Lessons From the San Juans

I looked up and saw Yusuf standing at the top of the pass, nearly 80 feet above me. Between us, was a steep gully comprised of the loosest scree I have ever set foot on in the mountains. He shouted down to me, “It’s pretty loose Halam, try going around to the other side of the cliffs.”

I slowly moved around the base of the cliffs and saw Yusuf from the other side. I began moving up the pass. But with each step up, I felt like the rocks would give way and I’d begin sliding down the steep slope. Sometimes, I did slide—but I was somehow able to hold my balance and not fall down the entire mountain. I froze up. Tears started streaming down my face as I debated with Yusuf whether or not I could make it up to the top of the pass. My limbs were shaking with every step. I have never been more terrified in the mountains.

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One of my good friends from college, Yusuf, has been living in Telluride, Colorado and working remotely for over a year now. He’s always loved the mountains that reside there, the San Juan mountain range, so in a way, Covid has helped him really live his dream. He’s constantly climbing mountains—14ers, 13ers, he loves the summits and his evolving goal of climbing the hundreds of peaks in Colorado. It’s an addiction for him.

Yusuf finally convinced me to visit him in Telluride in May. I drove 6.5 hours from Evergreen, only to find a few days of bad weather in the San Juans. It rained for almost three days straight, the entire time I had planned to visit. But we managed. We hiked to countless waterfalls within the box canyon that Telluride sits in, all the while Yusuf played tour-guide and showed me around his little mountain town. Even though I hardly saw any mountains, I was hooked.

It took less than a month for me to return for another visit. I am headed to California for all of July, so I figured I’d stop by and go on a few adventures with Yusuf before heading further west. And this time, I was truly awed by the San Juans.

We started off by climbing Boskoff Peak (13,123’), which is just South of Wilson Peak, Mt. Wilson, and El Diente, all 14ers which are some of the most Southern peaks in Colorado. We were on trail for most of the day, except for the ridge up to the summit. Seeing the massive summit block of El Diente and the ridge-line connected to Mt. Wilson was insane. The San Juans are exceptionally rugged—we can thank the work glaciers do for that.

The next day, Yusuf and I hiked in to the Blue Lakes Basin, which sits at the base of Mt. Sneffels, another 14er. The trail was inconsistent and clearly old, but interesting nevertheless. As we approached Lower Blue Lake, our jaws immediately dropped. And they remained dropped for the rest of the hike as we climbed up to the upper lakes. The views were breathtaking. The lakes all sparkled a cloudy, turquoise hue, which I later learned is due to a phenomenon called “glacial milk”. As glaciers move around in their basins, they grind up the material that sits underneath them into a fine powder, which makes its way into streams and lakes. This super fine sediment, or “milk”, sits suspended in lakes and reflects sunlight in a weird way, causing the lake water to appear a milky turquoise blue.

On our third day together, we summited Hayden Mountain South (13,206’), which is about halfway between Ouray and Silverton along the Million Dollar Highway. The weather was perfect, the trail was steep but defined, and the ridge and views were epic. We stood on the summit with 360-degree views of the San Juans. To the North—Wetterhorn and Uncompahgre, to the East—the Red Mountains, to the South—the Weminuche Wilderness and the Chicago Basin peaks, and to the West— the Mt. Sneffels Wilderness. I’ve never seen such epic views.

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On my fourth day in Telluride, I had to do a bit of work in the morning. Yusuf and I decided to do a sunset hike to the top of a pass that would give us great views of the Island and Ice Lake Basins, which are classic San Juan lakes. The forecast looked great, so we headed out after I finished up my work and got off a Zoom call.

We drove through the small town of Ophir, and began hiking around 3pm. We made our way into a huge basin. We couldn’t find a trail, so we relied on Yusuf’s inReach to show us the way to the pass. I usually like hiking off trail, but I was instantly reminded of the luxury of a defined path as Yusuf led me through a section of thick willows on a steep slope next to a waterfall. He had sped off without me and left me to fend for myself in the bushes. Once through the brutal section of bushwack, I was beat. I had a bit of a headache going and was worried that our off-trail adventure would continue way past the sunset, even though it wouldn’t be totally dark until after 9pm.

Yusuf wasn’t worried, so I somewhat hesitantly followed him up to the base of the pass. I’ve climbed steep slopes before in the mountains. I’ve also climbed loose slopes before. However, as I stood at the foot of the brunt of the pass, with over 100 feet of extremely steep and extremely loose terrain in front of me, I was a bit unnerved. “Oh boy, this will be interesting,” I thought to myself as I began up the face after Yusuf, who was already about halfway up.

The first half of the pass wasn’t anything too crazy. A very faint trail made up of scree switchbacked its way up. But eventually, the trail faded and I stood at the base of a huge outcrop of cliffs. To my left was a super loose section of choss that pitched straight up to the top of the pass. It was clear that people had hiked up and down this face, but it seemed to be nearly impossible to find the best way through the loose rock. To my right was Yusuf, scrambling up a steep and even more loose gully. As I stood at the base of the cliffs, Yusuf called down to me, “do NOT enter the gully until I reach the top and give you the all clear!” A few rocks tumbled down, knocked loose by Yusuf’s climbing. I was instantly nervous.

A few minutes later, Yusuf looked down at me from the top of the pass. “The view is incredible, like seeing some of our favorite places in Utah for the first time!” To me, that meant I would likely tear up at the sight of the lakes and the peaks beyond. I was so excited for that view. He then shouted, “but the gully is really sketchy!!!”

We continued to yell at each other over the deafening wind and tried to come up with a game plan for how I would best get up to the top. Yusuf has spent a lot of time in steep, loose terrain like this. So he’s used to it. I, however, am not. We agreed it would be best for me to avoid the gully and try heading up the section to the left of the cliffs.

A few minutes later, I found myself stuck on a small rock, which seemed to be the only rock on the entire face of that mountain that didn’t slide out from underneath me as I put my weight on it. I really wanted to see those lakes. So I kept looking around, trying to find a route through the scree. I felt totally helpless and stranded. Yusuf was only 80 feet above me, but I could barely hear him over the wind. Of all the mountains I have summited, of all the scrambling I have done, of all the steep runs I’ve skied—I've never felt like I had pushed myself totally outside my comfort zone. Until this moment. From where I was standing, there was no clear or easy path to the top. Tears started streaming down my face. It was getting late. I was shaking, I felt terrified to move, I was frozen on this extremely steep and extremely loose face. All I wanted was to be back down on the grassy tundra below us, or to be lying in my bed in Evergreen, or to be fly fishing with my Dad in our favorite spot in Colorado. I wanted to be off that damn mountain.

Yusuf kept calling down to me and eventually we decided that I should not attempt to continue climbing. He coached me back to safety at the base of the cliffs and carefully made his way down the steep gully to join me, knocking hundreds of rocks loose and sending them flying down next to me as he descended. I gathered my emotions and we hiked down together to the base of the pass. We stopped, Yusuf gave me a big hug and apologized for dragging me up there. We emptied the gravel from our shoes, I ate an entire veggie burger in approximately 2 minutes, and we discussed what had happened.

“It’s not abnormal for people to freeze on intense terrain like that,” Yusuf explained to me. Baby steps are important and pushing our comfort zones from within ourselves is absolutely a good thing. But jumping into something, or pushing our comfort zones from outside ourselves is not. We both agreed that I simply wasn’t ready for something that extreme, especially when I wasn’t feeling 100% due to a headache (and hunger for a veggie burger, and probably some mild exhaustion from the past few days of adventuring). I could absolutely do it physically, but doing it mentally proved to be a challenge.

