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.

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 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.

The Path That You Take

It’s funny how sometimes you think that you’re headed in the right direction, but when you stop and take the time to look around, you realize that you need to tweak your priorities just a little bit. The end goal is usually always the same, it’s just the path that you take to get there might be a little different than what you had imagined.

An Objective Observer

I think a lot people who are looking to get into photography are really concerned about the technical specifications of different cameras; which camera shoots more frames a second or which one has a higher pixel count, but I think those are the wrong questions. To me, the main question is what kind of camera is small enough that I’ll want to take it with me on my adventures, but good enough to express what I’m seeing in an adequate way. Maybe that’s more about the style of photography that’s being pursued.

I very much love trying to be an objective observer, documenting the realities around me, so for me, accessibility is key. There in no sense in bringing any camera if it’s just going to stay in my backpack. Having it in it’s own pouch, or in my chest pocket increases the chance of pulling the camera out in time to document a moment that will only happen once. This is something that I’ve known for a long time, but have only recently put into practice. It’s definitely been a learning experience, and I’m excited to see what comes out of it.

The Wasatch Ultimate Ridge Link-Up

On Aug 8th, 2015, around 930 am, Alexis Baum-Crellin and I met Stacey Pearson at her home near the base of Little Cottonwood Canyon to do some last minute gear shuffling. We stood around the large room filled with expensive looking exercise equipment debating the minutia: How much water we were bringing, what sort of food, etc. . . Aware of the task at hand, we quickly wrapped things up. After a few minutes we all fell silent. Alexis grinned, “Well, should we get going?” I let out a heavy sigh. Both of the girl’s excitement made me feel like I had made a wrong choice somewhere along the line. While visibly unfazed, my true excitement was buried deep within, and wouldn’t be awaken for quite a while.

All three of us piled into Stacey’s car and drove the couple miles to the trailhead at the base of Ferguson Canyon. We exited the car and geared up. The problem with running is that it takes very little equipment, so it took almost no time to get ready to go. Usually, on different adventures, the process is a little more complicated, so one gets time to work it out in their head what it is they’re about to embark on, but this time It happened so fast. One moment, I was safe in the confines of a nice warm car, and the next, I was running behind Alexis and Stacey, trying to convince myself that I had made the right decision.

The WURL, or Wasatch Ultimate Ridge Linkup, is a 33 miles ridge traverse that circumnavigates Little Cottonwood Canyon just outside of Salt Lake City. With a little over 20,000 feet of elevation gain, it’s not something to be taken lightly. Jared Campbell was the first to complete the run, and less than 20 people have completed it since.

Stacey and Alexis had been plotting to run the WURL for quite a while, rehearsing sections that would need to be accomplished in the dark, and running water up to the top of the ridge for a resupply. A week prior to there departure, Alexis posted something about the WURL on Facebook and I immediately took interest. It’s something that I had always wanted to do, in the same vein that i’ve always wanted to go into space. Sure, it was something that was technically achievable, but i hadn’t actually made any sort of effort to make it happen. This time, however, I decided to pull the trigger. This seemed like a great opportunity for me to tick this one off the list, as well as shoot some photos throughout the process. After a little bit of thinking, I texted Alexis and told her I wanted to come. If I had fully understood what I was getting myself into, I might not have volunteered my time up quite so easily.

Cruising up Ferguson Canyon, we gained the ridge that led to the top of Twin Peaks; the first of many summits. The wind howled, moving clouds quickly up and over the ridge, occasionally blocking the sun. The terrain was difficult; moving from Twin Peaks over O’Sullivan, then onto Dromedary was slower than we had anticipated. There were a handful of no-fall zones that had to be navigated with caution, however after Dromedary, things eased off and we were able to make better time. We topped out Mt. Superior and searched for a water stash that had been placed earlier, but came up empty handed. We weren’t too concerned, though since we had a friend meeting us a ways down the ridge, but when we arrived at the resupply location, no-one could be found. After a few phone calls, we found out that a road biking race had closed the canyon and they weren’t able to make it up to us. Slightly frustrated, Alexis, Stacey and I pooled our water and after a few more phone calls, had Alexis’ husband lined up for meeting us at Catherine’s pass, which was about 5 miles away.

Over the next hour, we made our way along the more mellow parts of the ridge, passing Honeycomb Cliffs. The pace picked up as steep jagged hills gave way to rolling runnable terrain. This was by far the easiest portion of the run. We made our way through aspen groves, up and over Mt. Wolverine and down to Catherine’s Pass where we finally we able to restock our food and water. We rested briefly and spoke with a nice couple who volunteered to take some of our trash for us. Since it was already a supported run, none of us really felt bad about offloading our protein bar wrappers on to them. We set off on a slow pace, headed for Devil’s Castle. As the sun inched closer to the horizon, I noticed the silence. We hadn’t been a very chatty group, which was fine. Sometimes the biggest motivator is the sound of your own breath.

By the time we got to Devil’s Castle, night had fallen. We broke out our headlamps and navigated the technical no-fall zones at a slower pace than we had anticipated, but because it was dark, everything felt focused. We were only really concerned with what was immediately in front of us. Before we knew it, we had made it up and over Sugarloaf and were sitting in the warming hut near the tram dock, which was a little over halfway. If the tram had been operating, I might have considered just heading down and calling it, but fortunately for my ego, it wasn’t. We rested up for about 30 to 45 minutes, eating delicious fruits that I had stashed, then reluctantly made our way back out into the darkness. The next few hours before sunrise were a blur. The hiking turned to scrambling, which made an already slow effort even slower. Route finding became hit and miss, and a lot of time was spent down climbing massive boulders, only to have to climb back up and head a different way.

