

The Enormity of it All

We drove through the desert, meandering between groves of acacia trees that dotted the landscape. In the distance, camel trains made their way north, carrying supplies for the month-long trek to the salt mines. As we pressed on in the heat, crescent-shaped sand dunes slowly rose above the horizon only to sink back into the sea behind us.

I had always wanted to visit Africa, so when I was given the chance to follow a group of paleontologists around Niger in search of dinosaurs and ancient humans, I immediately jumped at the opportunity.

Our caravan left Agadez, headed east, flanked by a number of military vehicles. The legs of about 30 soldiers dangled over the sides of the trucks as we crept across the arid desert. Worn hands clutched AK-47s. Men in camouflage stood at attention behind .50 caliber machine guns. Drug smuggling, gun running and banditry were common enough that the government required a military presents when traveling outside major cities. It was a reality I was unfamiliar with.

To the north, an unseasonable thunderstorm loomed over the Aïr mountains. It was just after sunset when we made camp in a wide rocky wash that only filled during the height of the rainy season. The crew quickly pitched tents, made dinner, and listened to the rumbling in the distance. Flashes of light lit up the night as the storm raced across the sky. We watched for about an hour until a light rain forced us into our tents. 

The following morning, our caravan puttered on, hoping to make the most of our limited time before the sun made everything miserable. After driving for what felt like an eternity, we came to a stop a few hundred yards from a small sandy rise. There was nothing about this spot that was any different than the last hundred kilometers, except that some of the team was visibly excited. 

We left the vehicles and walked across the sand in single file, trying not to disturb too much of the surroundings. Everyone was staring down at the ground looking for clues; small bone fragments, arrowheads, other anomalies that stood out. We found a few spots that had potential discoveries, but because it was late, we decided to set up camp and figure everything out the following morning.

As I laid in my tent, I thought about the timeline of existence that brought us to this point.  10,000 years ago, the Sahara was inhabited by humans along with a wide variety of animals; hippos, elephants, giraffes, and antelope. Just outside camp was an old graveyard that spanned thousands of years. It had passed through many iterations of what was survivable in the desert. 

Every thousand years or so the climate would shift, animals would move out and the humans would follow, only to return when the rains did. 3,000-year-old bodies were carefully buried above 5,000 to 10,000-year-old bodies, as if those that buried the dead were acutely aware of the regions history. It was hard to grasp the enormity of it all. 

The next morning, the crew started digging where they suspected some burials might be. When they found some small bone fragments, they cordoned off an area surrounding them and carefully started brushing away the sand. A few hours later, the outlines of larger bones emerged and by evening, there it was; the skeleton of an ancient human laying on its side, mouth agape, crying out from the grave. It was a strange feeling staring at the remains. It felt illicit, as if I was watching a secret unfold before me.

That night, I had no shortage of thoughts racing through my head. The United States is almost 250 years old. Throughout its history we’ve seen uninterrupted wars consume the middle and lower class. Hatred and intolerance simmers under the surface, manifesting itself daily. We’ve created a civilization that is capable of great things and yet we pollute our rivers and oceans. We burn down forests and fill the air with toxic chemicals. It doesn’t feel sustainable.

Maybe it’s not so much that it feels unsustainable, but that it is unsustainable. At some point the human race will end and all evidence that we existed will disappear. Our bones will return to the earth, our empty cities will turn to dust, and yet life will continue. Seasons will come and go, and as the world breathes, time will steadily push forward. It’s a beautiful reminder that we will all be forgotten in the end and what matters most are the actions that we make now to improve our lives and the lives of those around us.

The Darkness that Surrounds me

I stared up at the ceiling of the abandoned tent. The monotonous rhythm of breathing through my oxygen mask had almost lulled me to sleep, but the slight headache, and anxiety for the night to come wouldn’t allow it. I had been on the move since 6am and was wide awake when my alarm went off at 10pm.

It took about 30-40 minutes to get ready. I was sluggish, and every little movement required massive amounts of motivation. The sun had set a few hours before, and the evening light had followed shortly after. It was cold and pitch black. The condensation from my oxygen mask dripped down onto my one-piece down suit, forming a good-sized chunk of ice. I crawled out of the tent, shining my headlamp into the darkness that surrounded me.

Earlier in the day Renan Ozturk, Mark Synnott and I, along with 6 sherpas, ascended from 25,000 feet, up the fixed lines on the north west ridge of Everest. It was a slow process that was even slower because of my inability to catch my breath. The actual process of hiking up is simple, yet exhausting: Take 5 steps using the fixed line to take some weight, stop for 30 seconds, pivot at the waist and place one hand on the uphill leg, look down at the ground, breathe heavily. Repeat for hours.