We continued down into the basin and found a semi-defined trail. The sunset began casting incredible light into the basin, illuminating the bright reds, oranges, and yellows of the jagged peaks. I paused several times during our hike down and admired the scenery. I was back to my normal self—grateful to be in the wilderness. But a feeling that I haven’t felt in the mountains in quite some time washed over me, humility.

I was humbled by the steepness and looseness of the pass. I was humbled by the great and vast ruggedness of the mountains. I was humbled by the San Juans and our feeling of remoteness. I was humbled by the lesson I had learned about pushing my limits and what it feels like to reach those limits. I bet most people go through life never experiencing something like that. Even though it was truly terrifying, I was grateful for finding mine.

I left the San Juans this morning with a new respect for the wilderness, and particularly for the mountains. What can these great peaks and endless views teach us? What do they whisper to us as the wind whips around their spires and through our hair? What lessons can we learn from their majesty, from their relentlessness, and from their intensity?

As I gazed out into the basin lit up with sunset colors and followed Yusuf down the trail to the car, I felt an enormous gratitude. The mountains had pushed me and I had pushed me. I found a new pocket of my personality that I had never known before—true fear. It was so powerful and so beautiful. Even though I didn’t get to the top of the pass and didn’t get to see those lakes, I am eternally grateful for the mountains and for their capability to lead me to new places within.

Smoky Summits

The wildflowers are in full bloom, the mountains are entirely free of blankets of snow, and the days are hot and endless—it’s mountain climbing and wildfire season in Colorado.

My three roommates and I are working in Boulder and trying to find our post-graduation paths through the craziness of COVID-19. Adding another element to the chaos that has been 2020 so far, the wildfire smoke and air pollution along the Front Range has been shocking. In an effort to escape it all, we decided to drive a few hours south to Colorado’s San Juans this past weekend for a few adventures.

We arrived at our first trailhead late Friday night, and woke up at 5:30am Saturday morning to begin our ascent up to San Luis Peak, which stands at 14,014 feet. The trail was nothing too exciting, it was Class 1 and about 3,400 feet of elevation gain over 11 miles. An easy day in the mountains. I was grateful since I hadn’t been above 8,000 feet since early July. I was desperately out of shape.

We summited around 10:30am. Wildfire smoke hazed out our view, we could barely see the mountains neighboring our own. On our way back to the car, we discussed how shocked we were that the smoke from Colorado’s wildfires was still visible this far south in the state. It hadn’t really rained anywhere in over a month.

How did this happen? How did our state burst into flames so quickly? We had a decent winter; our snowpack was recorded to be over 100% of average. The answer is both fairly simple and incredibly complicated.

Climate change—the number of hot, dry summer days in Colorado has increased nearly every year in the last decade. These hot days start earlier too, in May, instead of late July and early August. The snowpack melts off and the landscape soaks it up earlier in the spring, leaving the summer to be brutally hot and brutally dry. Climate change also changes the normal weather patterns, altering the monsoon cycles and leaving us without a regular afternoon thunderstorm. Things are looking pretty bad here in Colorado, and many scientists think the impacts of climate change are just getting started.

We woke up even earlier Sunday morning after a long evening of trying to get our Subaru Outback up a gnarly four-wheel drive road. Wetterhorn peak was on the agenda for the day, which featured nearly a mile of Class 3 scrambling, 3,300 feet of gain, and seven miles, all for a summit at 14,015 feet. We began our trek in the dark and made it to treeline by sunrise. We turned right at a trail junction and found ourselves in a wide open basin, filled with lateral moraines from ancient glaciers. We climbed higher and higher, over boulder fields, until eventually reaching the saddle, where we turned right to follow the Class 3 ridge up to the summit.

We stopped to collapse our trekking poles and switch out our hats for climbing helmets. The ridge honestly wasn’t anything too crazy. I find that photos of Class 3 pitches (and higher) usually look worse than they actually are. But it’s still worth being overly cautious, you could easily take a deadly fall.

After about an hour of scrambling, we summited Wetterhorn and were greeted on the wide summit by other climbers. Smiles were all around, it was a beautiful day in the mountains, even though they were mostly obscured by smoke.

As we continue into the dog days of summer, it will likely remain hot and dry. Fires will burn, maybe even into October until the first snow falls, and the air quality throughout the state will remain arguably dangerous. What can we do?

Environmental problems related to climate change often seem out of reach of the ordinary American citizen—they’re too big, with too many stakeholders involved, and solutions cost way too much money. However, there is one thing we can all do: vote. Vote for those who are advocating for climate solutions, for renewable energy, for the protection of our public lands, for the sustainable use of our natural resources. Voting for delegates who are willing to stand up against climate change caused by human activity is the easiest and most important way we can work to protect Colorado’s forests, summers, and landscapes.

My roommates and I agree with this sentiment, and that the climate change clock is ticking—we must act now to preserve the landscapes that we so dearly love. By voting and taking action against climate change, we can work to prevent massive forest fires, improve our air quality, and make 14er summits more enjoyable for everyone.

Pandemic 14ers

On a windless, hazy morning in September 2019, my friend, Katherine Feldmann, and I stood on the summit of Handies Peak, a fourteen thousand-footer in the San Juan Range of Colorado. I gazed off at the other 14ers surrounding our mountain top— Redcloud and Sunshine, which we had just climbed the day before, and others like Wetterhorn and Uncompahgre, which I probably wouldn’t climb for many years. I was a senior in college and my plan was to move out of Colorado and explore the wildernesses of a new state. Exactly which I was unsure, but my time in my home was limited and that day would be the last spent on a 14er for quite some time.

Oh, how the world has changed since that morning on Handies.

Yesterday, Feldmann and I climbed our first 14er of the season, Tabeguache Peak, or as our friends and I have dubbed it, “Tab-a-guac”, “Tab-a-gucci”, “TAB”, etc, etc. As the first peak of the season typically reminds us, we were desperately out of mountain-climbing shape and 14ers are so much bigger than we remembered. Tabeguache was Feldmann’s 40th fourteen thousand-foot summit in Colorado out of 58 total. Her plan is to finish climbing all 58 this summer and finishing another 18 summits before winter is an aggressive, but likely do-able, itinerary. My unexpected plan for the near future is to keep her company for most of the remaining 18.

We woke up in the back of Feldmann’s Subaru Outback at 6:00am and were on the trail by 6:45. The first mile through the trees nearly destroyed our tired legs and lungs (I had hiked about 10 miles the day before and Feldmann had biked around 15). We reached a junction and headed into a wide basin covered with bristlecone pines and intermittent snow fields. We still couldn’t see the summit of Tabeguache by the time we were on a saddle between two thirteen thousand-foot points and a long ridge-line. Heading east, we hiked and scrambled over a few false-summits until reaching the top of Tabeguache, which was marked by a fist-bump and a few laughs with other peak-baggers relaxing on the summit.

COVID-19 seemed to escape us all as we sat on top of a mountain in the southern Sawatch Range in Colorado. Our world as we know it has been completely upended. We all know that our lives will never be the same. Within just a few weeks, my plan of leaving Colorado to be a raft-guide in Glacier, Montana during my year off between undergrad and law school has dissipated. My graduation ceremony at Folsom Field at the University of Colorado, which is usually packed with thousands of people, was cancelled and replaced with a virtual ceremony, which I watched alone from my couch in Boulder. Feldmann’s in-person defense of her Honors Thesis, which she had been preparing for several years, was moved online to Zoom, where her family, friends and I could all watch from our bedrooms. I’m sure everyone that stood on the summit of Tabeguache yesterday felt the hard punch of the coronavirus in the last two months.