We arrived at the Pfiefferhorn cold and exhausted. Up until this point, we had all crashed at least twice, however they were never at the same time, so when one person was having issues, the others could motivate them until they were able to get out of the funk. Now, however, the traverse was beginning to take it’s toll. Despite all of this, we were excited at the prospect of being finished, which I suspect was the biggest motivator. After our amazing friends had left, we watched the sunrise as we made our way off of airplane peak. The finish was in sight.

Sluggishly, we made our way across Lightning Ridge, and topped out Thunder Mountain’s south peak. Mentally, this was the hardest section. Despite being on the true ridgeline, it felt as if we were hiking in the wrong direction. The last two peaks were slow, but uneventful. Alexis, Stacey and I topped out Lone Peak about 24 hours after we had started. Chatting briefly with a couple on top, we bailed off the summit and worked our way down a sketchy couloir to the north. There was no trail off of Lone Peak, so we bushwhacked a while until we found Upper Bells Canyon Reservoir, then ran on pristine single track to the bottom, only getting lost once, when the trail abruptly ended at a rocky section. The last few miles were difficult. Bones ached, muscles were sore, and tendons felt tenuous at best. All three of us finished about 3 hours after topping out our last peak, with a total time of 27 hours and 15 minutes.

It was cool to see Stacey and Alexis take about 10 hours off the women’s record. Their motivation definitely kept me going when I didn’t really want to, and I’m sure that I just would have thrown in the towel had they not been there. After taking a month or so off, I’ve been able to look back and appreciate what we did. It’s helped me realize what’s possible with the right motivation, and I look forward to future adventures with amazing people.

The Wild

The silence that extended out across the lake was as tangible as the water beneath us. Birds circled high overhead, darting down toward the water, landing on the distance. All around us the Universe continued its violent expansion, and yet the only sounds we could hear were our own.  Josh’s rhythmic breathing cut through the air, while our paddles propelled us closer to our objective. Hardly a word was spoken between the steady, methodical strokes.

On a whim, Josh and I had left Salt Lake City at 9 o’clock the night before, driving the requisite four and half hours to get to Jackson, Wyoming.  By the time we arrived and found a place to crash, it was 2 am. Exhausted, we spent an hour packing, unpacking, and repacking the kayak, in order to get all of our gear to fit. When we were finished, we decided to take an hour nap, a decision that would later prove to be frustrating.

Waking up at 4, we carried the kayak about ¼ mile to get to Jackson Lake. It was dark when we put in, and not a soul was in sight. The stars above arced out across the heavens, illuminating the lake with a billion points of light. 30 minutes into our paddle, the sun was lurking below the horizon.

To our west, we could see our goal, Mt. Moran, rising above trees that crept down to the shore. As the sun rose higher, light moved down its slope onto the lake, warming the air around us. Within minutes, we realized the day was going to be much hotter than we had anticipated.

After about two hours of paddling, we arrived at the base of Mt. Moran, pulling the kayak up onto the sand. The snow was still deep from the heavy winter, so we were able to start skinning just pass the edge of the lake.

Climbing higher and higher, we realized that we had misjudged how long it would take us.  Arriving just below the final couloir we stopped to assess.  Disappointed in our time management, exhausted from our lack of sleep, we briefly discussed our goal and decided to pull the plug. The weather was just too warm and the snow was quickly turning into crud.

The skiing wasn’t anything memorable; shitty concrete, pockets of creamed corn, mixed with some aggressive tomahawking down to the flats. What stood out to me though was the paddle earlier that morning; The blisters covering my hands. The water dripping down the paddle, soaking my shirt. The cool air against my face, The silence. It was definitely the silence.

The Outer Reaches of Space

Music has always been a huge part of my life. At a young age, my mother forced me to play the piano for 30 minutes a day, 5 days a week. I hated every minute of it. It wasn’t until I quit taking lessons 7 years later that I really started to appreciate it. These days, if I get a chance, I still like to sit down and play what I can remember, but if I could learn any new instrument, it would be the violin. It is such a passionate instrument that elicits so much emotion. Hopefully one of these days i'll be able to sit down and give it a try.

In a nondescript building nestled in downtown Salt Lake City, sits one of the world’s top violin making schools, where people from all over spend years learning the intricacies that are required to produce the instruments that in turn create the music that moves the deepest part of the soul.

I spent some time walking around, shooting some photos, watching how focused all the students were, and the level of attentiveness was mind blowing. Throughout my time there, they talked to each other, and told jokes, but when it came time to work on their violin, their gaze steadied and the conversations drifted off into the outer reaches of space.

Cascading Across the Hills

Salt Lake City, Utah - I've lived in Salt Lake City for a few years now and am still blown away by the amazing trail system that is minutes from my house. One warm fall morning, Luke Nelson and I took advantage of the beautiful light that cascades across the hills overlooking the city, and we went out and shot some photos. I've run hundreds of miles on these trails and still seem to find new ones around every corner.  It's amazing!

Sense of Scale

Kennecott, Salt Lake City- Nothing says "human" like digging a huge hole in the ground. Some people might look at this and say "disgusting", while other's might look at this and say "beautiful".  I think it's interesting that something so disgusting can be so beautiful. The scale of the Kennecott Copper mine is hard to grasp, but for reference the tires on the haul trucks you can see roaming around are about 13 feet tall.