We left our tents and hiked up into the void. Exhausted by the previous day’s work, we put our heads down, focused only on what our headlamp illuminated, and pressed on. After a few hours, we reached the main ridge. A few more hours after that and we reached mushroom rock; a prominent point on the way up to the summit. Just on the other side of mushroom rock is an inviting slab that makes the perfect bench to rest. Behind the bench is a body. The first one I noticed on the way up.

I don’t remember many details other than the body splayed out directly behind the slab, like a back rest, his face obstructed. My mind still has hard a time processing this image. All the bodies we encountered looked like mannequins, contorted in unnatural positions; frozen in time as omens, reminders of the what the future might hold for the unlucky and unprepared.

After switching out oxygen bottles, we made our way up the 1stand 2ndsteps, small mostly vertical sections where jumaring is essential. After the 2ndstep I found myself alone, walking up the slightly sloping ramp leading to the 3rdand final step. I stopped, sat down for a break and turned my headlamp off. For the first time since we left 27,000 feet, I was able to fully see my surroundings.

I sat in deafening silence, filled with wonder by the infinite that stretched out above me and the world below. Stars began to fade as the earth slowly rotated. Below me I could see headlamps milling about, making their way slowly up the trail toward me. The wind had tapered off and the frigid temperature from the night before dissipated to the point that I could take my gloves off.

As the group below me worked their way up, I set up a quick shot. Placing my pack down on the ground, I pushed the camera down onto it, making it as stable as possible. They were still about a hundred yards off, so I took a couple photographs and sat back down to watch the sunrise.

Throughout the trip I had been pretty aloof to the prospect of summitting. Before I took the job with Renan, it had never crossed my mind as something that I would ever do, nor was it something I had ever aspired to do. Even when we were pushing up from advanced basecamp, I was skeptical that we’d summit. But as I sat there utterly exhausted, watching rays of light dance across the landscape, a smile crept across my face. This scene before me would be one that I’d remember for the rest of my life.

How Different We Are

I often struggle with how much the world hates itself.

We’re all floating around, packed together on a microscopic speck in an infinite universe, and the only thing we can do is point out how different we are from those around us. The more we point out the differences, the more glaring they become, as if they actually matter. We forget about our basic needs and instead make choices based on fear of the unknown. We spew vile rhetoric with the single goal of alienating those who are already alone, and shirk the responsibility as a species to help those less fortunate.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe as a species, our only goal is to further our own interests. I hope that’s not the case.

Life in a Nutshell

I started skiing back in 2009 when Tim Kemple asked me to pick it up in order to assist him on shoots. Shortly after, I went out with a buddy in the back country and had the worst day ever. I didn’t realize that breakable crust sucks no matter how long you’ve been skiing, but I didn’t know any better. I just thought I was really shitty and that when I got better it’d be more fun. This went on for quite a few seasons. I’d go skiing in the back country, do a big lap, tomahawk my way down the hill, have an internal debate on whether or not it was actually fun, then try it again the next weekend. As the years went on, the internal debates subsided and I started to feel like I genuinely enjoyed it.

This is life in a nutshell. At first, you suck at it, but you do it because you have to, and eventually you learn to love it so much that even when you’re having bad days, you’re grateful for the experience.

In The Aftermath

My finger tips hover over the keyboard momentarily while my eyes shift focus.

From my hands to hers and back again.

I trace every line, every wrinkle. Her story etched into her skin.

It’s sometimes hard for me to reconcile with the world

And its flagrant disregard for order.

Choosing simply to devolve into a chaotic system.

Where one choice offers an infinite amount of possibilities.

And each person is subject to the choices of others.

Left to fend for themselves in the aftermath.

The only comfort I take out of the chaos,

Is knowing that everybody is most likely confused

About what actually constitutes happiness.

Born Into Chaos

If eyes are a window to the soul, what would we see?

Would we see wealth or oppression?

Would we see a life used as the foundation for other’s success?

Or would we see a reflection of who we are?

A child, born into chaos, floating through the ether.

We breathe the same air, and walk the same soil.

We wake up to the same sun, and stare in awe at the same starry night.

We all feel love, comfort, sadness, hope;

The chill of winter, and the warmth of spring.

But over time, we learn about hatred, intolerance.

We are taught to unravel the common threads that bind us together.

One-by-one, we cast off those who are different.

We cut the perceived blights from our collective family tree.

Burying them with our own ignorance.

And for what?