It’s impossible to escape the change that a global pandemic has inflicted and it’s impossible to not miss the lives that we all lived before. And we all likely have it easy—we’re simply enjoying the sunshine on top of a 14er, healthy as can be and escaping our home quarantines of sorts. We kept our 6-foot distance and some of us wore masks and we all took comfort in being outside in an unconfined, circulating air space. The news cycle is more depressing than ever, but the world is far from over. Our lives may have done a 180, everything might have been put on hold— but the mountains are still here, as tall as ever.

I thought my 14er days were over last September, but as I readjust my plans for the next chapter of my life, I look forward to many more beautiful days in the mountains of Colorado. In a way that I never expected, I will remain in Boulder for another year to work and climb mountains with Feldmann. It’s not my dream life post-graduation, and a part of me is dreading the alpine starts, 4o mile per hour winds, postholes, sketchy downclimbs, and false-summits that come with Colorado’s 14ers. But I hope these trivial challenges remind me that sometimes life takes an unexpected turn and the only thing I can do is make the best of it. After all, mountain sunrises, sock tans, class 3 ridges, and long days with one of your best friends are truly pretty rad.

The Mountains Are Dangerous

In the last several years, I have spent a lot of time in the wilderness. From backpacking trips, to 21-day river trips, to scrambling up 14,000-foot peaks, I would call myself a fairly experienced outdoors-person. Almost two years ago, I recognized that my friends and I occasionally end up in dangerous situations and became a certified Wilderness First Responder. I would say that my decision-making, medical, and navigation skills are above average, and those of my adventure buddies are as well. All of this aside, I never feared for my life before yesterday.

Two friends, Evan and Jason, and I decided to summit Mt. Meeker (13,911 feet) via the Loft Couloir. The route consisted of a four-mile approach to Chasm Lake (nearly 11 miles total roundtrip), a long section of Class 2-3 scrambling up the couloir, a sketchy summit, and almost 5000 feet of elevation gain. We were stoked for a challenge and to be avoiding the crowds on Longs Peak, and NOAA’s weather forecast looked nearly perfect. We decided to leave Boulder around 6am and arrive at the trailhead by 7. We were fast hikers, and we weren’t concerned about Colorado’s infamous afternoon summer thunderstorms since the forecast looked so great. This was our mistake.

At 7am we left the Longs Peak trailhead as planned and reached Chasm Lake by 9. This part of Rocky Mountain National Park, and the greater Rocky Mountains, is one of my favorites. Longs Peak itself is epic. With unique views of the peak from every angle, meadows of Columbine flowers, waterfalls, and crystal-clear lakes, it is simply an alpine paradise. We turned left and began hiking past Longs’ Ships Prow, a famous triangular butte of granite and schist, and up the Loft Couloir that splits Longs Peak from Meeker. This section was filled with loose rock, but wasn’t very exposed, so we cruised up it. We noticed a few climbers on an exposed buttress on the North face of Meeker and all three of us acknowledged their level of badass. About two-thirds of the way up, the hiking switched to Class 3 scrambling. The rock was solid and the path was obvious. We were safe.

Near the top of the Couloir on a long section of scrambling, we came across a hiker wearing all black clothing, steel-toed boots, and was carrying a gallon jug of water in one hand as he tried to move up a slab of slippery granite with limited holds. Jason talked him through his sketchy climb and he reached safety easily. He followed us up to the top of the Couloir and into to the Loft itself and we continued chatting with him. He was planning to summit Longs, and it became immediately obvious to us that he had no idea of the complications of the Loft Route to the summit. He wanted to avoid the crowds along the Keyhole route, which was fair, but didn’t do his research of the more difficult route that he chose. Jason, who had completed it last summer, explained the technicalities of the route beyond where we were standing. He didn’t seemed too thrilled, and even mentioned to me that he didn’t know everything that he brought with him in his pack.

We wished him luck and continued along our route to the East up Meeker and watched him wander along the Loft towards Longs. We last saw him standing near the edge of the Couloir, checking out the view.

At 11:15am the three of us summited Meeker and were in awe by its narrow summit of solid rock. We could barely see the knife-edge along the Eastern ridge, which we had been contemplating crossing the day before. We decided against it; it was a little too windy. By 1:00pm we were back at Chasm Lake, where there were still many hikers enjoying the views, and by 1:30 we reached the Chasm Lake/Keyhole Route trail junction. We passed a few people heading up and said hello to the hikers relaxing at the junction. We were feeling great.

The sky started turning dark over Longs as we began our 1.5 mile descent through the open basin to treeline. Aware of the increasingly-possible storm heading towards us, we began to hustle down the trail. Not five minutes later, I was sprinting down the mountain behind Jason and Evan. It was hailing. There were flashes of lighting every few seconds— totally surrounding us. The storm was right on top of us, and we were completely exposed. Aside from the peaks behind us, occasional cairns, and trees hundreds of feet below us, we were absolutely the tallest objects in a wide-open area. Mother Nature was attacking us from every angle and we were completely helpless.

I’ve never been a runner, and I honestly did not believe I was capable of trail-running before yesterday. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do for you. I’m also a frequent ankle-sprainer, so as I ran down that mountain towards safety, I was laser focused on every foot placement—that is, until a giant bolt of lighting struck several hundred yards away from me and responded with dozens of curse words from pure fear.

Minutes later, the three of us made it to treeline. Evan sprained an ankle pretty badly, we were all shaken, but we were safe. Adrenaline was still pumping through me, I couldn’t stop talking about what we had just witnessed, and we eventually stopped to wrap Evan’s ankle. As we debriefed ourselves, we realized the number of people we passed as we ran for our lives, and the dozens of people still at the junction, still at the Lake, and surely still on the summit of Longs. Did they survive those 10 minutes of hell? What about the inexperienced hiker we met in the Couloir? What about the climbers we watched with awe on that epic buttress? They were surely still up there.

As we continued walking through the trees to the trailhead, the Sun finally poked out and the sky cleared. Of course, as soon as we were well in the safety of the trees. The storm left as quickly as it had arrived. We made it back to the car around 3pm and back to Boulder by 4. A long day to say the least and the three of us definitely learned a few lessons.

Mother Nature doesn’t mess around. She simply doesn’t care what your experience level is, how skilled you are, or if you’re “medically certified”. The wilderness is a dangerous place and good decision making is at the root of your safety on adventures. Based on a weather report from a reliable source, we decided to leave late, extremely late, for a long day in the mountains. When people say the weather in the mountains can change from perfect to absolute hell in a matter of minutes… they’re not kidding. We may have been fast and experienced hikers, we may have decided against crossing the knife-edge and made countless other good decisions, but a little bit of bad luck combined with one bad decision resulted in us running for our lives.

This isn’t anything new to the three of us. We know the wilderness is dangerous, we know Mother Nature is unforgiving. But as we drove home yesterday we all became grateful for this reminder. Never completely trust the weather report, start early, summit by 10am, return treeline by 12pm, and always, make good decisions.

A Reminder for Gratitude

I’ve been leading trips for the CU Hiking Club for over a year now, and I can say with confidence that it’s not too often that you get a group of hikers who can’t get out of your head after a long weekend.

I’ll admit, I’ve been feeling a little burned out lately with the Hiking Club and with hiking in general. A few days ago I swore that this would be my last big trip until November, and that I would take a break for a few weeks out of spite for the club and for the big, long, and strenuous hikes I’ve been doing every weekend for the last several weeks.

