The Passing of Friends

Baffin, Canada- Post-holing up The Beak was one of those memories that, in my mind, i've relegated to Type 2 fun.  Had I not been with an amazing crew, It most certainly would have been closer to type 3 fun.

We departed from our base camp down in Sam Ford Fjord on Baffin Island, early in the morning.  It was light outside, but only because it's always light outside at that time of year. We glided across the frozen sea on snowmobiles, the arctic wind whipping at our covered faces.  Rolling up at the base, we geared up for the long climb ahead.  This was a scouting mission so the BASE jumpers could get some test jumps in.  Filming would begin the following morning.  As we trudged up the backside of the cliff face, the sun beat down on the snow, burning our already tan faces.  Wind blew by us, drowning out the heavy breathing. The group slowly crawled up the backside, hitting false summit after false summit.

When we finally reached the ridge, the launch point stuck out like a sore thumb.  We stood there looking around at some of the most beautiful scenery on earth. In front of us, a wind swept frozen fjord extended into the vast arctic wasteland. Behind us, a glacial remnant of the forces that have shaped the landscape for a millennia, creaked and groaned as it scoured it's way down through the rock.   The silence was deafening.

The build up of adrenaline was electrifying as the BASE jumpers checked and rechecked their equipment. After what seemed like an eternity, they were ready. The three of them perched at the edge of the cliff, issuing words of encouragement, and in a moment they were gone, rocketing toward the frozen ocean below.  My eyes were transfixed on the spot where they had been standing, but I looked down in time to see their parachutes open up.  Screams of excitement interrupted the unnerving silence, and we watched as they effortlessly steered their canopies down to the valley floor. Once again, we were soon bathed in an inescapable quiet. Our reason for being there had just jumped off the cliff.  We looked around, exchanging congratulations of our own, and started packing up our things for the hike down, which ended up being substantially easier.

It's interesting how fleeting these moments seem. Timy Dutton, one of the BASE jumpers on the shoot, died last week in a skydiving accident at one of his favorite jump locations. Time stops with the passing of friends, and while he is no longer here, the impressions that Timy made on all of us will last forever, which is a comforting thought.

Pushing the Limits

Joes Valley, UT- One of the things I love about living in Utah is the rock climbing. Any direction you go, there is good climbing. Joes Valley, down near Orangeville, is one of those places.  I first started going there about 10 years ago with one of the rowdiest groups of climbers I've ever met. Loud, obnoxious, immature, idiotic: All are adjectives I could use to describe us, however we all had fun, and that's what is most important. A couple years ago, we started hiking up random drainages to find new boulder problems. We had seen a particularly tall one from the road and had even walked up and looked at it, but it looked impossible, so we went on in search of other climbs.

Last year, Griffin Whiteside and I, along with some others, went back to it, and started cleaning it, brushing all the gunk off, making sure certain holds wouldn't break off. It was a necessary evil. A couple weeks after we had cleaned it, A group of us headed back up to it carrying large crashpads  so that Griffin could try it. Nobody else had any desire to try it. It's tall and scary, thus the name #Tall. The moment I captured on Griffin's first ascent, is one of the critical moments on the climb. Your right foot swings out, something climbers call a barn door, and the weight of your body starts to shift. If you're not strong enough, your body will continue to swing to the side, your hands will pop off and you will land on your head and die.

The shouts of "come on" and "stick it" went quiet as Griffin's right leg started swinging back. He looked down in fear, eyeballing the landing. Chad, moved some pads around, while scott feebly held his hands up, getting ready to make sure he didn't land on his head. A breath escaped Griffin as he put his right foot back on. The screams from below started back up again as he finished the last couple moves to top out. Easily one of the tensest moments I've ever witnessed while climbing with some of the best friends i've ever had, except Scott.

The Country

Days pass by, driving North around the fjords, through tunnels, over mountains – always driving, searching. Churches and cemeteries dot the countryside next to abandoned farmhouses, whose only inhabitants scurry about looking for food and shelter from the incessant storms that batter the well-weathered walls.

In the small towns that litter the countryside, church steeples rise up, stretching toward the sky. Every Sunday, town people fill the pews, solemnly giving thanks for the lives that are their own. One-by-one they file outside, walking past the old cemeteries filled with small wooden crosses. The grass is long and unkempt, still brown from the winter, but on the verge of change.

The earth rotates and warms the air. Iceland is waking up from its winter slumber.

Driving by country houses, mothers hang clothes in the yard while keeping an ever-watchful eye on their children who wrestle around close by. Animals, with their thick winter coats, plod through fields grazing on the spring foliage, perfectly content to lie about in the sun.

Endless expanses of color stretch out toward the horizon: Rich green valleys, carved smooth by receding glaciers follow crystal clear meandering rivers and streams. Rugged mountains, torn apart by years of volcanic abuse, shoot up from the ancient flood plains. Clouds race across the sky as shadows roll over the earth.

Sounds of nature are soon mixed with sounds of man. Tractors yawn and roll out of the barns. They lumber over the fields, tilling the earth, cracking the surface, allowing it to breathe. The farmers who toil under the sun day in and day out share a connection with the land. They’re in touch with every living thing, waiting, patiently listening, watching for signs that tell them it is time to start the process. From creation until death, all of Iceland belongs to the earth.