Fennwood Photography Blog

2011-12-04T14:54:00.001-08:00

Roadtrip Part 6: Thanksgiving Crack Climbing at Indian Creek, Praying for Snow in Salt Lake City

November 20—Salt Lake City, UT

I take it as a good omen that on our first night in Salt Lake City it’s snowing. Freya and I are planning to spend the winter here skiing and there is nothing more exciting to a skier than an 8-12 inch forecast. If we didn’t have to find a place to live I would probably go skiing tomorrow, but it’s proving frustratingly difficult to meet a landlord willing to accept a 3-month lease. To make matters worse, I’ve picked up a terrible sore throat. It feels like I’m ripping through tissue every time I swallow. God forbid I yawn.

Life on the road was simple. The only stress was stress I chose to endure, like when leading a difficult route. There was no planning. There were no expectations. There was only the next climb, or really the next move within a climb. We made friends without trying, people who would risk their life to save ours, even if our only interaction together had been telling stories around a campfire. We drove until we felt like stopping and stopped until we felt like driving again. It was freedom. It was my version of the American dream and I loved it.

The city is a different type of adventure, but a valuable and cathartic adventure nonetheless. I’ve never lived in a city bigger than 80,000 people, and driving through Salt Lake I’m amazed with the seemingly endless sprawl of street lights, strip malls, and suburban developments. I-15 is jammed with speeding SUVs that don’t signal when changing lanes and diesel trucks hauling horse trailers down the HOV. Whereas the freeway is a maddening bustle of inconsiderate strangers, Downtown feels homey. It’s like a village hidden in the metropolis; trees line the streets; houses have character; the ingenious grid system makes finding any destination easy. Ted lives downtown and we are sleeping on his floor while we look for our own place to live. Already he’s taken us to a taco truck that serves the biggest $3 burrito I’ve ever seen and we visited the climbing gym, a luxury I haven’t had since college.

While cheap food and indoor climbing are great perks, the biggest attraction this city has to offer is the Wasatch Mountain Range. One afternoon, when Freya and I are tired of scouring neighborhoods for “For Rent” signs, we decide to drive up Little Cottonwood Canyon. There’s already snow on the ground at the mouth of the canyon and as we climb the winding road the snow gets deeper. Clean granite faces garnish the valley walls. Avalanche gullies are so frequent they look like lines in a college-ruled notebook. Reaching Snowbird’s dusty base, I glimpse a few neon-clad skiers carving turns into the pure white. I stop the car and get out. The air is dry and bitter cold. Oddly enough, it feels soothing on my sore throat. I can hear the sound of snow being pushed beneath waxed boards. It sounds soft. Hell, it smells soft. I’m half tempted to buy my season pass that moment, but it’s late and I know there are powder days in my future. I get back in the car, shivering yet budding with energy. Stress and worries disappear. All that remains is anticipation.

November 25—Indian Creek, UT

After a brief intermission in Salt Lake City, our climbing trip continued. Tuesday night we signed a lease on a 1-bedroom apartment downtown. The lease begins on December 1st. Wednesday morning we departed for Indian Creek, where a group of old friends and soon-to-be friends waited. It felt good to be on the road again. The southeasterly drive took 6 hours and we arrived as the setting sun painted the sandstone purple. The fading light revealed endless possibilities and endless challenges; very few routes at The Creek can be called easy. The walls are always steep, the friction always poor, the features pure and clean. Protecting the uniform cracks often requires 8 to 10 copies of the same sized cam. Therefore, it’s imperative to climb with friends who own a lot of gear. Thankfully, our group is well equipped.

The last and only other time I’ve been to Indian Creek was exactly two years ago. Freya, Justin, Martina and I climbed here a few days before Thanksgiving. Afterwards, we drove to Justin and Martina’s apartment in Durango, CO and spent the holiday feasting, drinking, and bouldering. (In fact, I wrote two blog entries about that very trip, the first one about Indian Creek, the second about Thanksgiving.) It was so much fun that Justin decided he wanted to make it a tradition, only this time—and forever onward—we would have Thanksgiving amongst the cottonwoods, next to the river, and beneath the red stone walls that are so enticing. The Facebook group was titled “Thanksgiving at The Creek” and Justin somehow coerced 7 lonely souls to join him for the dusty and frigid antics that were sure to ensue.

Enjoying the fire in camp one night.

The Camel Hut (Yurtini) set up beneath a big cottonwood.

Surrounded by sandstone.

Eldon cooks a snack in camp.

Sunset over desert towers.

The dishwater was frozen solid on Thanksgiving morning, but once the sun hit our camp it was downright comfortable. Having purchased a 12-pound turkey and a $30 BBQ/Smoker, Justin got right to work on what would be an all day affair. Since the turkey required tending, and since none of us wanted to abandon Justin to this selfless job, we decided to spend the day playing games, snacking, bullshitting, and drinking. We had a Frisbee and a slackline, as well as a game we called Horse Balls, which was a variation on Horseshoes. To provide entertainment, one member of our group, Jordan, slung the entire rack of climbing gear over his shoulder, walked into the bushes and returned a few minutes later, completely naked save for the shiny cams and pitted nuts shielding his genitalia. Of course, the most revealing moment, the moment that made all the girls scream, was when he turned around to walk back into the bushes and gave us all a fleeting view of his chalk white buttocks. The other men in the group, myself included, cited Jordan’s young age—19—as justification for his boldness, an ego-saving excuse that would be used more than once over the course of the trip.

The turkey sizzled; the slackline bounced; the wine went down like water. Before long, the bright day had melted into a dark afternoon and our stomachs growled. When Justin announced a 1-hour ETA on the turkey the rest of us began preparing our own contributions. Eldon uncovered a baking dish full of candied yams; Sarah concocted an enormous vat of mashed potatoes; Ash baked green bean casserole in one of the Dutch ovens; Martina used the other Dutch oven for stuffing; Jordan opened a jar of homemade cranberry relish; Freya and I threw together a colorful salad and somehow salvaged a delicious gravy out of the discarded turkey neck and captured juices from the BBQ. It came together as if by magic. The perfectly moist and flavorful meat of the turkey was the piece de resistance. We feasted like kings and queens, huddled around the fire, complimenting each other’s culinary skill and giving thanks for adventure, friendship, #2 Camalots, #5 Camalots, turkey skin, freedom, wine, family, and warmth. At long last, the food and drink overwhelmed our enthusiasm and we filtered languidly into our tents, submitting to the inevitable comas that our bodies desperately requested.

The next day began late, with sunshine roasting our tents, and ended late, with headlamps lighting our descent. After breakfast, we drove two cars to an unmarked turnout, parked, and began hiking toward Technicolor Wall. The approach was convoluted and we wasted most of the morning in search of a suitable trail. When we did finally arrive at the wall, Jordan immediately called dibs on a fist-sized crack in a left-facing corner. He led the route clean, bellowing a triumphant woot! when he reached the anchors. Meanwhile, Justin was leading a chimney route that involved 80-feet of beautiful stemming.
The rest of us thoroughly enjoyed top roping both these routes, although some more than others. At Indian Creek, hand and finger size determines the difficulty of a route. For Freya, whose fist is the size of a Satsuma orange, the route that Jordan led required her to shove her entire arm, shoulder deep, into the crack. Needless to say, it looked painful and she uttered more expletives in those few minutes than she had all trip.

Ash lights coals while Justin rubs turkey.

12lb turkey; $30 BBQ/Smoker

Justin attempts to juggle on the slackline.

To be 19 again...sigh...

Justin drools on turkey while carving.

Give me some of that immediately!

Martina showing off.

First of three helpings.

Justin with a too-small plate.

Whereas most of us were feeling humbled, Jordan’s confidence was soaring. He had just on-sighted a difficult route at The Creek and he was feeling strong. At that exact moment, a group of three ragged looking climbers arrived at the crag. One of these climbers, a grey-bearded, leather-skinned desert rat, asked to borrow all our #4 Camalots and began telling Jordan about the second pitch of the chimney route, the first pitch of which Justin had just finished leading. The old desert rat told Jordan that the second pitch had probably only been climbed once, by the desert rat himself when he had completed the first ascent. The desert rat made the route sound relatively straightforward. Hearing that he had an opportunity for a second ascent in Indian Creek, Jordan was instantly inspired. He geared up for the climb and I agreed to belay him, perhaps caught up in his youthful verve.

An hour and a half later, I was still belaying and I no longer felt that verve. Jordan had already taken two lead falls and was about to take another. Everything had been going fine until he got to the squeeze chimney. He cruised up the first pitch, passing Justin’s anchors and hardly breathing, but as the chimney got narrower and narrower, he started slowing down. Soon, he stopped completely and the rope didn’t move more than a few inches for a half hour. The chimney was so small that Jordan actually had to remove his helmet and clip it to his harness because his head was getting stuck. Painstakingly, he inched his way higher. Once he finally exited the chimney he was confronted with a knee-sized crack beneath a 90-degree roof. He yelled down that he didn’t have enough gear to protect the rest of the climb. As it turned out, Jordan needed every #4 Camalot the desert rat had borrowed. As if on cue, the desert rat walked around the corner with a hand full of gear. I asked him to tie it to Jordan’s haul line. The desert rat obliged and Jordan raised the gear to his precarious stance 100-feet off the ground, clipped it to his harness, and continued climbing.

The sun had dropped behind the canyon walls by the time Jordan reached the anchors. He rappelled through the chimney, cleaning his gear on the way, and when he reached the ground I could see the shell-shocked look in his eyes. We descended to the cars in silent darkness. Around the campfire that night, we joked with Jordan about his experience.
“So what is the moral of this story?” I asked Jordan.
“Never trust a desert rat,” he said. We were all glad he got it right.

Jordan leads fist-sized crack.

Jordan making it look easy.

Justin leads something way too hard.

Just another day at the Creek.

Second ascents all over the place.