I knew the Four Pass Loop in the Maroon Bells-Snowmass Wilderness near Aspen would be a beating. I knew I would have to deal with a group of hiking clubbers and I knew that it would be a long weekend. But I had no idea that I would be lying awake Sunday night after an exhausting weekend, reminiscing about the incredible people I met on the trip and the incredible wilderness we just witnessed.

It started with a mishap, where the other trip leader and one of my closest friends had to drop out of our trip after getting a gnarly cold late Friday night. Suddenly, I was on my own.

I wouldn’t have believed it if I knew a year ago that I would be leading Four Pass by myself, one of the club’s biggest traditions and hardest backpacking loop, and one of the most famous loops in Colorado. I gathered my eight other hikers and told them the situation: how we wouldn’t get to the trailhead until 1 am, how we still had to hike 1.5 miles into camp, how we’d only get four hours of sleep that night, and how they were now stuck with me. They were still somehow more stoked than I was.

I’ve never been as impressed with a group of people as I was this weekend. Four Pass Loop is notorious for its elevation gain— over 8000 feet consisting of four 12,000 foot passes with a backpack is no easy feat. Most people finish the loop in three to four days. The hiking club only has a weekend, which means we have to push 14 miles with 2 of those 12,000 foot passes each day.

There was never a moment where the moral dropped. We cheered each other on as we went up and over each pass, we high-fived and smiled on top of each as we drenched ourselves in sweat and were nearly blown away by the wind. We were as stinky and as dirty as ever by the end, but there was just as much stoke once we arrived back at Maroon Lake on Sunday afternoon as there was when we started there at 2 am two nights before. Yes, we were physically and mentally exhausted, but we laughed the whole way home.

As midnight approached on Sunday night, I lay awake in bed, body sore, but mind still reliving Four Pass. Of all the trips I’ve led, I’ve never had such a solid group of hikers. Their patience, determination, trust in me, and passion for the wilderness reminded me why the Hiking Club is so special, and just how lucky we are for the opportunities to experience places like the Maroon Bells Wilderness. I am so grateful.

Longs

A year ago I led my first Hiking Club trip to Chasm Lake. Passing above treeline, I remember looking up and seeing the famous Diamond Face for the first time. I had read John Wesley Powell's diary about his 1869 expedition through the Grand Canyon and a biography about the one-armed Major a few weeks before. I loved the story of the first ascent (at least the first know white man's ascent) up the behemoth of the mountain that is Longs Peak. 

Once at Chasm Lake, the alpine body of water that sits about 1,500 feet below the summit with the Diamond Face providing a perfect backdrop to an already stunning scene, I promised myself that I would stand on top of Longs one day.

It's a famous peak for a reason. As Colorado's northern-most fourteener, it demands attention at 14,259 feet. It's one of the first things you see driving west towards Denver from the eastern plains. Its square top is easily recognizable from every angle and every viewpoint from hundreds of miles away. It took Major Powell and his party several days to even find a possible route to the summit. It has about a 50% summit success rate—simply because most people who attempt to climb it are inexperienced tourists that are lured in to the majesty of the mountain at first glance, or who hear about it from another state. Its often underrated intensity causes several deaths every year. It is many mountaineers' favorite peak for its iconic status and mile-long section of Class 3 scrambling.

All summer I had been threatening to climb it. I'll admit I was nervous, so I kept waiting for a day of perfect weather, with no chance of storms and little wind (almost impossible to find a wind-free day on Longs).

The last week of summer came and a few friends and I found a day in our schedules with no plans. The weather called for a "chance of rain" in the morning and 35 mph winds, but we were so bored sitting in Boulder we decided to send it. I spent the next few hours mentally preparing myself for the challenges of our hike the next day and kept repeating in my head, "I'm going to climb Longs' tomorrow". We dreadfully woke up at 2:30am and drove to the trailhead running on four hours of sleep. It was pouring rain when we started hiking. We passed at least 30 people heading back to their cars and who continued warning us that it was simply too cold, too windy and too wet. We reached treeline and decided that they were all right.

On our way back to Boulder, a friend and I who shared our goal of climbing Longs decided we would summit before the snow came. So once we saw the forecast for Saturday, September 8th 2018 as a "20% chance of precipitation after 2pm with only 15mph winds, we decided to go for it.

I was again nervous when we woke up at 2:30, but the sunrise that day was beautiful. A sheer red light illuminated the Diamond Face and newly fall-colored plants and was arguably one of the most colorful sunrises I had ever seen. There were no clouds in the sky and no wind—it was a seemingly perfect day All signs that we took as good karma, we continued our approach to the boulder field.

The Keyhole came into view at the boulder field, and the square top of Longs seemed bigger than ever before. Stripes of granite and schist became visible on the north side of the mountain and I couldn't help but notice the foliated metamorphic rocks scattered everywhere around us. The Keyhole marks the start of the mile-long section of Class 3 scrambling up to the summit. This is where it gets real. 

We pushed our way through the Ledges, and into the Trough, which is a steep section in a gulley of large boulders that we maneuvered around and led us to the Narrows. Here we followed a line of climbers along a narrow path with significant exposure on one side before we reached the Homestretch, a short but steep final climb to the summit.

I was beyond excited at this point. All my nerves and conceived notions bouncing around in my head about the "seriousness" and "risks" associated with Longs began to fade away. I was no longer afraid. 

At the summit, I texted my dad "WE FREAKING DID IT," and he knew exactly what I was talking about. It was so rewarding to be standing on top of a recognizable mountain with an incredible history. I looked down at Chasm Lake, 1,500 feet below us, and couldn't believe that only a year ago I had looked up and promised that I would stand up there one day.

New Decade, Same River

Yesterday marked the beginning of a new decade. The first sentence of a new chapter. And I started it by standing in a river, the same river I have been standing in for twelve years.

Basalt, the Frying Pan River, and the Roaring Fork Valley in Colorado have always held a special place in my heart. The bright maroon rocks and rich green lush covers the rolling hills, to where they hit the Elk Mountains, Sawatch Range and Glenwood Canyon. The Crystal, Roaring Fork and Frying Pan Rivers flow tirelessly across colorful river stones, containing a diverse riparian system that are filled with mayflies and trout. My parents found this area by closing their eyes and pointing to a place on a Colorado map. We precisely drove to that point, camped, and fell in love. 

Even though my family’s camping days are long gone, my dad and I have been returning to Basalt for our annual fishing trip at least once every summer. Recently, we’ve been able to make time for two or three trips… allowing our fishing obsession to grow and grow. 

It’s that time of year too, where loose cotton drifts through the trees, the sun burns down hot on the Western slope, and the mayflies begin to hatch. And they hatch like crazy. 

Blue winged olives, pink pale morning duns, and the famous green drakes line the river for months in anticipation of this grand event. They rise to the surface, one species after another and the trout go nuts. The famous trout in the Frying Pan are no stranger to tricky fisherman—they can easily tell an imitation fly from the real deal by just an ever so slightly off-putting drift. But on the Pan, a hooked fish every few hundred casts or so is worth it. 

So even at the end of a hard day fishing, when there are no bugs, no birds, and no netted fish, standing in the river and waving a stick under the Seven Castles is pretty magical. This is why we keep coming back.

We had one of these hard days yesterday. A few fish were caught so we didn’t go hungry, but it wasn’t the epic day we were looking for by any means. After several hours with no sign of a late afternoon hatch, my dad and I loaded up the truck and began our drive back into town. We were a little tired, a little annoyed, but overall incredibly happy.

“Don’t fight the river, dad,” I said out of nowhere. 