The Romantic Facade of Solitude

To describe Greenland as beautiful is an understatement as epic and vast as the surrounding landscape. Massive icebergs jut out of the ocean reaching skyward. Glaciers and fjords battle for dominance in a fight that can be felt miles away. It’s hard to imagine that a place with such beauty could hide such sadness. As a visitor, it’s easy to get caught up in the romantic facade of solitude, but under the surface is a larger issue that beauty cannot fix.

NPR did a really interesting article about arctic suicides that can be found here. If you have some time, it’s worth a read, and it will give you a better idea of the issues that face Inuit villages throughout the north.

Dreaming of Winter

When it’s hot outside, I find myself dreaming of winter adventures; trudging up a sketchy spine ridges, or skinning up toward a summit before the sun breaks. I love seeing my breath in the light of my headlamp, and listening to my slow and steady breathing. It’s therapeutic. Winter can’t come soon enough, but I will settle for fall.

The Next Misadventure

The low hum of a stirring city creeps through the window. The alarm goes off and my eyes flutter open. It takes a few seconds for everything to come into focus. I lay in bed and stretch my legs, pointing my toes toward the opposite wall. I don’t want to get out of bed. I never want to get out of bed, and yet I know that I have never regretted it.

I love running. I love being up high on ridge lines, looking down into valleys, traversing over mountain ranges, drinking from streams, and feeling as if I am the only person around for hundreds of miles. I also hate running. I hate bushwhacking up drainages filled with stinging nettle, getting dehydrated, tripping, falling into the dirt, feeling like a bag of shit. And yet, as miserable as I am sometimes, I find myself on google earth, plotting the next misadventure. Surely I am not alone.

The Void Between

Portraiture is one of the most difficult types of photography for me. More difficult than shooting in the mountains, or in the back alleys of third world countries. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering why this is, and I haven’t figured it out. I’m an outgoing person, but there is something so raw and intimate with the interaction, it makes me uncomfortable. The void between the camera and subject is essentially nonexistent, leaving me with nowhere to hide. I’ve been trying to overcome my anxiety and certain things help put me a little more at ease, like in this instance, being longtime friends with the subject.

Luke Nelson, who I’ve known since college, is a talented ultra-marathon runner for Patagonia. He loves suffering, but more than that, he loves suffering in the cold and excels when the temperature drops. One of my first adventures with him was documenting a hundred plus mile run that he and Ty Draney did through the Frank Church Wilderness area in central Idaho.  I had photographed the beginning of their run and didn’t find them until well past the time they were supposed to have finished. We stumbled upon each other 15 miles up a drainage. I had hiked up the side of the canyon to get a better vantage point and saw them thrashing around in the brush at the bottom. I yelled and started running down toward them. Even after hearing my shouts and seeing me from a distance, both Luke and Ty weren’t convinced I was real until I was handing them a couple of apples I had pulled from my backpack. The two of them had been without food for quite some time and informed me that they had spent a couple of hours that night, huddled under a map, shivering on the banks of the Salmon River.

I think that seeing Luke at his absolute worst made the portrait possible for me. Allowing me to witness a part of him that not many people ever get a chance to see definitely put my anxieties at ease. Thanks Luke.

Hotdog Princess

A photo has been circulating around the internet showing a group of young girls dressed in princess costumes, except for one girl who is standing on the end dressed as a hotdog. When I first saw this, I laughed as anyone would, but as the day went on, I referenced it a couple more times to friends and I started to realize that the photo was so much more than just an internet meme; It spoke to me. Not because I’ve always wanted to dress up in a hotdog costume, although i’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy it. It spoke to me because I have a really deep respect for people who shrug off the norms of society and live their lives how they want, regardless of how weird it might seem. I respect them because they don’t go along with the crowd just because everyone else is. I think being a hotdog princess applies to all genders, not just to women. We get so caught up with who is doing what on social media and trying to find ways to feel validated by others that we forget who we really are; just a bunch of total weirdos trying to find a weird little place in this world. So I say to everyone. Be the hotdog princess that you know you are.

Exhausted and Defeated

The steady creaking of our heavy bikes broke the early morning silence. Cruising down the hill from my house, Hayden and I made our way over to the train station, arriving about 20 minutes before departure. The silence resumed as we sat, waiting for the train to arrive. Seeing Hayden’s lack of excitement, I wondered if we made a mistake. Maybe we should have postponed it for better weather. After several minutes, I convinced myself that it was just early that that we had made the right choice. A short while later, we were traveling south toward Provo. The plan was to take the train to the southernmost station in order to avoid all the traffic and the dangers that come with it. From there, we planned to head southwest toward Great Basin National park where we hoped to ski Wheeler Peak, Nevada’s tallest mountain.