November 29—Canyonlands National Park, UT

Freya and I walked to the Green River Overlook at sunset and watched the deep canyons fill with ruby light. The orange sun laid down on the sagebrush horizon. Shadows stretched across the countryside, gradually cooling the sand and rocks with a delicate touch. Just as the sun is setting, our road trip is winding down: slow and beautiful.

We shared two more days with the crew at Indian Creek. We climbed desperately, knowing that it might be the last outdoor climbing of the season. Justin and Ash pulled ropes up a variety of difficult cracks. I led the hardest rated trad climb of my life, a 110-foot hand crack called “Generic Crack” in Donnelly Canyon. Generic Crack was long and stately, a nearly perfect fissure interspersed with pods of wider climbing. Endurance was the challenge. Jamming my knee and hip into one of the pods, I found a perfect no-hands rest three-quarters of the way up. I rested there for a while, knowing that I would finish the climb, knowing that I had the strength and endurance, yet hesitating longer than necessary. I gazed out at the red rock canyons and felt a twinge of sadness. Perhaps, deep down, I didn’t want the climb to end; I didn’t want to say another goodbye.

Starting up Generic Crack (5.10)

Already running out of gear.

Better keep moving.

Pure and clean.

Jordan leads Generic Crack.

Jordan placing gear on Generic Crack.

A day of climbing in Moab, just Freya and I, reminded me of our time spent in Smith Rocks, where our road trip began. We’ve covered more than 3000-miles of pavement since then; the Subaru has taken a beating. We’ve grown stronger, mentally and physically. I think back to the very first climb of this trip: how scared I was, how shaky and weak. Balancing on thin sandstone footholds in Moab, I breathed in, calm and collected, then moved smoothly to the next precarious hold. I was still scared, terrified in fact, but that fear was subconsciously subdued; it didn’t overtake my mind. To me, the progression is obvious in hindsight, but in the heat of the moment I still feel like a frail human being, straddling the line between safety and risk, hoping that a hold doesn’t break, dreading a fall.

Without a doubt, the best moments happen when friends are around to share that fear. We’ve met so many wonderful people on this trip with whom we’ve built powerful memories. Connections like that don’t fade, no matter how much time goes by.

Tomorrow morning we’ll take a hike through Canyonlands; then we’ll drive to Salt Lake City that evening. The storms haven’t hit Snowbird yet. I’d like to think they are waiting for our return. I imagine the snow will start falling the moment we arrive and it wont stop until March. Our road trip may be coming to an end, but the next adventure is just around the corner.

Sunset over Canyonlands.

Grasses of the desert.

Sunrise coloring the sky.

Almost falling off the edge trying to take a photo.

Petroglyph imitation.

Snow prayer.

Eight-mile hike on the Syncline Trail.

Couple's self portrait.

A final jump for joy.

The last vestiges of twilight fade from the desert sky. I shut down my computer, turn off my headlamp, and pull the sleeping bag around my shoulders. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I get to wake up. We’re sleeping in the car again and from the rear window I can see the Milky Way. I yawn. I close my eyes but I can still see the stars, unvisited, distant, and shining brilliantly.

2011-11-29T12:35:00.001-08:00

Roadtrip Part 5: Reunions and Reinvigoration at Joshua Tree National Park

November 9—Joshua Tree National Park, CA

The last and only other time I’ve been to Joshua Tree was a week after graduating college in the spring of 2007. Nine other climbers and myself piled into three cars and drove 18-hours without stopping, going 90 mph through the California night. We arrived at Ryan Campground at 11am, exhausted and ecstatic. Clean boulders, sharp and bulbous, surrounded camp. The enticing angles of the rock burst through our sleep-deprived haze, begging us to climb. We unleashed three crashpads from Eric’s truck, toted them to the base of an innocuous, egg-shaped stone and, harnessing the verve of youth, attacked the coarse granite.

During the next ten days, we cut our teeth on Joshua Tree’s world-renowned crags. I spent most of the trip with Eric and Dana, the only guys beside myself who were really interested in crack climbing. It was a blast. Every day without fail, we would drive into camp late in the afternoon, beating the roof of the car with our bloodied hands, The Rolling Stones turned up as loud as the radio could handle, and all three of us singing along at the top of our lungs. Without a doubt, those were the best ten days of rock climbing I had ever experienced, not only because the climbing was so good, but also because the people with whom I shared those climbs were so generous, forgiving, energetic and hilarious.

Preparing to lead the Headstone on our first day of climbing.

Bouldering near Ryan Campground.

Joshua Tree and formation.

Evening light behind a Joshua Tree.

Raven enjoying the warm air.

Rappelling off the Headstone.

One of those people in particular, Pablo, was not even a part of our original group, but he fit in like we had known him for years, which in fact, Dana had. It was a random connection the likes of which make the world feel small. One lazy morning in camp, as Eric and I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, Dana overheard someone talking about Tonasket, the small eastern Washington town where he grew up. Poking his head around the corner, Dana came face to face with his long time friend and occasional climbing partner, Pablo, who was camped in the site next to ours. Throughout the remainder of the trip, Pablo climbed, ate, slept and partied along with us. He was a strong climber and it was a luxury to follow him up classic routes that would have been far too hard for us to lead. He was an excellent teacher with a child’s soul who could show you how to build a bombproof climbing anchor one morning and then drink you under the table that same night. We liked him immediately.

Ten days passed in a blink. None of us wanted to leave, but we knew we couldn’t stay. Most of the guys had to return for the spring quarter of college. I had to move out of my apartment and decide what the hell I was going to do with my life. These were not easy tasks, nor were they appealing, especially in comparison to the moment-by-moment life we’d been living. Still, we had to say goodbye.

I knew I would see most of my cohorts again, in the climbing gym or wandering the red brick pathways of campus, but I wasn’t sure about Pablo or about Joshua Tree. Driving away from the knobby rocks and forked trees, a melancholy sadness flavored my emotions. My stomach knotted up and my throat became parched. It passed in a moment, once we hit the freeway and turned the music up, but it could have been much worse. It would have been much worse if I had known that I wouldn’t see Joshua Tree until four years later and that I wouldn’t climb with Pablo again, at least not until today.

Early this morning Freya and I were driving the dusty roads of Hidden Valley Campground in search of an unoccupied campsite. Even on a Tuesday, everything was full. It was disappointing and I was ready to give up hope when, suddenly, everything changed. As we drove the last dusty finger of road in the campground, we passed three climbers standing next to a white truck. Creeping by, I glanced out the window and immediately recognized Pablo. I couldn’t quite believe it. I stuck my head out the window and yelled, “Is that Pablo?”

“Yeah man! Who’s that?”
“It’s Leif. Dana’s friend. We climbed together here…”
He cut me off before I could finish, “Of course! Whoa! Good to see you man. It’s been forever.”
We shook hands, smiling.
“So, are you guys looking for a site?” he asked, “You can share ours. We’ve got plenty of room.”

Moonrise through Joshua.

Mike Pond leads in Outer Mongolia area.

A place unlike anywhere else.

Climber leads the Pinched Rib (5.10b)

Sharp stuff is abundant in the desert.

Someone told us that Joshua Trees evolved from underwater plants.

The lap of luxury. inside the Mountain Hardwear Yurtini

Two hours later we were high fiving at the top of a two-pitch crack called “The Swift.” Pablo’s girlfriend, Kim, followed his lead and I led my own rope with Freya tied to the other end. Climbing with Pablo, I felt like only seconds had passed since I saw him last. He hasn’t changed. He’s still energetic, outgoing, and positive. He’s still a great teacher and he still lives like a kid.

On our first climb of the day, we led separate routes right next to each other. As we simultaneously neared the end, Pablo realized that he didn’t have any gear to fit the crack and that we was 20 feet above his last piece of protection. He asked if I had a #4 Camalot. I did. I unclipped the cam from my harness, made sure my left hand and foot were sticking solidly to the rock, and fully extended my right arm, cam clenched tightly. Pablo performed the mirror image of my move, grabbing the cam with his outstretched fingers.

“Sweet! Thanks man. I was getting a little worried there,” he says, chuckling.
“No problem. I’ve never done that before.”
“Me neither. It’s a good thing you guys showed up.”

I can’t wait for the week of climbing ahead. Joshua Tree is filled with special connections. It turns out that Pablo isn’t the only climber I know here. David Farkas, an AAI guide who spent the summer on Mount Baker and assisted Brandon and I in a rescue, was kind enough to let Freya and I set up our enormous tent in his campsite (it turned out that Pablo’s site was not nearly big enough). David will be leaving for Red Rocks in a few days and we will take over his campsite after that. Mike Pond, another AAI guide from Mount Baker, and his girlfriend, Lauren, are camped a few hundred yards away. We’re all planning to climb together tomorrow. I can’t imagine who we’ll run into next.

From the picnic table in our campsite, I can glance across Hidden Valley and see Pablo frying a quesadilla. He’s close enough that I can smell the oil and cheese. Maybe if I ask real nice, he’ll pass one over. I’m sure he’d be happy to return the favor. A song by The Rolling Stones plays through my head. You can’t always giiiit what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you nee-eed! Oh Yeah!

November 16—Joshua Tree National Park, CA

We’ve been trying to leave for a while now, but this place just keeps getting better and better. We haven’t climbed alone or eaten alone for the past week. We’ve made new friends and reunited with old ones. We’ve felt bold and been humbled. The weather is turning warm again. The campground is full of smiles. The rangers supply free coffee on weekend mornings. Why leave?

Whereas the other climbing areas that Freya and I have visited on this trip have felt somewhat antisocial, Joshua Tree is a buzzing hub of conversation and camaraderie. Our next-door neighbors, Manny and Gloria, an elderly couple with an RV, start a fire every night and encourage us to add fresh logs even after they’ve gone to bed. An eclectic group of climbers ceaselessly surrounds the fire. Steve, a grey-bearded ex-Marine who’s been a dirtbag for most of his life, tells raunchy stories about prostitutes, climbing accidents, and Yosemite. His voice is deep and gravely from too many cigarettes; his stories are both hilarious and offensive. He’ll be your best friend instantly if you offer him a beer. I wouldn’t want to be his enemy; he says he’s killed 14 people. Then there’s Flo, a 19 year-old Bavarian kid who shares our campsite. He’s been traveling the US for three months, climbing at all the best crags and walking highlines in aesthetic places. A German slackline company sponsors him and his next stop is Fiji, then New Zealand. He climbs harder than I probably ever will. He says food in the US is too expensive. He pours creamy ranch dressing on his cabbage salad. We offer him a burrito and he gladly accepts.