He smiled and further demanded an explanation.

“My favorite saying, if I got a tattoo, I would get that sentence written somewhere on my body. My old mentor first said it to me, but since my obsession with rivers began, it stuck more and more. Rivers are an allegory for life. Most of the time, it’s peaceful, easy flowing. Flat water. Most of the time, life is good and easy, and everything seems to be like how it’s supposed to. But every now and then, the river becomes turbulent. Boulders, holes, rapids, waterfalls. When you’re on a boat approaching these obstacles, a way through often seems impossible at first. It is only after more time, thought and consideration that a route shows itself. And a route through always shows itself. These turbulent times just so happen to be when the river is able to change its surrounding landscape the most. In life, these turbulent times are when we are able to grow the most as human beings. And, the river always reaches the sea.”

“I like it, don’t fight the river, you can’t fight the river,” my dad repeated.

We drove on back to Basalt, where I thought a bit more about what the next ten years of my life should look like. I will definitely keep returning for the summer hatches on the Frying Pan, and I will (hopefully) catch more beautiful browns in deep holes on a fat dry fly. But if I just remember that wherever life takes me and as long as I don’t fight the river, everything will turn out alright.

Top of Colorado

In the last month since I've finished my sophomore year at CU Boulder, I've averaged well over forty hours per week at my old seasonal job as a raft-photographer on Clear Creek in Idaho Springs, CO. And during those many hours on the riverside, waiting for rafts to come by, I've successfully entertained myself between 14ers.com and NOAA's hourly weather forecast. 

With three fourteeners and one thirteener in the books, I'd like to say that I'm beginning to understand what is known as the "peak addiction". I may be freshly naming this addiction myself, but it is not an unknown problem amongst mountain-lovers. Lately, it's something I've noticed among my friends and the thousands of people that obsessively check the 14ers.com website and Facebook page. But I've got a long ways to go. 55 to be exact (or debatable, depending on whether you count Cameron, South Elbert, North Snowmass, etc). 

Yesterday, June 10th, Katherine Feldmann (or just "Feldmann" to avoid Katherine-confusion), a friend from Boulder, and I had a plan to complete Mount Elbert (14,433 feet) which is the tallest peak in Colorado and the second tallest in the continental United States. She picked me up from work in Idaho Springs late Saturday night, and we drove out to Leadville to camp and rise early the next morning. 

I was, as usual, in awe falling asleep under a clear Milky Way and was stoked the next morning as we packed up camp and made our way to the mountains. But I was in for a surprise. We weren't doing the standard route up Mount Elbert that I had researched online, we were doing a much less-travelled route to the summit— the Southeast Ridge, Class 2. I was instantly more excited when on the way to the trailhead during the sunrise, Feldmann said, "anything but the standard route". This would make our day much more interesting.

We started up through the trees, crossed a stream a few times, and eventually came to a break in the trees in a valley. Dozens of peaks came into view behind us, we kept stopping to admire the view and were bothered by no other hikers. We continued up the steep slope above tree-line and finally made it to the beginning of our ridge that we would follow to the summit. From here, the trail faded in and out between the tundra and loose rock but we quickly made it to South Elbert peak, 14,134 feet, a point along Elbert's Southeast Ridge, but not considered an actual fourteener since it lacks 300 feet of vertical prominence. Still pretty cool by my standards.

On the final stretch along the ridge between South Elbert and Elbert, the wind was torturous. Every two minutes or so, a 40 mph gust would throw us sideways and distort our balance as we maneuvered over the talus-covered ridge. Luckily, the ridge was wide enough that we weren't too close to a dropoff, but we still hid behind small piles of rocks every few minutes to let the gusts pass. 

And finally, we summited. It's hard to beat the feeling of standing on top of a mountain. After likely enduring several hours of physical labor and mental endurance, standing on top of a mountain is one hell of a reward. And extremely addicting. 

With views of the Sawatch and Elk ranges all around us and a few dozen people who all came up the standard route, we felt a little extra-special for making our way to the top of Colorado in a non-traditional format. I know Feldmann already contains this peak addiction, I hope she's ready for my company for the summer, because this is only the beginning.

Tricky Sand

The Great Sand Dunes in the San Luis Valley, Colorado, are ethereal. They are a popular destination for students at the University of Colorado Boulder, who are looking for a weekend escape. 

I first visited the Sand Dunes with a group of friends one summer in high school. I was sixteen. I was new to hiking and new to adventures. I was just starting to form my relationship with nature. And the Dunes absolutely blew me away. We woke up long before dawn to witness the sun rise in all its glory over the Dunes and then, once it became too hot to walk across miles of sand, we resorted to making sand castles in Medano Creek.

So many great photos and memories came from that weekend. Every time I hear talk of the Dunes in college, I think back to those special moments.

When one of my hiking-club friends and one of my roommates mentioned their eagerness to get to the Dunes, I immediately picked a weekend for us to go.

We arrived at the park around 2:00pm, got a backcountry permit, and started hiking around 3:30pm. We didn't have to go far, only a mile and a half in, or "over the ridge" before we could find a place to camp.

The Dunes play mind games with you. Actually, the entire San Luis Valley plays mind games with you. It's not your typical National Park experience, where it seems like you're driving for hours and hours in the middle of no where, until you suddenly stumble upon one of nature's gems. You can see the Dunes from 50 miles away. They seem tiny. They look so close—you wonder why your GPS still says you have an hour's worth of driving. 

As you get closer, they appear to get bigger, but not abnormally bigger. It's not until you're standing right in front of them, that their size begins to blow your mind. 

Where the hell did this random pile of sand come from? 

Wind. And water. And rocks. The Sangre de Cristos beckon in your amazement.

My two friends and I locked the car and began our hike into the Dunes. We were amazed that Medano Creek was still running this time of the year, crossed it, and started hiking through the sand. We came to our first dune and instantly felt the sand's strain in our calves. A mile and a half with a backpack in deep sand didn't seem too easy anymore.

Our hike wasn't too bad until we reached the highest dune, the last one we had to ascend before we were technically in the "backcountry" of the park. Somehow, we picked a route that seemed to be the steepest. We were on a steep ridge, the dune sharply dropped to our right, and the sand in front of us was long and nearly vertical.

As soon as we started climbing up, the wind kicked in. It almost blew us over. With every two steps we took, we would slide back down a step while being almost knocked over. We'd stop every few seconds to let the wind die down, take another few steps, and stop again. It felt like forever, on the side of that dune.

Once we reached the top, we looked down at what we had just accomplished, and it only looked like 200 feet. We turned around and looked at the park's backcountry. The Dunes went on forever. The San Luis Valley seemed infinite. The San Juans looked to be thousands of miles away. This Park really does play tricks on you.

Our scary little moment climbing over the ridge definitely came with rewards. We all had a layer of sand stuck to our cheeks, and got to watch the sun set over the Sangres without seeing another soul. Darkness brought a 180-degree view of the night sky, uninterrupted by trees, rocks, or peaks. 

We all slept soundly on the sand and returned to class on Monday with many more special moments, photos and stories from the Dunes.

Missing Rivers

I'm about two and a half months back into the academic grind at the University of Colorado Boulder, and life is good. My classes are interesting, grades are decent, I hike every weekend, I take plenty of photos. But there's been something missing, and I couldn't figure out what it was until I got a chance to catch up with my dad a few days ago. 

Rivers. 

I spent all summer next to a river. I worked a full-time job on Clear Creek in Idaho Springs. I paid homage to the Roaring Fork Valley and its gold-medal waters for multiple fishing trips. I spent twelve days and eleven nights on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. Rushing water was the soundtrack of my summer. 