Around 6am, we disembarked and pedaled our way over to the closest McDonalds. Normally neither of would eat there, but we needed quick calories for the day, so Hayden purchased oatmeal while I shoved a McGriddle into my mouth. It was delicious, and I regretted nothing. Anyone who says anything different has either never had one, or is lying.

Feeling temporarily fueled, we left the golden arches behind us and set out toward Delta, Utah. The riding was slow and methodical, making it easy to think about everything and nothing at once. We lumbered along as factories and department stores turned to open road and farmland. There were predicted winds out of the south that day, however it was early enough that nothing noteworthy had materialized yet. When we reached Nephi, our halfway point for the day, we stopped for lunch and to stretch our legs. As we left town, we noticed the wind had increased.

The sun beat down on us as we made our way up into the high desert that inhabited the landscape between where we were and where we needed to go. We had become specks on a canvas of sagebrush and juniper, lost in the rhythm of moving forward. By now, the wind advisory that was predicted was in full effect. Steady 30 mph winds out of the south turned our bikes into sails, fighting us with every peddle stroke. We turned and headed south on the last stretch of highway leading to Delta, facing the wind head on. For 3 hours, Hayden and I crawled along at a snails pace, screaming curse words into the wind, only to have them taken from our lips, never to be heard by anyone.

That night, we went to bed exhausted and defeated.

The following morning, we reluctantly made  the decision to start pedaling home. The predicted winds were supposed to get up to 60 mph that day and the idea of crossing a long stretch of desert seemed daunting. Even though It was early, the weather had already turned pear shaped, legitimizing our decision to quit. With the strong wind at our backs, we made the ride home substantially shorter than the day before, cutting about 4 hours off our time.

It’s funny how we, as humans, confront defeat. For some it is the end, but for others, it is just a step in a larger process. My perception is often dictated by how long i’ve had to think about my decision. At first, i’m never happy, but over time, I realize that it’s a necessary and important step to becoming a better person, and it always leaves me excited to search for the next big failure.

The Right Call

A few months back, my friend Dan Stucki and I went to go ski Monte Cristo, a classic line in the Wasatch range, just outside of Salt Lake City. I’d never done it before and the conditions were mostly perfect. When we arrived at the parking lot, we realized our wake up time hadn’t been early enough. Both Dan and I silently scolded ourselves as we watched the line of headlamps that stretched to the saddle below Mt. Superior slowly work their way up in the darkness. It was unusually cold outside, which meant for a brisk start to the skin up, but it also meant that the fresh snow would be light.

After a few hours, we arrived on the summit of Mr. Superior. The sun was up and it warmed our faces, however the temperatures were still relatively low. I stayed on the summit of Superior while Dan walked across the saddle over to Monte Cristo, kicking off small cornices along the way. There had been wind that night that continued into the morning, but nothing too strong. Nobody had skied the face yet, and we were looking forward to fresh tracks. While I was waiting, A group of about 5 or 6 came up behind me, eagerly watching Dan work his way over. We chatted for a bit about the weather and the Wasatch, until I noticed Dan was coming back. One of the cornices he kicked off, pulled a slab that continued down toward the rappel. It wasn’t a huge slab, however it was big enough to make both of us slightly uneasy, and decided to just ski the south face of Superior instead. As we made our way down the south ridge toward our drop in point, we noticed the small group that arrived after us were skinning toward the summit of Monte Cristo. I can’t deny that this made both of us question our decision and left us feeling a bit defeated.

The skiing down the south face was just as fun as we had predicted. The snow was deep and the turns were epic. We got to the bottom, hitch hiked back to our car and loaded everything up. On the drive down canyon, despite just having had a really good run, Dan and I both acknowledged that maybe we should have skied Monte Cristo instead. By the time we pulled into the park and ride, both of us grudgingly agreed that it was fine to bail, even though we didn’t want to. I’m not sure either of us really actually felt that way, but we knew that we should have felt that way.

The next day, Dan sent me a link to the avalanche report. Two people were caught in a slide on the face where we would have skied, about the same time we were up there. I don’t recall if anyone was injured. I’m pretty sure they weren’t, however it was enough to validate our decision and left both of us knowing we made the right call. Who knows? Maybe it would have been fine. Maybe we would have had a really fun run? It’s impossible to know for certain what the outcome would have been, but as I get older, I realize that it’s better to just stack the odds in your favor so you can continue to do what you love.