Wonderland of Rocks.

Chimney through the Hall of Horrors.

Bouldering near Cyclops.

Lost most of my finger skin on that move.

Slacklining under the stars.

Besides random campground acquaintances there are also old friends. One afternoon Freya and I drove into town to fill our water jugs and I received a message from Jeff, a childhood friend who lives in Los Angeles. As it turned out, Jeff and two other Port Townsendites, Charlie and Clay, were headed to Joshua Tree for the weekend. Their mutual friend, Ringo, drove from Phoenix to meet up with the crew. On Saturday we all took a hike into the Wonderland of Rocks. Pablo and Kim came along too. Charlie jumped from boulder to boulder while Jeff and Clay snapped photos and Ringo quipped one-liners that brought us all to tears. It started raining and we scrambled off the slippery rock and headed back to camp. We invited everyone into our enormous tent that night for a feast. Five stoves were set on the sandy floor with eight bodies huddled inside. On Sunday we visited the Hall of Horrors and I let the boys borrow my shoes and harness so they could top rope a climb called “Lazy Day.” They grunted and sweated their way up and I followed suit. Their visit ended with hugs and high fives. Our campsite felt empty when they left, but another group of friendly climbers soon occupied the void.

When we’re not socializing, we’re climbing and we’ve been climbing hard. One morning I decided to lead every sandbagged classic in Hidden Valley. We walked from crag to crag, never more than five minutes from our tent, and climbed routes that are notoriously difficult for their grade. Each one was more challenging and fulfilling than the last. The next day I was feeling bold and attempted to lead a 5.10b route called “Pinched Rib,” which is located directly behind our tent. I took five ten-foot lead falls, scraping my hip in the process, before letting Pablo tie into the sharp end. On his first try he found a key hold that I had been missing. I tied back into the rope, took one more lead fall and then finally sent the route clean. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. The rest of the day was a crapshoot and I’m still sore from the effort.

Freya's first trad lead. The route is called The Bong.

Kim sends a boulder problem.

Ideal campsite. for the Yurtini

Small plants, big rocks.

The crew. Left to right: Jeff, Ringo, Leif, Freya, Clay, Charlie, Kim, Pablo.

We’re running out of time on this trip. We have to be in Indian Creek for Thanksgiving and it would be nice to find a place to live in Salt Lake City before that. I think we’ll have to skip Red Rocks, save it for next time. There are so many wonderful places to visit and so little time. Without a doubt, Joshua Tree is my all time favorite. Just like last time I was here, I don’t want to say goodbye. I know how it will feel to hug Pablo and Kim, to drive through the gates heading north; a melancholy sadness will fill the car; it might even bring me close to tears. Maybe it won’t hurt quite so bad if I promise to come back. I promise…I promise…

2011-11-18T10:25:00.001-08:00

Roadtrip Part 4: Sport Climbing in Owens River Gorge and Driving Through Death Valley

November 4—Bishop, CA

Evenings grew colder, announcing November. While we cooked dinner, a storm brewed in the twilight. Each frigid gust was stronger than the last. The wind soon pulled our stakes from the dusty ground and we were obliged to strike the tent. We packed it haphazardly into the driver’s seat, lay our pads down in the rear of the car and closed the hatchback.

The car rocks gently in the gusts, but it’s quiet inside. We are warm and cozy, if a bit confined. Freya edits photos and video while I write. Each photo tells a thousand-word story of adventure. There are so many stories to tell.

We’ve been camping near Bishop and climbing in the Owens River Gorge for the past three days. Without a guidebook, we relied on instinct and other’s generosity to find the climbing area. The first day we drove gravel roads north of town, U-turning at dead ends and peering into the deep canyon, until we spotted a parking area filled with Toyota trucks, grubby vans and a dusty Subaru. An older couple soon appeared at the corner of the parking lot, where the approach trail began, and Freya bluntly asked them if she could take photos of their guidebook. They happily suggested a few walls that might sate our ambitions and let Freya capture the details with her camera.

Morning near Bishop in the Hoopla 4 tent.

Eating dinner. Pasta with red sauce.

Fresh snow on the mountains.

Trying to wake up on a cold morning.

The rock here is so different than Yosemite. Faces are steep and pockmarked; holds are numerous and slick. My forearms were pumped after a single climb because it felt like my fingers and toes were about to slip off every feature. Freya had the same trouble, but problems are quickly solved through cooperation. Thanks to some unlikely companions, today it felt like we finally figured out the rock

Three Canadian women—a mother and two daughters—have been tailing us across the country. I chatted with one of them while washing dishes in the basin at Smith Rocks. I glimpsed her again at Camp 4 in Yosemite. And we ran into them a third time, climbing in the sun on China Wall in the center of the Gorge. We’ve been sharing leads and sharing ropes since then, which is good for Freya and I because they climb harder than we do.

Their journey and their goals are nearly identical to ours: have fun, enjoy life, learn, grow, adventure. I talked with the mother, Tanya, as we both belayed one afternoon. She told me she had lost her husband recently and her closest friend to cancer not long after. She said it was a “wake up call.” She realized what she had been missing out on in life. She wanted to really live. The way she said “live” made me realize that she really meant it. I could tell how much she loved to see her daughters climb, and how much she loved to climb the same routes right after them.

Tanya’s story is rare and inspiring. Freya and I fit tidily into a sub culture of young climbers living frugally and enjoying the road. Tanya gave up her 9-to-5, sold the farm, and struck out. She made the choice to change her life. Few people are so courageous.

Tanya's daughter, Tina, belays Steve in Owens River Gorge.

Pat climbs a problem in the Happy Boulders.

Jeff attempts a V1.

Working on another dinner with salad already prepared. Yurtini in the background.

It’s getting cold in the car now and the windows are fogging from our breath. The light from the computer screen is hurting my eyes. The second toe on my right foot is blistered and swollen from being jammed into climbing shoes for too many days in a row. My cuticles are ravaged, caked with chalk and rope grease. Maybe we’ll take a rest day tomorrow. Maybe. It’s hard to stop when there is such a wealth of climbing to be done. Will Tanya and her daughters take a day off? I somehow doubt it. I expect we’ll see them tomorrow, chasing the sun to the warmest walls of the deep and pockmarked gorge.

November 6—Death Valley National Park, CA

We’re 100 feet below sea level and I’m still not warm. Winter creeps south and we creep with it, accomplices in the burglary of summer. In June, Death Valley has an average high temperature of 115-degrees. It’s not close to that now. Where has the heat gone? Freya and I want to feel real heat one more time before winter settles in. It was night when we arrived and, although the air lacked the bitterness to which we had grown accustomed, it was still too cold to take off my long johns. We’re curled up in our sleeping bags in the back of the car now. RVs surround us, their generators whirring. An eerie country vocalist is singing in Furnace Creek, the village next to our campsite, and the music reverberates throughout the entire valley. Freya thinks its religious. I think its just country.

Our last few days in Bishop consisted of sport climbing, bouldering and hot springing. Freya and I each led a route in Owens River Gorge on Friday morning before it started to snow. When the flakes began sticking we hiked out of the Gorge and drove north, following a map that a stranger in Yosemite had rudimentarily drawn in my notebook. Driving for a solid hour on a maze of dirt roads, we finally discovered a single hot pool and commenced to soak our sore bodies until our fingers wrinkled and our faces glowed.

The next day we met Natalie and Jeff, young climbers from Bend, Oregon who just so happened to be hiking towards the Happy Boulders at the same time we were. Since they had a crash pad and we did not, we asked if we could tag along. They said “Of course!” and we all worked out the hard problems together, grunting through overhangs and wincing through crimpers. That evening, Natalie and Jeff invited us to their hotel, the Ramada, which was equipped with a scalding hot tub and a rather cold pool. After soaking for a good hour, we took showers in their room and thanked them profusely for their generosity. Freya and I were still warm inside when we went to sleep that night.

Cooking breakfast in a parking lot.

Airborne in Badwater Basin.

Geology lessons.

Bad Water.

Old Borax Works in Death Valley.

Lowest point of exposed land in the United States. Badwater Basin.

Barren landscape.

Sunday morning was spent in Starbucks using the free Wi-Fi to respond to neglected e-mails and catch up with what had been happening in the real world. Then we drove, drove, drove through the desert, the parched hillsides, the rundown reservation towns. As night flooded the salt flats, we finished our book on tape, and turned into a dusty campground.

We’ve climbed every day for the past week, except today. I think the sitting has taken a harder toll on my body than has the climbing. Tomorrow promises more sitting. We’re heading to Joshua Tree National Park and, since daylight savings time has kicked in, it will probably be dark by the time we get there. No matter. I know what the rock looks like. I know it’s gritty and bulbous and clean. I just hope it’s warm as well. There must be a little bit of summer left, hidden amongst the yuccas, woven into the roots of the Dr. Seuss trees.

2011-11-11T10:33:00.001-08:00

Roadtrip Part 3: Climbing Cracks in the Shadow of El Capitan, Yosemite Valley

October 30—Camp 4—Yosemite Valley, CA

What an incredible day of climbing! We got to the base of “Nutcracker” before the sun warmed the rock. I exhaled warm air onto chalky fingers, double checked my harness and climbed.

I had studied the guidebook for hours the night before. It said, “Only confident 5.8 lead climbers should attempt this route.” My confidence waned. I’ve led harder cracks before, but not in a long time and not in Yosemite, where the grades are notoriously tough. I wouldn’t have imagined attempting Nutcracker a week ago. I guess I’ve grown since then. Progress happens rapidly in hindsight.