Today I finally found a few extra hours after class, and drove up Boulder Canyon to fish. I parked my car, rigged my rod, and walked a little ways down to Boulder Creek where I made two casts before a fish hit my fly. This— is what I had been missing. 

I started thinking about my time spent in the Roaring Fork Valley, between Glenwood Springs and Aspen. I spent a good part of my childhood there, camping with my family, playing in open fields with my brother and our dog, walking through groves of aspen trees, and fishing. The Frying Pan River, in particular, is a part of me. I learned to fish there, I grew up there, I'll always return there. 

How many times have I stood at the gauging station in the Rocky Fork Day Use Area, about 13 miles up the Frying Pan Road from Basalt, and caught a rainbow trout with my dad standing next to me? How many times have I stood in the pouring rain, laughing in frustration on an unsuccessful day at Old Faithful? How many times have my dad and I driven up and down that windy road, singing along to Jimmy Buffet and gazing off at the iron-red Seven Castles?

My dad always tells me with a chuckle that when he dies, he wants to be cremated and thrown in the Frying Pan. 

These rivers are more than just "nature". They're memories, history, religion. There's a reason why the Confluence of the Little Colorado is a sacred place to the Piute people. There's a reason why Clear Creek County makes tens of millions of dollars every summer just through the rafting industry. There's a reason why the Roaring Fork and Frying Pan are iconic rivers for fly-fisherman. 

One day over the summer while I was working on Clear Creek, I was talking to a girl I had just met about my photography, and she asked me if I could take photos of one thing for the rest of my life, what would it be? Without thinking, I responded, "rivers". 

Rivers connect people to places. They are an essential lifeline between mountains, valleys, deserts, and oceans. They provide people with infinite intrinsic value, places to reflect, and sources of inspiration. "Don't fight the river," my mentor always told me. Rivers are an allegory for life—always moving, always flowing, always reaching new places.

They've most definitely shaped who I am. 

The few therapeutic hours I spent on Boulder Creek today was exactly what I needed, a little bit of nature, a little reflection, a little inspiration. I'm sure I'll be driving back for more tomorrow. And I'm definitely sure I'll be returning to those rivers that made me, me.

Ode to the Chasm

John Wesley Powell has long been a hero of mine— the first man to ascend the mighty Longs Peak at 14,259 feet, and the first to raft the mighty Colorado River's entirety, including the Grand Canyon. I read Powell's diary after my second trip through the Grand Canyon and was even more impressed by his words of wisdom, conservation and awe at our natural world. 

Today I led my first official hiking club trip, complete with 13 other hikers (most of them new to the club), to Chasm Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park. The lake sits in a narrow basin carved out by Mills Glacier, and is the perfect foreground to the famous diamond-shaped face of Longs Peak. 

This trip was sort of a last-minute decision of mine and one other officer's, we decided Monday night to lead a day-hike on Sunday, and I have long had Chasm Lake on my mind. It's a classic RMNP hike, I couldn't believe I hadn't done it yet. However, a few things weren't quite right at the start of our trip. My co-leader came down with strep the night before, and assigned a training officer to join me. Which was totally cool! But that meant I would officially be leading this trip by myself— my first ever attempt at outdoor leadership. 

And it all went according to plan! We had a great group of students— they were a mix of freshman, newbies to the club, and a few who had done club trips before. We left at 6:15 am, witnessed the sunrise highlight the dusting of snow on the mountains, and made it to the lake in great time. This was by far the chattiest group of hikers I had ever been with, we stopped at least a dozen times on the way up, but still managed to hike over four miles in a little over two hours.

Longs Peak quickly came into view, we crossed several streams and made it over the little scramble and came up to the lake in amazement. We passed several hikers on the way who said they turned back from their attempt at climbing Longs due to the extreme and icy winds. We didn't believe them at first, and definitely passed a little judgement, but the clouds raced past over the summit, when we quickly understood their decision to bail. 

I of course walked up to the lake's edge and began looking for signs of life— fish, tadpoles, bugs, but the waves on the surface from the winds obstructed my vision, causing me to leave in disappointment from not seeing any fish. But the enormity of Longs Peak truly was spectacular. Powell was totally right, one day I'll climb it and understand its full intensity. 

My first trip as a hiking club officer also made me realize just how great of an organization the CU Hiking Club is. I was leading a group of relatively inexperienced hikers, many of whom are not from Colorado, to one of the famous views in my home state. It was humbling. I loved watching their jaws drop once they saw the peaks, the basin, the lake, even though the headwind was causing their eyes to water and their bones to freeze. I loved encouraging them to push their way up the mountain, and that a slow-pace is totally okay, and that inexperience is no problem. I'm definitely one of the least experienced officers in the club anyways.

Powell understood the effect that the outdoors can have on people, maybe that's why he wrote so extensively about his experiences in the wild west. That's partly why I write in this blog. Not only does it compliment my work as a photographer and as a storyteller, but I hope that it also encourages those to appreciate the world for what it truly is and what is has to offer. And maybe one day my writing will have an impact on someone, the same way Powell's writing had an impact on me.

Fish Family

With a little less than two weeks until my second year of college starts, I've got a pretty busy schedule. I finally finished up my seasonal job at Rapid Image, leaving me with some time to prepare for school and for fun. 

I just finished the first item on the agenda, the annual Halama-family camping trip. We drove to our favorite spot in Colorado, Chapman Campground, located exactly 29 miles south of Basalt on the Frying Pan Road. It's right in the middle of White River National Forest, which is my favorite, since it has some of the best fly-fishing in the state, red-tinted rocks, and incredible aspen forests. 

My parents have brought my brother and I to this campsite, number 79 to be exact, since we were first able to walk. I caught my first fish in the Frying Pan river when I was eight. Since then, my family and I make at least one trip per year to our traditional spot. 

Yesterday, my dad and I had an epic day of fishing. The Frying Pan is known for its challenging hatches, picky fish, and forever changing conditions, which give fisherman dozens of variables to consider while fishing and a most certain headache. 

We started the day in a new spot on the river for us, and found a massive hole just upstream of a sharp bend. My dad stood waist deep in the hole, casting towards the bank for about 45 minutes, when he eventually called me over. 

He called over to me, "I've got a fish family!" I waded over and discovered at least 30 fish stacked up behind him, embracing the slower current and easy swimming produced by the hydraulics of his position in the river and the big hole. 

We were pretty desperate at this point. So far, our day had been filled with bad karma. We had tangles, almost-slips into the current, all while tying and untying flies in attempt to figure out the hatch. So, out of desperation, my dad told me to start casting towards him, into the school of fish hanging out behind him. Of course those picky Frying Pan trout wouldn't take the bait. 

Eventually he gave me his spot in the hole, and told me to cast in towards the bank, there were tons of fish rising there. It was a tricky cast, the current was much faster closer to me and slower by the bank, giving me a challenging mend in my line. In the cold mountain stream— I was soon numb from the waist down. "Oh well," I thought, "gotta sacrifice something for the fish gods."

I cast from this spot for about an hour and our family of fish never moved. One fish swam straight into my leg, almost knocking me over in surprise.

We had no luck in this new hole, but returned to our usual places and began catching fish, we were in the midst of a pretty awesome pink PMD hatch. Then the sun came back out, pushing the fish towards the bottom of the river, and we decided it was time to find some dinner. 

Monsoon

Lately I seem to be stuck in the summer grind— not really on a schedule or routine, with a list of a hundred things to do but never enough time to do them, and no end in sight. I've been on summer vacation for about two months, with little less than a month to go. I'm almost ready to return to school, but I can't stand the thought of writing papers and studying. 

