A Necessary Escape

Sometimes I feel like a bird in a storm; completely out of control, moving whichever direction the wind takes me. I also feel like that’s ok. You’re never going to have complete control of your life and the key is to find a way to manage. For me, I like to shut my phone off and go on an adventure. Sometimes it’s on a big run, but other times, I’ll try something new.

A few years ago, after I worked on a film documenting the Trans American Bike Race, I purchased a touring bike with big plans to ride around the west, and while I haven’t found myself planning any huge rides, I have found time to do some smaller ones. One in particular was down in Death Valley with my older brother Mike. We didn’t cover a ton of ground, but I remember the silence and the feeling of freedom, being out in such a vast landscape. It was definitely a necessary escape, and one that I look forward to revisiting.

Earth Art

If you’ve never been out to the Sun Tunnels then you should take a weekend to go visit. It’s a 3 hour 30 minute drive from Salt Lake City, heading over into Nevada, then cutting back into Northern Utah. Dusty roads take you the last 20 minutes, through the old rail town of Lucin, where large cottonwood trees surround an oasis in the desert.

The Sun Tunnels were created back in the 70’s by Nancy Holt, wife of Spiral Jetty artist, Robert Smithson. During the summer and winter solstice, the sun rise and sun set line up with two of the four large concrete tubes, creating a beautiful piece of earth art. For being such a simple installation in such a strikingly barren environment, it left me with a sense of awe and wonderment that I normally feel while looking at vast and beautiful landscapes around the globe. It’s definitely worth a visit.

The Summit Shot

Fisher Towers, Utah - Something I really enjoy creating are large panoramic stitches. Usually, this involves getting into a position where you’re excited with the landscape in front of you, then shooting a huge plate, upwards of maybe 20 photos. I’m not sure if it’s totally necessary, but I overlap quite a bit, to give the program a lot of information to work with. If at all possible, i’ll photograph using a lens with a focal length of at least 50mm, in order to avoid distortion which can be a real pain in the ass to deal with. Once you’ve created the plate, then you wait for the action. In this case, I was filming climbing for an Australian television show. While we were waiting for the TV host to get into position, a random climber summited Ancient Art and rapped back down. I shot a series of photos that captured him/her climbing the last little portion and standing on top. I eventually chose this one over the summit shot, because I liked the idea of the anticipation right before reaching the summit of something. Once you’ve created the plate and picked your action shot, it’s just a simple matter of dropping him/her into the scene. I think what I love most about it is that often times you can create a pretty awesome sense of scale that you wouldn’t be able to create otherwise.

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.

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.