We spent our first two days in Yosemite at a friend’s cabin in Wawona. Ted took us to his favorite swimming hole, a granite-strewn grotto with pools just deep enough for jumps. I bouldered on the water-polished stone. We drank beer and played games in the evenings, took hot showers and washed laundry in the afternoons. Our skin appreciated the time to regenerate.

Driving into Yosemite Valley the next day, we turned a corner and saw the big walls of legend. El Capitan and Half Dome made my jaw drop. I had to pull the car over. The streaked granite faces were unimaginably tall and steep. Waterfalls dropped from the top for thousands of feet, hardly touching the stone. Here was the proving ground of American rock climbing. Here were the towers that Bridwell and Robbins first climbed. Here was a challenge.

Camp 4. Ours is the biggest house on the block.

Half Dome at sunset.

El Capitan. Tommy Caldwell visible with magnifying glass on
right side of tallest face.

Alpine meadows one gorgeous afternoon.

Half way up Nutcracker I desperately jammed a yellow nut into the finger-sized crack and clipped it to the rope. My strength was deteriorating. My palms were sweating. My too-loose shoes were slipping off the crystal grit. Three other groups of climbers judged my progress from the ledge below. There were two options: move or fall. With a deep breath, I committed to the former. I grunted. I pulled. I nearly peeled off. Somehow I found sufficient friction to hold me. I reached for a hand-sized crack in a small bulge, jammed my palm inside and squeezed. The third pitch was taking it’s toll. I could hardly imagine climbing El Cap, 35 pitches of much harder terrain.

One afternoon, after climbing ourselves out, we were driving the one-way Yosemite roads when I noticed an entourage surrounding a lone cinematographer in a grassy clearing. The young man’s expensive video camera was pointed directly at the proudest lines on El Cap. Sensing something interesting, I pulled over and we walked into the field. The cinematographer was filming Tommy Caldwell, the world’s preeminent crack climber, attempting what would be the hardest free climb in history. We watched as Tommy, the tiny speck of green, moved gradually higher on a blank looking section of the massive face. As we gawked, a grey haired man and his wife sauntered over and began chatting. They told us the section that Tommy was climbing is rated conservatively at 5.14c and that this was Tommy’s third 5.14 pitch of the day. Before long, it became obvious that the grey haired man and his wife were Tommy’s parents. They glowed with pride. Tommy’s dad told us that he would be going up the wall himself in a few days in order to belay his son on the second half of the climb. In entirety, the climb will take about two weeks. Some pitches remove so much skin from Tommy’s body that he can only climb one per day. He will eat and sleep the rest of the time, splayed out on his portaledge, clipped into the wall.

Texture of Yosemite.

Vernal Falls.

Looking into the trees.

Granite apron on north end of valley.

Tommy Caldwell climbs harder than I probably ever will. He takes greater risks and attempts more difficult routes, but I imagine we get a similar feeling from completing a challenging climb. I moved methodically towards the crux mantle of Nutcracker, conserving my energy for the stressful moves that I knew lay ahead. Approaching the overhang, I placed a small nut in a seam to my left and clipped it to the rope. I reached high for a deep hold, matched my hands on either side of the hold and committed. My feet left the wall, dangling in mid air for a split second, before I brought them back to the rock and pushed up. I hooted joyously when I stood firmly on top. My body coursed with adrenaline. My mind was clear. I felt free, empty, whole, and full of life. I built an anchor, put Freya on belay, and exhaled.

By modern standards, Nutcracker is not a difficult climb—Tommy Caldwell could probably solo it in his sleep—but for me, it was challenging enough to provide a sense of accomplishment and adventure. It’s a memory that will not easily be forgotten, a moment that was painful, transformative, and fulfilling all at once.

It seems like almost every day of this trip has had a moment like this, when hours disappear without notice and spectacular beauty blossoms from the commonplace.

We’ve spent four days here in Yosemite, climbing in the shadow of the world’s best, and I imagine we’ll spend a few more. I’ve been thinking we should don costumes beneath our harnesses for Halloween. Maybe we’ll steal a shower from the bathrooms in Curry Village. Maybe we’ll eat quinoa and hot dogs for dinner tomorrow night. The weather forecast shows snow in the near future. Will Tommy stay on the wall through any weather? Will he climb the route free? What will he feel if he reaches the top? I can’t be sure, but I can certainly imagine.

Preparing to climb "The Grack" (5.6) on Halloween, dressed as Chef Trad.
I carried a plastic spatula and serving spoon up the entire route.

Inside-Out Woman on the second pitch of "The Grack."

Halloween Yosemite style, at the rappel anchors.

Freya follows the splitter hand crack and thin slab.

2011-11-05T16:29:00.000-07:00

Roadtrip Part 2: Smith Rocks to Lake Tahoe

October 22—Lava Beds National Monument, CA

After six straight days of climbing at Smith Rocks we left this afternoon and motored south through fields of sagebrush. A melancholy feeling filled the car.

We were leaving a place we had grown to love but had barely explored. We had climbed many beautiful and difficult lines up the pocketed stone, including a multi-pitch traditional route called “Moscow” that ascended steep cracks on Red Wall, and a slightly overhanging pitch called “How Low Can You Go?” on a solitary block called Rope De Dope. We had come face to face with a baby rattlesnake and lived to tell the tale. (As Freya was lowering me down a route called “Bunny Face” she noticed the snake hiding in a shadowy cave in front of her. At that moment, my immense weight began pulling her towards the rock and she screamed, “Holy Shit! Rattlesnake!” I was sure she was going to drop me. Thankfully a nearby guide grabbed the belt of her harness and prevented her from being pulled into the snake. A Brazilian climber shooed the snake away with a Stick Clip and we continued climbing not long after that, slightly shaken.) We had met wonderful people from Slovenia, Brazil, California. We had improved our strength, sharpened our skills, and focused our minds. We had experienced the variety and quality that Smith is all about.

At the same time, there were still hundreds of routes left to climb. They were all aesthetic and inspiring. They were warm and steep and challenging. We were not finished at Smith, yet we were leaving.

Walking down the river valley towards some incredible climbing.

Sunset behind Smith.

The deadly rattler rearing it's head.

Unknown climber on very difficult climb.

The wheels spun and the odometer ticked away miles. We started listening to a book on tape about Theodore Roosevelt’s expedition down the uncharted River of Doubt in the Amazon. Our adventure paled in comparison to his. The people of that era were harder than we’ll ever be. We made our last gas station stop in Oregon, sitting in the car while the attendant filled the tank. We ate dinner at Applebee’s in Klamath Falls because we couldn’t find anything better. The general manager gave us our appetizer on the house because he was from Washington and I was rooting for the Huskies who were playing Stanford on primetime. The servings were too big to eat so we took the leftovers in Styrofoam and drove into the night.

Crossing the California border by moonlight, we drove south and then turned right into the Modoc National Forest. It was too dark to see the lava fields, but street signs promised caves, towers and camping. The road wound on forever. The park gates were unmanned when we drove through. The campground was filled with RVs and Boy Scout groups. We hung our tent under a lonely tree and threw our sleeping bags inside. Now we’re brushing our teeth and cozying up for the night. I’m excited to wake up in a new place. Night obscures the dry wilderness from our view. What will morning reveal?

Racked for crack.

Intrepid explorers discover spelunking.

Another incredible sunset.

October 24—Kings Beach, CA

This would be an amazing place to spend the winter. Evenings are frosty. Orange and brown leaves fill every yard. Afternoon sunshine paints Lake Tahoe gold and the sand feels hot between the toes. We arrived yesterday and, already, we want to spend a lifetime.

After a morning spent exploring the humid depths of an endless cave at Lava Beds National Monument, we piled into the Subaru and chased the sunshine south. We crossed train tracks, passed through rundown towns full of broken windows, and rustled the roadside sagebrush going 80mph. Roosevelt’s adventure continued just as ours unfolded. His son, Kermit, had a brush with death in a series of intense rapids as we filled the gas tank in Reno and bought ice cream sandwiches at the mini mart. We departed California, arrived in Nevada, and then returned to California on a different road. Officials asked if we carried fresh vegetables or fruit. Our cooler was full of them but they didn’t have to know.

Soaking in a hot spring near Bridgeport, CA.

Freya called her friend Robyn, who lives with her boyfriend, Kit, in Kings Beach on the west shore of Lake Tahoe. We knocked on their door but no one answered. We heard voices in the yard out back. Discarded materials, old bicycles, copper tubing, and eclectic automobiles surprised both Freya and I when we peeked around the corner, but Robyn and Kit welcomed us with wine, fire, and burritos. As it turns out, Kit is completely remodeling his house and the interior is beginning to take shape. He is installing radiant heat in the floors. The kitchen has bird’s eye maple cabinets. We talked carpentry, climbing, skiing, and adventure, sitting around the fire until it was too cold for imagination.

Kit left early for work the next day. Robyn and her dog, Pork Chop, took us to a rock formation called Big Chief. We warmed up on two steep but juggy 5.9s and gradually increased the difficulty of the climbs as the day went on. Robyn and I both led a 5.10a sport route and she continued pushing harder into the afternoon. The day culminated with a 5.10d that left us all pumped out and satisfied.

Pork Chop (A.K.A. Porkie, Pig, Piggie, Porker)

Robyn leads a climb at Big Chief.

Robyn making the crux look easy.

Author making an easier crux look much harder.

From the belay, we could glimpse the manicured hillsides of Squaw Valley and Alpine Meadows ski resorts. Robyn talked powder and carving and avalanches. I imagined pristine slopes, floated on flakes as light as air, painted trenches in the groves. These dreams replaced the throbbing memories of the routes we had just climbed and my emotions levitated higher and higher, into the twilight.

We’re comfy and warm here in the guest bedroom, a trailer behind the house perched amongst brick and sheet rock. The cushions are soft. The neighborhood is quiet. My stomach is full of curry and quinoa. My head is full of powder and granite.

2011-10-19T14:24:00.000-07:00

Roadtrip Part 1: Leaving Home, Climbing at Smith Rocks

Leaving Port Townsend with a loaded car and roof rack.