We're in the midst of monsoon season in Colorado, where an afternoon storm inevitably moves over the Divide and drenches the Front Range for a few short minutes. Then the skies open up, rainbows crowd the horizon, and the evening sunlight brings the wildflowers to life. 

It's always been one of my favorite times during our Colorado summer. I love the daunting clouds racing overhead, the epic lightning shows, and the clean air that follows a storm. 

Last week I was sitting in my usual spot on Clear Creek, waiting for rafts to pass, when I saw a monster dark cloud moving in my direction. I knew exactly what was coming. I shot a group of boats and began to upload them when there was a bright flash and an instant boom. Lightning had struck right next to the Argo Mine, directly across the river from where I was sitting. It began to absolutely pour, like I had never seen in Colorado. I angled my umbrella to block the mist, but it soon began raining sideways, drenching my laptop and camera equipment. I quickly abandoned my post and moved into my car where I still had a view of the river. Twenty minutes later, it was bright, sunny and fresh. 

These afternoon storms can be impressive, but they sure ruins plans for adventures. Hikers leave at ungodly morning hours to hike 14ers before the afternoon storms roll in; lightning strikes at high altitude are not fun. Backpacking trips are cancelled. Campers sit in their cars, waiting for the storm to pass. 

That's exactly what happened to my friend, Emily, and I the other day. We planned to do a ten-mile day hike outside of Idaho Springs, where we'd leave early enough to avoid the afternoon thunderstorms and would be heading down the mountain before the rain started. Inevitably, plans went wrong in the morning, we didn't get to Idaho Springs until 11am. 

We drove around for hours, catching up, looking for something to do, realizing that we might be S.O.L. for an afternoon hike. We found a campsite on Fall River Road in Arapaho & Roosevelt National Forest and ate dinner in our car to hide from the lightning. After the storm passed, we explored the area, Fall River was running high from all the rain, everything was vibrantly green and lush. 

We wandered through a forest of alpine fireweed and aspen trees and admired the sounds, smells and sights of the creek. Then it rained, all night. The constant pattering of rain drops and rush of the creek put us to sleep. There were no stars, no sunset colors, and no campfire. But we were thankful for the all the water. I'm sure the forest was too. 

Brand New Sounds in My Mind

My summer so far has been congested with work. Work, work work. It often seems that all I do is work these days. I haven't had much time for adventures. 

But I'm not complaining! My work up on Clear Creek in Idaho Springs consists of either me sitting next to a river all day, waiting to shoot photos for the boats that come by, or hanging out in a raft company where I help tourists pick out their photos, and their memories. 

I've been going strong for more than a month now, since I stepped out of the Grand Canyon. I had a day off last week, so my friend and I explored the Silver Dollar Lake Trail on Guanella Pass, outside of Georgetown. It was sweet! We passed a subalpine lake and two alpine, saw marmots, pikas, and fields of July wildflowers. I was so glad to finally explore some place new. 

I turned nineteen last Sunday, the beginning of my last year as a teen and my second year as an adult. I was on I-70, driving to work and listening to Lorde's new album, like I do everyday. And it got me thinking.

I was reflecting on how great eighteen was— my first year in college, two Grand Canyon trips, and another season working on Clear Creek. In the last year, I've experienced so many incredible places in the western United States, I've figured out my major, and kinda-sorta my career path. I've gone on countless hikes, countless overnight trips, and I've gotten countless mosquito bites, blisters and bruises. As Chango would say, it's been awesome. 

I realized all I wanted was for nineteen to be even better. I want to continue on my path of self-discovery. There's no point in living if you're not doing things for yourself and for your peace of mind. For my nineteenth year on this Earth, I'm going to start appreciating the little things more. I'm not going to worry about the things and the people that I can't control. I can only change me. 

And here I am, alone, at work, listening to the river, waiting for rafters, thinking. It's raining sideways, there's lightning all around me, the thunder is roaring. It's beautiful. I'm nineteen and I'm on fire.

Goodbye, Best Friend

Twelve and a half years ago, my family and I drove home from eastern Colorado with a new puppy in our trunk. My dad took a turn on the highway a little too fast, and the crate that he was in rolled over. We propped the crate back up straight, all laughed, and headed to Walmart to get dog food, a bed and plenty of toys for our new best friend.

We put his bed at the foot of the stairs in the living room, where our Christmas tree went every year. My dad laid him down on his bed and told him to stay. Dad then joined us at the dinner table and told us not to look back at him—this was day one of puppy training. We had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.

When Dad wasn't looking, I snuck a glance over my shoulder at our dog, waiting patiently on his bed. He caught my eye and came bounding over, so excited, filled with joy, only wanting to join us at the table. I smiled. Dad scolded him, "Bad dog! I told you to stay!" I felt so guilty for getting him in trouble.

But he forgave me.

Yesterday was one of the hardest days of my life. Our puppy, our best friend, our dog, Tommy, passed away. He had watched my younger brother and I grow up—we don't remember life without Tommy. I guess part of becoming an adult is losing your childhood dog; I have countless friends who have lost theirs in the last few years, but I never really understood what it meant until now. 

Tommy was the friendly-neighborhood dog. Everyone loved him. Everyone was always happy to see him. He was always happy to see us. I'll miss being greeted by him every time I come home. I'll miss him chasing my car down the driveway. I'll miss him banging his head on my bedroom door as he would try to come in my room but discovered that the door was closed. I'll miss encouraging him to catch the mole, buried in the hole he was digging up. I'll miss watching him roll around in the snow, and nap in the sun in a pile of dirt in the summer. 

My family will never be the same without our Tommy Dog. In my mind, we will always be a family of five, not four. Our house is quiet. And still. No one needs to be let outside in the morning, no one needs to be fed, no one needs to be given their evening meds. 

I keep reminding myself that Tommy may be gone, but he'll never be forgotten. Life will go on, and the days will become easier for us. There are no bad memories of Tommy, all were happy, and I guess that makes my family and I's grief just a little bit easier. Every memory, every moment, every second was worth what we had to go through yesterday. I'll never forget watching him bound towards us as we finished our spaghetti. We all love you Tommy, see you on the other side. 

Free Time at the Falls

I've finally finished my freshman year of college at CU Boulder. I've been home for 9 days and for seven of those, I've been up shooting raft photos on Clear Creek in Idaho Springs, CO.

I absolutely love my job. Being outside on the river all day, hanging out with raft guides, taking photos— it's pretty hard to beat for a summer job as a college student. However, going from school to an instant full-time gig has left me a few spare minutes of free time, hence my personal photography has suffered. 

Luckily, I was off river-duty for the same two days that our long-awaited spring snowstorm hit. The front range has been a little dry for this time of the year, due to the countless summer-like days in February and March. The Colorado natives have been praising this late spring snowstorm. We desperately needed it. 

After about 1.5 feet of snow, I had a little extra time on my hands and decided to do a quick hike to Maxwell Falls in Evergreen for one last winter hurrah. I clipped on my snowshoes, threw my camera in my daypack and walked out through the fog towards the falls. 

I reached the falls, a hidden gem in Evergreen, and couldn't decide where to set up for my shot. I definitely wanted to do a long-exposure of the creek, but couldn't figure out how to get to the bottom of the falls. I had only been out here once before, but the river was still frozen then. It had thawed out by now, but it was a slippery, snow-covered maze of rocks to the base of the waterfall. So after scrambling around the rock formations for a little while, I decided to move back upstream to this little riffle I found in the creek. 

