Here are a few images that inspire me to lace up and get out there.
What motivates you?
Mountain Running
Winter Backcountry Photography.
I had an idea about ten years back, “it would be easier to get great ski and snowboard imagery if I just shot the places I was backcountry skiing with friends.” No lift lines, no tracks, no crowds. Simple, just bring the camera along and watch the bank account grow from all the money rolling in from sales of my work…
That’s not exactly what has happened, not even close, but there is something rewarding about getting out into the wild and coming back with something that isn’t recycled.
With each passing winter season in the Wasatch I am always amazed with new discoveries. A different approach, a new zone, a new line I either didn’t know about or hadn’t visited yet. The exploration seems to be never ending…
Powder
On the morning of April 15, 2015 I was up around 430 AM. I couldn’t sleep. Looking out the window I saw that a blanket of fresh snow covered the lawn. I brewed coffee, surfed the daily headlines and tapped my fingers waiting for Snowbird to update it’s overnight storm totals.
24″ and still snowing! I immediatley loaded up the car and met Hannah Follender at Snowbird’s tram. These are a few of the images from throughout the day. When it finally stopped coming down it added up to 40″ in less than 24 hours. Not bad for Tax Day!
What are your passions?
“What are you passionate about?”
My wife asked while skinning up a winter trail in the Wasatch Mountains. As she passed through the arch of an aspen tree that bent over the track I paused. A wave of snow clung to the trunk’s upside only inches wide and at least twelve inches tall and serpentined the entire length of the arch. Its position on the tree defied gravity and the sun.
I wouldn’t describe my youth as happy. In fact, looking back it was a very tumultuous time filled with angst and bad choices. My twenties were mainly a dark depression that to this day still tugs at me from the shadows. When my wife asked me that question I had an answer.
“You know that feeling when you’re climbing and you’re afraid but somehow you keep climbing and push through that fear? You’re still nervous, and still struggling, but for some reason you’re slightly removed from the situation? Like you’re seeing yourself from the outside? Aware of the acute nature of the situation; a small human dangling on a big cliff in the middle of a forest, in the western US, on the planet Earth, within the Milky Way, somewhere in a fold of the Universe?”
My wife shuffled ahead entering a stand of snow flocked spruce trees.
“Okay, it doesn’t have to be climbing. It can be skiing in the backcountry, hiking, running, yoga, sailing… any activity, anywhere outside. I’m talking about those moments where, while still being present, you see a bigger picture of everything and your place within it.”
One kick turn after the other we switched-backed up a ridge passing the gnarled and twisted bodies of dead limber pines.
“It doesn’t even have to be outside, but for me, during my youth and after my parents’ death I found these profound moments occurred out in the wild… It’s not necessarily about how hard, how fast, whether I was first or whatever. All that stuff is great, but it’s much more rewarding to have these moments to connect with each other, other people. What’s the point if it’s not shared?”
At the crest we quickly transitioned; skins ripped from skis, jackets, gloves and goggles on, we were ready to ski.
“Do you remember the bent aspen tree we walked though down below? How the snow was still hanging onto it?” I asked.
She smiled, “It was beautiful… and amazing!”
My passion is sharing the outdoor life.
Winter’s Sunrise.
I have never regretted waking before dawn… Especially in the snowy months.
Twelve memories from the twelve months of 2014. What do you recall?
Risk in avalanche terrain. What’s it worth to you?
I recently watched this interview with Utah Avalanche Center’s Bruce Tremper. In it he talks about risk in avalanche terrain. About half way into it something he said stuck with me. Paraphrased, “There are three types of people in the backcountry; those who don’t know they are at risk, those who know and go and anyway and then there are the people how go because there IS risk.”
Reflecting on time spent in the mountains it’s fair to say I have fallen into all three categories at one time or another. I shudder at the memories of a teenager rambling through the mountains completely ignorant of the dangers. Through my twenties I was trying to prove something and made terrible choices. (What was I trying to prove? I am not sure, but for some reason it felt like time was limited and the need to catch up was great.)
Another note from the interview that hit home was the possibility of having a lifetime in the sport. I like this. Numerous close calls and the accumulation of time in the hills have begun to change the way I approach avalanche terrain. Education, choosing the right partners, patience and having a willingness to walk away have all become part of the process. Don’t get me wrong; I still have my eye on steeper lines it’s just now I am more willing to wait for better conditions. Hopefully this will lead to a long and rewarding outdoor life.
August 14, 2011. What were you doing?
(This is a journal entry from the morning of August 14, 2011)
It rained lightly through the night. Neither Jacki or I slept well. Around 530 the rain stopped and the moon appeared through a hole in the clouds. It was nearly full. I reluctantly crawled out of the tent in an attempt to make a photo. I rattled off one blurry frame before it disappeared into dark clouds.
Another slow morning. I wandered around to see if anyone might be up. All the climbers were still down.
The clouds broke apart by seven. I brewed tea and ate breakfast alone, Jacki was finally asleep.
Pika’s whistled to each other across the cirque of Lone Peak.
I hear these sounds. Trickling water from the melting snowfields. Echoing planes overhead. A bird’s song in the distance. Pika’s; chirp, chirp, and then a responding chirp, chirp… their call.
I see these things. Clouds floating in a blue sky. The haze from the previous week is gone. Dirty, red, tinged snowfields flow down from cliffs and in between them piles of talus. Pikas sprint from rock to rock. A robin hops along the grassy patches in search of breakfast.
Small yellow flowers hover above the grass. At an elevation nearing 11,000 feet stunted pines hang onto ledges in the surrounding cliffs. They are ragged and hardy. Columbines, Buttercups, appear in sheltered corners of the rock. Their coloring appears tired, but beautiful. The Bull Thistle has yet to bloom and grows defiantly strong despite the limited environment.
Shallow pools of rain water vibrate in the coming day.
Yellow, rust and brown lichen clings to the stone which is covered in red and green patina. A few boulders are made of diorite. I sit on one rock.
The trailing clouds above are releasing the last of their moisture. It does not reach me.
I hear muted voices rise from the fields of granite. It’s time to start the day.