Our Hoopla 4 set up near Smith Rocks.

Climbing is scary. Climbing hurts. Climbing is hard. The first few days of this month-long road trip have served as an excellent reminder. The pads of my fingers are sore. My hips and shoulders ache. My toes feel like they’ve been squished in a vice. One is torn and bloody. I haven’t rock climbed, really rock climbed, since August 2010. Feeling comfortable and smooth is a year old memory, faded and strange.

I read somewhere that the joy of climbing should come from the challenge and thus from the opportunity to learn, improve, grow stronger. If that is the case then Freya and I are having a blast. And we are, without question, enjoying ourselves very much.

Looking at Smith Rocks from the climbers trail near the river.

Climber setting up a rappel on Rope-de-Dope.

The trip began with a night in Seattle, where we attended Nanda’s acrobatic and invigorating performance, titled “The Jacket.” Afterwards, we had drinks and fusion food with a troupe of friends at a Capitol Hill bar. Danny toasted to adventures. I toasted to followed dreams. Salty pho contrasted sweet pilsner. The newest Star Trek film was playing on a flat-screen above the shadowy bar. Freya tried to motivate everyone to go dancing at a nearby club, but when Danny went to investigate he found it filled with square-jawed Russians and miniskirts. Not our scene. We didn’t leave our table until 1am. The streets were frosted and the sidewalks begged for walking. Freya and I followed Joss to his car, ten blacks away. A pair of locals passed in the opposite direction. One wore a Superman costume, the other a bunny suit. They cawed like crows and we cawed back, filling the crisp air with sharp noise that ricocheted off skyscrapers. Freya sat on Sam’s lap while I drove empty streets through Freemont, the U District, Magnuson Park. We fell asleep on Joss’s floor, a recently vacuumed carpet for a bed, the first of many impromptu arrangements to come.

Lake Washington reflected morning sunlight through the windows, waking us before the headaches wore off. Joss concocted espresso while Freya chugged water. I made a toad-in-the-hole, topping it with white cheddar and tomato. We chatted lazily and chuckled easily. Energy from the coffee and food slowly built up in our bodies. It was 11am when we left Seattle, heading south on I-5 towards freedom, sunshine and Smith Rocks.

Asterisk Pass in afternoon light.

Washing the chalk off my hands.

Detouring through cool farmland near Chehalis, we drove to Freya’s grandma’s house, a single-story home nestled amongst open fields and dilapidated barns. Freya’s aunt, Sue, greeted us at the door and welcomed us inside. Grandma Idelia was resting in a chair at the kitchen table. Her 96 year-old eyes shimmered when she saw Freya, laughing inside. I wondered what those eyes had seen, what memories she had hidden away in her gracious mind. Imagine the things she could teach us, about what matters after so much life.

Following tradition, Freya munched on summer sausage and the four of us played a game of Pitch, which Freya and I won, miraculously. Idelia chuckled at Freya’s jokes and acted as if she couldn’t keep up with the game, although she clearly could. A few hours passed before it was time to get back on the road. Idelia grasped my shoulder with her papery hands when I hugged her goodbye. She was glad we had stopped by and so were we all. We promised to come back soon and Sue gave us ice cream sandwiches for the road. I caught a glimpse of Idelia through the front window as we drove away, still sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a smile.

Now we were on the road, saying goodbye to familiarity and embracing the unknown. Freya said she didn’t feel like the trip had really begun until now. She hadn’t felt truly unattached until this moment. Our roots were pulled up. We were gone and it felt incredible.

Hip-hop beats synced with passing signs. We crossed the fritter-smooth Columbia and skirted Portland’s eastern suburbs, making stops along the way to fill our cooler with fresh vegetables and our stomachs with spicy Thai food. Miles disappeared as Mt. Hood captured the evening’s final light, pink and lingering. Darkness soon covered the South Cascades and I focused my attention on the pavement in front of my high beams. I rarely make plans further ahead than that.

We arrived at Smith Rocks at about 10pm and set up a hasty camp under the enormous harvest moon. What would sunrise reveal?

Our Yurtini set up at the climber's camp at Smith Rocks.

I don't want to get up!

Rocks. Orange, yellow, massive, intimidating. People hovered on tiny toes and sharp fingers. Belayers stood at the base of every dihedral. Routes were bolted right next to each other, an intricate game of Chutes and Ladders. All the easy ones were taken. We hiked along the base of the rocks, identifying climbs with our ancient guidebook. We found a route that looked moderate enough, although we didn’t know the rating. I tied into the sharp end and Freya put me on belay. I was shaking uncontrollably by the time I reached the second bolt. People were chatting nearby and their conversations were running through my head. I wasn’t used to climbing with people watching. I wasn’t used to rock climbing in general. I lost my focus. Freya took in the slack and I sat on the rope. She asked if I wanted her to lead, which only made me angry, a good motivation. I felt weak. I was afraid to fall and, as a result, I put too much energy into my movements. I overgripped all the holds. I made it to the anchors on my second attempt, but it felt clunky and awkward. I lacked style, technique, and strength, but most of all I lacked mental toughness. I had no edge. Where had it gone? Where had I lost it? Did I ever have it? We climbed three more routes and I never really felt comfortable. I didn’t fall again, but I didn’t flow either. I know how it feels to climb well and this wasn’t it. Still, it had been a good first day. We ate spaghetti and Advil for dinner. Bedtime coincided with darkness. I knew I would sleep well that night.

Standing with rope bag in front of Smith Rocks.

Stretching out the kinks one morning.

Morning was clear and cold. Freya woke before sunrise to take pictures. I made a toad-in-the-hole with white cheddar and tomato. Instant coffee and hot cocoa was the perfect pick-me-up. We hiked to Asterisk Pass before we found a route that was unoccupied. The crux was at the third bolt on questionable rock. I fidgeted my way to the top and took in the view from the anchors. A dark green river wove between the jagged spires. The sky was blue and empty. I was hanging on an arête with hundreds of feet of exposure on either side. I felt the feeling I knew I would feel, discomfort and fear, but as I sit here writing this I am relishing the memory. I am learning to embrace my discomfort. I am growing. When I am 96 years old, will I remember this specific route? Probably not, but I will certainly remember how it felt to be afraid and to keep moving up.

Sunrise in paradise.

2011-10-09T22:55:00.000-07:00

Here is a video i shot and edited for Pygmy Boats of Warren Williamson rolling the Pygmy Murrelet 4PD. Shot with a Nikon d7000 80-200mm 2.8 and a GoPro Helmet Hiro with the suction cup mount. Enjoy!

Testing the Nikon D7000 and nikkor 80-200mm f 2.8 lens

2011-10-01T16:20:00.000-07:00

I just purchased a Nikon D7000 for its compact size and 1080p video. Today just happened to be the Port Townsend kinetic sculpture race. here are a few images of the crowd and participants shot with a the nikkor 80-200mm f2.8 lens.

Point of Arches/ Shi Shi Beach

2011-09-12T11:52:00.000-07:00

Mike Becwar and Mark Baron, heading towards Point of Arches, on the WA coast.

John Lockwood, Owner and designer of Pygmy Boats paddling off of Hobuck Beach.

Kim Frasher, and Mark Baron, with Point of Arches between.

Kim Frasher explores the rocks around Point of Arches.

Shi Shi Beach and our boats.

The view from Shi shi.

Mark Baron heading back to Hobuck after playing in the rocks and waves.

2011-09-05T22:21:00.000-07:00

Mt. Deception 8/30-31/2011

2011-09-02T08:57:00.000-07:00

Mountains peek from the clouds from the Royal Basin Trail asit crosses a meadow/avalanche shoot.

(Left) Lupine are just beginning to bloom, due to a lateseason and a cool summer. (Right)Heading towards our high camp in upper Royal Basin, the clouds envelopeeverything.

Our base camp at sunrise, lucky as the sun’s rays hit thesky the clouds dispersed and we were able to see Mt. Deception (left) and MartinPeak right. Deception is the second highest peak in the Olympics, but Martin appearslarger due to its proximity.

Wispy clouds catch early light as the sun rises.

(Left) Leif Whittaker looks up at Martin Peak, Deception isto his right just out of sight. (Right) here I look down the snow gully weclimbed to get almost to the summit ridge. The snow was very steep, about 60degrees at times but solid.

View of the Needles from the summit of Mt. Deception.

(Left) Sam Nowak stands on the summit of Mt. Deception.

(Right) Leif Whittaker strikes his summit pose.

The view from the top, the Needles to the right and RoyalBasin stretching below.

Freya Fennwood and Leif Whittaker with summit smiles.

Our rout from base camp to summit.

Kayaking Decpetion Pass

2011-08-22T09:10:00.000-07:00

Here Kayak instructor Mark Baron is about to enter canoe pass, at Deception Pass State Park.

Rope on the edge

2011-08-21T09:15:00.000-07:00

Wednesday this week I had the pleasure of going climbing with Tess Golling at Mt Erie.

We met through SheJups which is a great organization connecting outdoor women. If you are an active women I would highly recommend checking it out!http://shejumps.com/

Summer Water.

2011-08-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

I can’t believe summer is almost at an end. There is so much that has been done and still needs doing! Mountains to climb, water to paddle, waves to ride, and yet it all slips by in a few precious months!

Splitboard and Ski Baker 2011

2011-07-14T17:32:00.000-07:00

Skiing the Squak and Easton glaciers of Mt. Baker

2011-07-10T11:07:00.000-07:00

On this past beautiful 4^th of July weekend I had the pleasure of climbing Mt Baker with the Baker Mtn Climbing Rangers. Along with doing duties of picking up garbage and tattered blue bags, we were able to climb and ski two different glaciers on the mountain, summitting on our nations independence day. In four days we picked up about 50 pounds of trash and human waist and skied over 15000 vertical feet. Here are some photos from the expedition.

Paddling Lake Ozette, First strokes of a Coho Hi.

2011-07-07T19:06:00.000-07:00

Words by Leif Whittaker, photos by Freya Fennwood.