The water here was shallow enough for me to walk out in the middle of the stream without completely soaking my snow boots. I set up my tripod, slowed down my shutter speed and attached a ND filter to my wide-angle lens. The snow was completely undisturbed creating a perfect winter scene. The creek was running ice-free and the snow had a mashed potato consistency, giving the photo a heavy, "spring" effect.

I got my imagined shot and continued to snowshoe back to my car and woke up early the next morning to head back out to the river. 

My 1st Mountaintop

Wow. I have lived in Colorado for 18 years, and I've never summited a 14-thousand foot peak until today. It absolutely blew me away (literally and figuratively). 

The CU Hiking Club and I departed from Boulder early, around 5 am. We drove out past Breckenridge to the Quandary Peak trailhead, where we would hike 6.75 miles and gain 3,450 feet, bringing us to our ending destination on top of Quandary- 14,265 feet above sea level. 

We started off in the trees, making good time and new friends and eventually came to tree line. This is where we saw our first false-summit. After what seemed to have taken us forever to reach the top of that disgraceful hill of falsehood, our eyes turned to yet another... false summit. This is where it became challenging. 

I've done my fair share of hiking at high elevation— normally somewhere between 8,000 and 10,000 feet. I've done my fair share of long days—ranging anywhere from 8 to 17 miles. So the night before we set off, I wasn't scared or intimidated in the slightest. But damn, did that change when I saw the second slope we had to tackle, only leading to another... "false summit". 

I started feeling a little queasy at this point, probably around 11,000 feet, so I drank lots of water and ate some salty-snacks. There was no way that I would be defeated by altitude sickness. I had grown up at 7,800 feet. The queasiness eventually wore off... leading me to my next problem. The gradient of the slope was so steep, that my legs were aching. My achilles and calves were straining with each step. Somehow I followed the pack of the hiking clubbers to our second summit.

The last leg of our journey looked even bigger. A huge face we had to climb, seemed endless. As the others took off and I remained in the back, I began questioning my life decisions. We were at about 13,800 feet when the elevation hit me like a wall. I couldn't breath. My legs burned. The wind almost knocked me over several times. My fingers were frozen. But as I stopped for a breather and looked below me, at the hill I had already conquered, and as I looked around at the 360-degree view of high peaks, I told myself it'd be worth it.

The end was near, I could see the mountain starting to flatten out a little. I looked ahead at my future view, my top of the mountain, and the wooden staff marking the summit. My emotions kicked in and tears came to my eyes! Look at this incredible world we live in, and this incredible feat I am about to accomplish! 

As I met my new friends at the top of our mountain, I dropped my bag, whipped out my camera and immediately began shooting. I didn't need rest now, I had photos to take and mountaintops to explore. We continued to awe at what we just accomplished, pointed out the peaks surrounding us and bathed in the high-altitude sunlight. Eventually we started our descent, back down the steep slopes, back into the trees, and back to Boulder.  

It Wasn't Peaceful

It's always refreshing to return to school Monday morning after a weekend full of wandering through the woods, subalpine lakes, and friendships. 

A few of my future roommates and I drove up to Rocky Mountain National Park on Sunday afternoon for an adventure. They weren't avid hikers by any means—they hadn't ever been to Rocky before! I was stoked to show them the gem of our state and the center of the Rocky Mountains. 

Once we arrived at the Glacier Gorge Trailhead in the middle of the park, we stepped out of the car and were almost blown away. 25 mph gusts full of snow and dust attempted to knock us over but we persisted onto the trail. It was snow packed and little slippery, but once under the trees we became hidden from the icy wind. 

We traveled past Alberta Falls, came to a fork and decided to continue left up to Mills Lake, our ideal destination. We were beginning to be in sight of the wind again and wondered what the conditions would be like at the top. We dodged ice, a melting creek, large boulders and eventually stumbled upon the subalpine beauty.

Mills Lake was massive. Far more elusive than the popular Dream Lake and far more breathtaking than any other view I had come across in Rocky. I stood in shock at the bank of the half-frozen lake for a few seconds before dropping my bag and reaching for my camera. 

The wind was howling. The sun managed to creep out between the snow-filled clouds and warm our chilled bodies, but would disappear again behind the clouds, leaving us to our frozen slice of heaven. I snapped dozens of photos, all admiring the pile of fallen logs at the foot of the lake; who knows how long they've been there. 

This photo doesn't quite describe the scene the three of us witnessed on our late Sunday afternoon. The photo looks peaceful, effectively capturing the tranquility of the Rockies. But my two friends and I will forever be in on a little secret. It wasn't peaceful. It was almost hellish, with the combination of wind, sun, snow and cold. I always find it funny how my photos often don't explain the true essence of a scene—more often than not, they pretend that mother nature is angelic, instead of unruling and unpredictable. 

My friends thought I was insane for dragging them into the storm.

Not so Gross

After a long week full of midterms, my friend and I decided to go for a last-minute drive up Flagstaff Road to Gross Reservoir to enjoy a sunset and the 70-degree weather in February.

If you've never been to Boulder or haven't seen much of it, I would highly recommend driving up Flagstaff Road. I have always loved steep roads with crazy turns, or as my family has dubbed them, "drunken indian roads", so going straight up the foothills while passing lookouts of Boulder and rock-climbers did not fail to disappoint. 

Gross Reservoir is about 45 minutes up the road and in its own little oasis. Embedded in the foothills, it is technically Denver-owned land and supplies the city with much of their drinking water. My friend and I hiked down to the water to find emerging beaches that have been underwater for decades. The reservoir seemed half-empty and the dam was covered in construction equipment. We assumed that there was being work done on the dam in light of the close-to-catastrophe at the Oroville Dam in California recently. Not a bad idea. 

We continued to explore the new shores that were covered in ice and snow and marveled at the melting reservoir and winter sunset. 

Venture Everywhere

Over the weekend, I had to return my hometown to take newborn photos for a family friend. I can honestly admit that newborn photography was one of the hardest types of photography that I have ever taken on. Even so, I decided to make my weekend escape a little more interesting by including a long-needed visit to some serious mountains and cold weather. 

I was feeling adventurous and had never been up Loveland Pass before, so I decided to give it a try on Saturday night. My mom hopped in the front seat as I pulled out of the driveway, clearly catching my adventure bug— I was happy to have some company.

Driving up the pass, the clouds began to engulf the peaks and cast some ambient lighting in all directions. With an almost-weird sunset, the view quickly became one of those where every time you turn around, there's something else that is just begging to be photographed. Beauty was everywhere you looked.

The wind was biting. I pulled off the road at one point, got out of the car, and was in almost immediate shock by the wind chill blasting at me from the nearby summit. I couldn't stand in one direction for too long before my face went numb from the continuous icy gust. 

We kept driving up the Pass, stopping for photos along the way. I was exuberant. I realized how much I missed that solid feeling of adventure and trekking into the unknown, even if it was simply driving 45 minutes away from my home. Each time I pursue those feelings of adventure, I am constantly surprised by the absolute beauty that Earth is able to produce. Each time, I fall in love with Colorado and photography all over again. 

Escaping my little niche in Boulder for a weekend taught me a lot. Not only did I learn that photographing a newborn for an energetic family is extremely challenging, but also that an adventurous spirit can be hard to come by. While visiting a long-lost friend I understood that adventure is truly a remarkable challenge to all of us, and something only few of us can ever fully understand. Whether you're searching for the most minuscule town in Vietnam, or simply exploring your own backyard, adventure is something that can be found anywhere. I hope that I never lose my adventurous spirit, and I encourage you all to look for yours.