Hatches cinched tight over luxurious amounts of gear, seat pad inflated, foot braces adjusted, I slide the shiny hull into the green water for the first time. A flutter of ripples emanates from the polished okume, bounces against the muddy shore. Mosquitoes buzz and hover, busily searching out nutrients in the sodden air, the rare patches of sunlight. The sky is a grey blanket without pattern or depth. Lake Ozette’s mirror surface is smudged with patchy gusts of heavy wind and dustings of mist that saturate my life jacket and spray skirt. The water beads and drips between my feet, neoprene dive booties wrapping my toes, pant legs rolled up to the knees.

Boats on roof rack at Lake Ozette put-in.

Freya borrowed the smaller Arctic Tern 14 from Pygmy because her boat is not yet finished.

First few paddles in my new Coho Hi.

I push the kayak further into the water, straddle it, and slip my right foot into the cockpit. I paddle a few strokes into deeper water before twisting my other foot inside and wrapping the edge of my spray skirt around the coaming. Freya performs the same motions with her boat and soon she is gliding up next to me, smiling.

My boat is floating and I’m floating inside it. There are no leaks. The only way I can feel the temperature of the lake is to drag my outstretched hand along the edge of the hull as I move. It feels warm. Months of work have culminated in a nearly silent crescendo, an eruption of calm and simple floatation, a pebble lobbed skyward, polished driftwood being carried away from the verge.

The keel drives between blades of aquatic grass. My unpracticed stroke propels the kayak through inlets, over shoals, around points that are unfamiliar and beautiful. Freya paddles beside me and she comments on how pretty my boat looks in the water. She says the swirly grain matches the ripples. I wish I could get out, walk along the surface like Moses and watch the hull glide. It is already accustomed to the feeling of gliding, the boat. I might need a little more time, but I should get the hang of it after a few trips like this. I splash lake water over the deck and hatches when I sense the kayak needs a drink. The polished grain glints momentarily as I coast into a meadow of sunshine. I can’t believe I actually built this thing.

That swirly grain DOES look good!

Plant life on Lake Ozette.

These pads lined the shore on certain parts of the lake.

We paddle about four miles the first day, keeping close to the rim, watching for wildlife. We spot two deer along the grassy banks and various birds whose names I don’t know. Maybe one of them was a loon. The mist is thin enough that we can see Tivoli Island to the south, but past that, the forest is painted with layers of impermeable cloud. We pull into Ericson Bay, where there is a “boat only” campsite, and drag our kayaks onto the rocky beach.

It is already late in the day because the drive from Port Townsend took hours, so we arrange our tent, string a tarp from the tree branches and begin collecting wood for a fire. We find dry pieces beneath leafy canopies. We bundle dead twigs together with a green branch and light the bundle with a Bic lighter. It ignites soon enough and I hold the bundle on it’s end so the fire streams upward. Freya adds more twigs and, eventually, bigger sticks are burning too. The smoke keeps the mosquitoes away while we unfold the camp chairs that Freya bungeed to her deck. We take a sooty grate—borrowed from John—and prop it over the flame. We begin chopping fresh vegetables and sausages to fill a cast iron pan, which we set on the grate. The vegetables sizzle in olive oil. Garlic fumes intermingle with the clean mist. I wonder if the bears can smell it.

Left: Freya's Arctic Tern 14 (borrowed from Pygmy). Right: My Coho Hi.

Cooking a wonderful meal on the fire.

The fire gave the vegetables a nice smokey flavor.

Once it comes to a simmer, the sauce is ready, and a bag of angle hair pasta cooks rapidly in boiling lake water. It would be impractical and therefore impossible to have a meal this luxurious on a backpacking or mountaineering trip. The advantage of a boat is deliciously obvious now, as I twirl scrumptious threads around my spork and pop a slice of zucchini into my mouth. We keep the fire burning until it is dark and we can see there are no stars bright enough to shine through the clouds. Then we retire to the tent, falling asleep almost instantly, two glowing bodies tucked into the dusky forest on the edge of the empty lake.

We spend two more days on Ozette, exploring small waves in open water, paddling upwind, downwind and with wind on the side. One morning we paddle to a trail that meanders through the rainforest for two miles until it reaches the coast. We carry a picnic lunch and a hundred-foot length of wedding with which to build a slackline on the beach. The trail is poorly maintained and charming. Ancient cedar planks are laid end to end. They are covered with a slippery layer of moss, and they flex and teeter under our feet. The forest is green and alive. Enormous bulbs of skunk cabbage are like plants from an era when dinosaurs walked the planet. There are cedar trunks too immense to fathom and upturned rootballs that have grown into walls of miniature ferns. The air is dense and nourishing.

Slippery boardwalk on the trail to the coast.

The beach was flat and clean but the water was cold.

Slacklining on the beach. I'm not very good.

More slacklining. Freya is very good.

We arrive at the coast and I’m reminded of the beach in front of my family’s cabin. To the north, there are stacks of dark rock protruding from the breakers that look like a drawing by Dr. Seuss. To the south, there are piles of driftwood and entire trees resting in the sand. We tighten the red slackline between the rootballs of two trees and sit on a nearby log to eat our lunch. The sun comes out and I take off my shirt. We balance on the taught line until our feet are sore and the wind picks up, making the day chilly. It is 4pm by the time we start back on the trail to the lake.

Our kayaks are waiting for us, nestled beneath a tree, napping on dewy blades of grass. The brown wood hulls blend into the forest like they are fallen trees stripped of bark, yet they float and glide and drift like water is their true home, their birthing place. Its fitting that my boat be christened here, in a place where foamy waves splash against ancient trunks. Its also fitting that it is a place I have never been to before. It sets a tone for the kayak. Now I know it will take me on journeys to other remote and unfamiliar locations, to lakes and oceans, inlets and sounds, coves and islands beyond my imagination. I’m just learning about this kayaking life, but already, I am in love.

Mist on the hull.

Skiing on the flanks of Mt. Angels on the switch back trail and Klahhane Ridge

2011-06-23T10:20:00.000-07:00

Mt. Angeles and its wicked back bowl

Mt. Angeles and the Olympics looking towards Hurricane ridge.

Nanny goat and her kid on Klahhane Ridge

Looking up at where we want to ski next from inside the back bowl.

Grant teli turning down a skiers right shoot of the back bowl

Our tracks down a wonderful shoot of the backside bowl.

Big Pygmy Paddle Starts of Summer Kayaking!

2011-06-16T12:02:00.000-07:00

Of Beaches, Sun, and Water.

2011-05-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

Boom/Re-Cyclery Party at the UnderTown

2011-05-03T20:31:00.000-07:00

Here are some highlights from the Boom Fest/Re-Cyclery fundraiser at the Undertown. This work is not in my usual area, but it is fun to go inside and take a few pictures, What a great night!

Lens Baby at the Coast

2011-05-03T14:03:00.000-07:00

Coastal Climbing

2011-05-01T09:44:00.000-07:00

Skagit Valley Tulip Festival

2011-04-25T09:34:00.000-07:00

I haven't been over to the tulip festival since i was a very little girl bewitched by the miles of solid pink, purple, and yellow. It was lovely to return and experience it afresh.

First sunny kayaking days of Spring

2011-04-21T23:29:00.000-07:00

It is time to grab your paddle, boat, and life jacket and hit the sea because I'm feeling spring! (not writing off the snow though)

April Powder Showers

2011-04-08T16:17:00.000-07:00

Just when you think the snow is going to loose the fight against those pesky daffodils, April gives you a powder day. On April the 6th, three of us raged the slopes of Maggies, each blowing our own fresh trail. We rode for nine hours straight and as dusk crept up the slopes, we counted our contours down the mountain, reliving each turn etched into the wall with the satisfaction of knowing that every squiggle was ours. Everyone else seams to think the daffodils have won the fight for spring, but little do they know winter is not nearly over.

Pygmy Boats Catalog 2011

2011-03-28T14:23:00.000-07:00

Front and back cover of The Pygmy Boats catalog I shot this summer on an expedition exploring the remote BC coast.

My article featured in the Pygmy Catalog with photos from the coastal trip.

Left) John Lockwood, owner and designer of Pygmy Boats holding a sea cucumber that he gathered for dinner. Right) a detail of sea life seen on the BC trip. Far right) two young kayakers carry a boat to the water near Port Townsend, WA.

It was hard to decide how to capture the differences in Pygmys new Murrelet series, but i think in the end we were able to show how low you can go and the beauty of these new boats.

I am excited to see my photos featured in the new Pygmy Boats Catalog, hitting mailboxes this week. Most of these images were shot on a two-week trip up the remote BC coast testing some new boats this past summer. I also wrote a little piece about the trip which is featured as well.

Hurricane Ridge Roostertails

2011-03-27T21:22:00.000-07:00

Hurricane Ridge Roostertails 2011 from Freya Fennwood on Vimeo.
Here is a little experiment with the Go Pro. Took it out on a nice powder day up in the Olympic Mountains and had some of my ski finds take some turns with it. We had an awesome day and I learned a lot about this new tool for my bag. More experimentation to come.

Mt. Anderson Winter Expedition Final video

2011-03-23T10:47:00.000-07:00

Mt. Anderson Winter Expedition 2011-Part 2 from Freya Fennwood on Vimeo.
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Now live on the first ascent blog see here. http://blog.firstascent.com

Mt. Anderson blog 4 now live!

2011-03-22T10:14:00.000-07:00

Blog 4 We want more suffering! is up on First Ascent sight. Read about the end of Olympic adventure. One more video to come.

Mt. Anderson blog 3

2011-03-21T11:34:00.000-07:00

The adventure Continues blog 2 and photos of the Mt. Anderson expedition are up on the First Ascent sight. Video to come soon!http://blog.firstascent.com

Mt. Anderson Winter Expedition video 1

2011-03-19T12:33:00.000-07:00

Mt. Anderson Winter Expedition 2011-Part 1 from Freya Fennwood on Vimeo.
Here is my first video from the Mount Anderson Expedition. Text and photos are on the First Ascent Blog. more video to come!

Mt. Anderson Winter Expedition Part 2 on First Ascent Blog.

2011-03-18T17:40:00.000-07:00

Here is Part two of the Anderson Expedition. read the full story at, http://blog.firstascent.com/2011/03/17/leif-whittaker-and-team-encounter-difficult-terrain-on-mount-anderson-winter-attempt/

Mt. Anderson Winter Expedition photos and stories featured on Eddie Bauer/ First Ascent Blog

2011-03-18T12:39:00.000-07:00

My photos and videos of a Mt. Anderson Winter Expedition are being featured on the First Ascent Blog. Here is episode one. Read about the pain and rewards of winter mountaineering. http://blog.firstascent.com/2011/03/16/leif-whittaker-and-team-kick-off-mt-anderson-winter-summit-attempt/

The Adventure Begins!

2011-02-26T17:56:00.000-08:00

Here is Leif's latest blog with my photos about preparing for our Mt. Anderson expedition. Stay tuned for epic tales and photos of rarely visited backcountry!http://www.whittakerwrites.com/2011/02/preparing-for-mount-anderson.html

Orca skeleton articulation.

2011-02-11T13:46:00.000-08:00

The Port Townsend Marine Science Center is re-building the skeleton of a female Ocra whale that was found beached and full of toxic contaminants. Her skeleton is going to be part of an exhibit that discusses topics such as ocean health and underwater sound communication.

I was able to stop buy as they were putting the skeleton together this week. The whale skeleton will be on display for free this weekend February 11-13^th at the Port Townsend Marine Science Center. It is amazing to see what one of these beautiful creatures looks like inside.

Kayaking on the first sunny day of February.

2011-02-03T18:13:00.000-08:00

Powder Land

2011-01-14T17:33:00.000-08:00

Surfing into a New Year

2011-01-05T10:33:00.000-08:00

for the story and more photos go to

http://www.whittakerwrites.com/2011/01/surfing-into-new-years-at-ruby-beach.html

Happy New Years!

2011-01-03T11:24:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! Celebrated New Years in one of my favorite places, this shot is from day number one 2011.

Olympic Powder

2010-12-30T13:30:00.000-08:00

It's almost a new year and the fun just isn't stopping. Here are a few photos from my adventures in the snow. Have a Happy New Year, may the snow gods treat us all well!

Another day of Perfection

2010-12-27T20:35:00.000-08:00

Winter is a Beach--By Leif Whittaker

2010-11-30T13:18:00.000-08:00

By Leif Whittaker

The road is clean. Broken ice and packed powder is pushed into barriers on the shoulder. The plow is like the heels of two open palms compacting sand on the foundation of a castle. We used to pile sand on the grey beaches in summer. We built castles as big as we could and then watched the tide destroy them. We were delighted to throw rocks and drop logs on the walls. To stomp it into oblivion and aid the erosion. We got wet feet and tossed sand at each other. Cleaned our eyes in the salt water afterwards. Sand is so much like snow.

The sign says chains are required but our car doesn’t need them. The pavement is bare but the hills are blanketed. The snow deepens as we climb towards Hurricane Ridge. One vehicle passes going the other way. Downhill. I wonder if the driver made it to the ridge and found the snow too shallow to ski. Freya doesn’t think so. She thinks they watched the sunrise. We don’t see another car until the parking lot.

Even there we are almost alone. A few other excited souls have made the trek. They’re hoping to discover something hidden in this November pinch. A wonderland. An immaculate landscape waiting to be painted. It beckons all of us with a whisper.

Boughs droop under heavy powder loads. Soft breezes vibrate frozen needles that fall and dissolve in the bright air like sugar in a cup of tea. The sky is dynamic. Half-empty clouds break against the salty currents of the nearby ocean. Sun cleaves through for a moment. Dark valleys glow with an emerald tint.

I have not been here since I was a child. Sledding in a purple onesie with mom, dad and brother. Face-plants didn’t hurt back in those days. It didn’t matter how deep the snow was. It was always deep enough.

The one-hour journey from Port Townsend seems criminal. I have a terrifying suspicion that the snow and terrain will be worthless because the drive was so short. We haven’t worked hard enough or paid enough money to get here. Something must be missing.

But the reason we haven’t paid a cent is because the T-Bars are closed. It’s too early to be here. Or is it? More cars arrive in the parking lot as Freya and I prepare our gear. I see rooftop boxes filled with skis and snowboards. I see snowshoes. I see children in purple onesies. There are many people looking for the same thing we are: the first powder turns of the season. We better get moving before all the fresh canvas is taken.

After about five minutes of skinning I realize that I am severely overdressed and Freya realizes that she is severely over-geared. Her snowboard is strapped to a pack that is way too big for her. She is using snowshoes and ski-poles to follow a bootpack that is actually quite solid. She doesn’t need either. Her camera dangles at her side from a single shoulder strap. She is a walking garage sale and I don’t look much better. My shovel bangs against my helmet with every step. My baselayer is soaked. We continue upward and arrive at the crest of a lamp-shade-like peak after thirty minutes of climbing. We look down at a sparsely-treed face covered in completely clean powder. This is the perfect spot to drop in.

Awkward backpacks and unnecessary gear require reorganization. It takes us too long to transition from climbing-mode to skiing-mode. By the time we’re ready to descend I am shivering beneath my soggy clothes but I’m excited to see if this powder is as perfect as it looks.

I point my tips downhill and let myself slide. The first few turns are awkward but the knee-deep snow is soft and forgiving. I feel no rocks beneath my skis. No shrubs or branches. Only soft clean powder. The feeling is exhilarating. The next few turns are natural and quick. I paint a symmetrical weave between the trees. My turns will remain until the next big snow. A jaunty poem to be read by cars passing on the road below.

The run ends on the road below. We snap out of our bindings and stick out our thumbs. We shove our gear into the back and sit next to a young girl. Her parents are driving. They have an energetic Welsh corgi that licks my face.

You can actually ski here? the mother asks.

Yeah. It’s great!

So do you hike up and then ski back down?

Yep.

Seems like a lot of work.

It is. But those powder turns are all worth it.

I’m impressed. Good work you guys.

Thanks. What are you all doing up here?

Oh, you know. Pictures and stuff.

Right. It’s a beautiful day.

Sure is.

Where are you from?

Everett.

Alright. Just across the water.

Not too far.

Well thanks for the ride.

No problem. Have fun!

And we are back at the car. Freya ditches her snowshoes and poles and pack. I get rid of some layers. We both feel free.

We hike up the same ridge but go further along than before. The terrain is slightly steeper here and the powder is still untouched. Every turn feels perfect this time. The slope runs beneath my skis like a wave pulling pack from the shore. I could not have imagined a better first day. I cannot imagine a better way to play.

After four runs the sky is turning dark. It gets late so early this time of year. We have been here over four hours and in that time we have skied downhill for less than ten minutes. But what an amazing ten minutes it was.

I can’t wait to come back. I can’t believe this powder grows so close to home. I’ll be watching the weather report closely for the next storm. Winter doesn’t have to mean dark wet days. It doesn’t have to mean hiding at home. I’ve seen something different. Winter is beautiful. Winter is a beach. Winter is chest-deep pockets of soft clean snow.

2010-11-29T10:44:00.001-08:00

Still Life of the Coast

2010-11-21T08:58:00.000-08:00

Coast Life

2010-11-18T14:03:00.000-08:00

Out on the remote coast of Washington, birds seam to not have the fear of humans they do inland. here Seagulls sit upon a driftwood pile awaiting breaking surf to deliver crabs and starfish for them to feed on. Above a hawk takes wing above whale creek.

cormorants at sunset on Port Townsend Waterfront

2010-11-17T21:01:00.000-08:00

Forbidden Peak

2010-11-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

This is a shot from this summer when i climbed forbidden peak in the North Cascade mountains of Washington state. Here Tyler Lappetito has just finished some rope management and is getting ready to lead another pitch. On each side of us are thousand foot drops and remote peaks stretch all around us as we near the summit of this 50 classic's climb.

Stop Motion Video

2010-11-01T15:40:00.000-07:00

Exploration in live stop motion. from Freya Fennwood on Vimeo.

Here is a little stop motion experiment. I am a still photographer and working frame by frame comes easier than motion. When I was 12 I convinced my father to buy a digital camera for his work. Soon he could barley tear it from my arms. Why I wanted a camera was to do stop motion. I was obsessed with this idea of making flowers and vegetables come to life. Real flowers, not fake computer ones like Pixar, this was my goal for a camera. When I got the camera, any idea of animating flowers and plants flew from my mind, as I got lost in the wonders of a world through the lens. I spent countless hours on my belly in my back yard trying to get as close to a violet’s face as possible.

It has taken me 10 years to get back to my first inspiration. Here is my first stop motion experiments doing exactly what I did when I was 12, lying on my belly in my yard examining the world through the lens. All photos are shot with a Nikon D300 camera, Nikon 24-70mm f2.8 lens, edited in Light room 2, and then strung together in Final cut pro 7. Maybe I’ll actually make them come to life with a little more practice.

Fall Color

2010-11-01T10:15:00.000-07:00

Some people think that the west side of the country doesn't have fall color. That just isn't true. I will admit it is not the same or in the abundance of the east or middle, but what splashes of gold, red, and orange we do get, stops me in my tracks to examine.

Dandelion Seeds a bloom

2010-10-26T14:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I stepped out of my dark editing den right as a break in the clouds opened up. I grabbed my camera and ran onto the street. The 10 minutes in the afternoon where the sun gets to break through the clouds, illuminating the world with an intense shaft of gold light, made stronger by blue/black clouds all around, is one of my favorite times of day. Its hard to plan for, you don't know for sure if it will come, until it is upon you, and you are basking in pirate color air. Here Dandelion heads are catching the days last rays in the median between the sidewalk and street a block away from my editing den.

The Jacket Video

2010-10-25T00:20:00.000-07:00

The Jacket from Freya Fennwood on Vimeo.
I am excited to present my first dive into motion photography! It was a great learning experience and fun to work with the talented acrobatic juggling group NANDA, while they produced their first feature length show. They are amazing, and I hope this video gives you an idea of what its like to experience their show. For more info on Nanda and more video visit www.thejacketshow.com

All video was shot with a Panasonic GH1 on very high ISO’s its amazing what this camera can do in low light! Edited in Adobe Premiere CS4.

I hope you enjoy

Updated website

2010-10-24T16:53:00.000-07:00

http://fennwoodphotography.com/lifestyle-photographer.html

After a beautiful summer of shooting I’m happy to announce a new gallery on my website. Check out my Lifestyle section with photos of some great experiences I had this summer.

Northwest Maritime Center at sunset

2010-10-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

A few days ago i was photographing a project in down town Port Townsend. When I exited the building the ski was lit with these amazing clouds. Here the Northwest Maritime Center glows in the sunset light.

Nanda Video traler my first work with video

2010-10-14T15:54:00.000-07:00

Here is a video of Nanda's show, The Jacket I shot this summer. I will be posting a version I've been working on, but here is a trailer they made with my footage. really cool stuff!

http://www.thejacketshow.com/Flash/index.html

Giant Puffball

2010-10-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

The Giant puffball is one of the most astounding mushrooms I’ve ever seen. Growing to over a foot wide these white orbs look like lost soccer balls or dragon eggs. On a walk a few days ago a friend found a confusing object in a grassy field. She came to me saying, “I think you should take a look at this thing I found. Its either a dinosaur egg or a giant mushroom.” They turned out to be Giant mushrooms, and beautiful specimens at that. Here Anna Stern who made the discovery posses with an enormous puffball in an impromptu mushroom inspired photo shoot.

Falls wealth, white chanterelle mushroom picking

2010-10-06T13:57:00.000-07:00

Here is the elusive, white chanterelle, less common then its golden sister, but firmer and often larger.

Fish for dinner

2010-09-07T09:47:00.000-07:00

Up one of the steepest trails in the Olympic Mountais lies Mildred lake, the range's highest alpine lake, filled with good size trout. Here Leif Whittaker trikes to take a fresh bite.

Adventure Sports book on Issue.com

2010-08-24T12:37:00.000-07:00

Open publication - Free publishing

Issuu is a really cool way to publish media online, check it out. Here is my adventure sports portfolio made into an Issuu book. http://issuu.com/fennwoodphotography/docs/adventure-sports-portfolio

8 mile fire from Colchuck Lake in Leavenworth WA

2010-08-23T16:32:00.000-07:00

Here smoke from a forest fire up 8-mile trail in the Leavenworth area makes a beautiful sunset from Colchuck Lake in the Enchantments of Washington's Cascade mountains.

Kitchen set up

2010-05-29T16:56:00.000-07:00

Behind the Scenes with NANDA and the making of, “THE JACKET”

2010-05-27T12:45:00.000-07:00

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.
All week a crew has been tirelessly working on setting up “THE JACKET” NANDA’s first full length show. From putting in floors to placing lights and projectors to fixing catastrophes like non-existent merchandise orders. The show must go on, the crew must go on, so here is a sneak peek at the people it is taking to put this show together, which opens TONIGHT! Shows run through June 5th Thursday through Sunday.

NANDA THE JACKET

2010-05-25T16:29:00.000-07:00

I have been photographing the creation of Nanda’s show, THE JACKET, this week, which will début this Thursday at the Wheeler Theater. Here are just a few shots of behind the scenes.

Spring unfurls in Olympic National Park

2010-05-16T23:59:00.000-07:00

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Here is an exploration of a northwest spring. Some people say looking through a lens separates them from the real world, I disagree. I never feel more connected that when I'm flopped on my belly looking at the fresh tendrils of a five inch high forest. This slide show is the product of two days wandering in Olympic National Park, with nobody on my tail telling to move faster,or make base-camp.

ReCyclery Rhody Parade Entry

2010-05-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

If you want to see more photos of the Re-Cyclery in the parade I’ve got a web gallery up at the following link. Very fun event!

fennwoodphotography.com/ptrecyclery-rhody-parade/index

BIKE SCHOOL

2010-05-11T19:04:00.000-07:00

Bike School,

Two students work with teacher Chauncey Locklear on break pad placement during practical training in “BIKE SCHOOL,” I’m hoping to do a story on the PT Re-Cyclery and their community projects soon. Kids learn hands on bike mechanic skills on Mondays, some of them even volunteer on Saturdays when the Re-Cyclery shop is open to the public to learn and fix their own bikes. More photos coming soon.
http://ptrecyclery.com

2010-05-04T13:53:00.000-07:00

Freya Fennwood featured Jumper on shejumps.org A community for outdoor women, check it out!
http://shejumps.org/

Floating Food

2010-04-22T16:26:00.000-07:00

Love working in a group like this, it was really fun because ideas just grow way faster than alone.
Art Director: Josh Laydon
Photographer: Freya Fennwood
Assistant: Katrina Smith
Digital Imaging Tech: Amanda Blalock

Road biking

2010-04-17T10:36:00.000-07:00

Charles Englebert riding close to Glenwood Springs CO, with Mt. Sopris.

2010-04-12T20:45:00.000-07:00

Here are a few shots from a photo shoot in Moab, and a bike shoot in Rifle

Food

2010-03-20T17:35:00.001-07:00

Splash!

2010-03-19T15:17:00.000-07:00

some fun in the studio.

Indian Creek

2010-03-14T12:01:00.001-07:00

awesome two day in Indian creek before the rain came in.

Washington Kayaking

2010-03-11T19:58:00.000-08:00

Last Wednesday i flew back to Washington to visit Leif before he heads off to the mountains of Nepal, and got to fit in a few photo shoots. The weather decided to bless me with two beautiful days of sunshine, where my eyes were bombarded by shades of green and things flowering instead of encapsulated in ice and snow. Thanks to my wonderful models, Leif, Anna, and Tinker, we had fun and i got some shots for my portfolio.

highlights

2010-02-21T09:43:00.000-08:00

So if you have noticed, my school schedule is making my brain fry, so a photo a day isn't going to last a year, but i did go over my month promise. From here on out my blog will be updated with the highlights of my shooting, which will still go on!

February 7

2010-02-07T18:31:00.000-08:00

Here Steve Denny grimaces at ice up in red stone.

February 6- onsite m9

2010-02-06T19:23:00.000-08:00

Today was a blast; I kept finding myself in the right place at the right time. Went out to Redstone for the second day of Winterfest, found a wild group of rock and ice folk headed up to some heinous overhung mixed ice and rock climbing. For those of you who don’t know, this mostly consists of dangling semi upside upside-down on thin crimpers the size of a babies fingernail, on the iron adds of an ice axe. In this photo renowned Canadian climber Will Gadd onsites an M9. Soon after he put up the first assent of an M10, but those pictures are being saved for my new website, (coming soon) sorry folks! Oh yeah latter he did a free solo of a 100 plus foot w4-5 those pics will be on my website someday too.

February 5 winterfest

2010-02-05T22:35:00.000-08:00

Went out to Rock and Ices winterfest in Redstone today, got to photograph dry tooling and ice climbing, pretty damn fun. more for tomorrow!

February 4

2010-02-05T22:34:00.000-08:00

studio portable solar panel,fighting with studio lighting, i like finding light rather than making light.

February 3

2010-02-03T18:22:00.000-08:00

More painting with light and self portraits, but today i got a mini key chain light which is a lot more delicate than my flash light.

February 2

2010-02-02T21:05:00.000-08:00

its been a long day, so again i'm shooting at night in my room with my headlamp as my light source, an idea which i must hone, not really there yet.

February 1 (one month finished!

2010-02-02T21:03:00.000-08:00

My goal has been accomplished. one month of photographing something each day. I think i have decided to go further on, though the first two days of February have been very busy with school, here she goes though.

January 31

2010-01-31T20:05:00.000-08:00

Off take from rappel shoot up off spouting rock. Devon Barker, descends.

January 30

2010-01-31T15:28:00.000-08:00

January 29

2010-01-29T19:33:00.000-08:00

Jen Brennan XC ski shoot. It was sunny today too!!

January 28

2010-01-28T18:09:00.000-08:00

Sunset and moon.

January 27

2010-01-28T18:07:00.000-08:00

Glenwood Canyon walls right outside my door after fresh dusting of snow.

January 26

2010-01-26T16:17:00.000-08:00

Trine and her beastly lens in a blizzard.

January 25

2010-01-26T16:15:00.000-08:00

Sopris from carbondale

January 24

2010-01-24T14:32:00.000-08:00

Powder day at sunlight, Deb Katers has been boarding on this mountain more than 15 years.

January 23-Olympic Athlete in local Aspen race

2010-01-23T14:17:00.000-08:00

Today I went and photographed a local Nordic skiing race up by Aspen High school. I was hoping to find some models to photograph XC skiing and passed out business cards along with shooting the race. Fun surprise, New Zealand’s Ben Koons dropped in for the race, He is doing some high altitude training before participating in his first Olympic games in British Columbia. Here he crosses the finish line far ahead of the pack.

January 22

2010-01-22T15:39:00.000-08:00

January 21

2010-01-22T15:34:00.000-08:00

January 20

2010-01-20T17:29:00.000-08:00

shot in product photography lab, "assistance Josh Layden, Amanda Blaylock, and Trine Boahsdalen, model, girl pulled from lunch room.(sorry if i miss spelled your name, i probably did.)

January 19

2010-01-20T17:27:00.000-08:00

The old school buses parked close to my house, seen through weeds.

January 18

2010-01-18T21:54:00.001-08:00

January 17

2010-01-17T16:55:00.000-08:00

Natalia doing yoga on mushroom rock, with Sopris behind. one portfolio location found.

January 16

2010-01-16T15:20:00.000-08:00

Spouting Rock, above Hanging lake.

January 15

2010-01-16T15:18:00.000-08:00

Bike and pedistrian over pass on I-70 towards Glenwood Springs.

January 14

2010-01-14T21:05:00.000-08:00

Trine and Thomasine the bad!