Waterfalls

I woke up to a bright morning sun and the roar of whitewater in the depths of billions of years of rock, which, if you look closely enough, tells an incredible story about how the Grand Canyon came to look like what it does today. I was a bit more groggy than usual— I was up late the night before, watching the stars dance across the sky to Dark Side of the Moon. But today was going to be an epic day.

We started off slow by making chocolate chip pancakes on the banks of the Colorado, then packed up our things and headed down river, where we found the narrowest point in the canyon. I recognized it as soon as one of my friends pointed out the organ-shaped rock up on river right. There were even little white rocks strategically placed by some clever river-runner years before, in order to look like keys.

As I was observing this section of the river, I noticed an almost perfectly vertical 20-foot cliff. It was undoubtedly time for some cliff jumping. My friends and I did a few casual “depth-tests” of the river and decided it was safe enough. So we sent it. And it was awesome.

Several hours later, we were cool and refreshed and a little tired after using up most of our adrenaline as we plunged into the chilly Colorado. But we continued up to the Tonto Plateau until we rounded a corner and camp to Deer Creek. We wound down through the narrows and dropped our packs. I had been here before, over two years ago on a hot and sunny summer day with my family.

I rinsed off in some of the waterfalls, just as our river guides showed me before, and eventually we all began walking down to the main event, the highlight, of our trip.

Back out by the river, we descended through the Tapeats and found ourselves standing under a massive 180-foot waterfall, streaming out from the narrows up above where we had just been. Deer Creek Falls. Every river trip stops here. It is one of the main attractions to commercial and private groups, while a few backpackers show up to this spot every couple days. But we had it all to ourselves. Aside from the beautiful sound of rushing water, it was completely silent.

So, what is there to do in a moment like this?

The answer to us was obvious. Strip down to your bare skin and bones of course, and wade into the turquoise blue waters and stand before that behemoth of a waterfall and take it all in. And that’s what we did. It was liberating. The wind and mist were freezing, our legs were warmer beneath the surface in the cold waters of Deer Creek.

We were so free, so joyful and so incredibly pure. I hadn’t felt that way since my last river trip.

A day later, on our last night in the canyon and up above the Redwall, I found a spot to myself to watch the sun set over the western edges of the canyon. I began to think about the what the Grand Canyon does exactly, that keeps calling me back.

Many know that nature has a way of helping you forget all your problems in life. A multi-day backpacking trip in the Grand Tetons, or the Maroon Bells-Snowmass wilderness, or the Maze in Canyonlands will leave you rejuvenated. The Grand Canyon does the same thing, except it happens instantly. Every minor and subtle inconvenience and annoyance that you put up with in your daily life, even the ones that arrive on a backpacking trip, disappear. Climb down below the canyon’s rim— and they’re gone.

You’re left with the purest form of yourself, where an incredible landscape leads you to the truth one day at a time.

I wasn’t sad to say goodbye to the Colorado River and the Grand Canyon this time. I left feeling so alive and so self-aware and so thankful for the perspective the canyon has given me in the last four days. I know I’ll soon be back for more.

Soul Searching

If you’re desperately in need of some soul-searching, I would recommend the Grand Canyon.

My fourth time in this magnificent landscape brought back the purest form of myself. Speaking from experience, you turn into a different person once you walk up to the edge of that big ditch. You always discover things in the deepest corners of who you are. You leave a stronger and more aware version of your previous self. It’s just what the Grand Canyon does to you.

Four friends and I gathered up only our necessary belongings and made the 12-hour pilgrimage from Boulder, Colorado to the North Rim. We walked down to Bright Angel Point just before the suns rays began to paint its incredible shadows along the canyon walls. After an emotional hour at the rim, we drove another forty miles west down a dusty dirt road to park our cars. The road ended there.

Two days later we had descended through the brutal Redwall Limestone and arrived at Thunder River Falls. We stood right at its foot, in the mist and cool breeze and were in awe of the amount of water rushing from a spring buried in the Muav Limestone several hundred feet above us. After a few quick rinses, we followed Thunder down to its confluence with Tapeats Creek, and continued all the way to the mighty Colorado River, deep in the bottom of the grandest canyon on Earth.

I instantly dropped my pack in the sandy camp, said nothing to my friends, switched into my Chacos and headed for the river. I found a big boulder near the shore and climbed on top. A decent-sized rapid lay in front of me, Tapeats Creek Rapid, and it all began flooding back.

The sound of the river, its smell, the glassy surface of the tongue of a rapid, its lines, its features, the adrenaline, the joy, the boatmen who inspire with words like “listen to the river, listen for its voice, listen to what the river is trying to say to you”.

There were so many thoughts and memories and feelings running through my head at the sight of the Colorado, and at the same time—there was nothing. No thoughts, just the river. I walked down river a ways until I found a large beach covered in footprints, undoubtedly a campsite for river runners. I sat down in the sand and began humming “Stairway to Heaven”. I was so present.

The Colorado River has served as my source of inspiration for a few years now, as it all started on my first river trip through the Grand Canyon with my family in the summer of 2016. A year later on the river, I found my motto, “don’t fight the river”, and laying on that beach near Tapeats Creek by myself I found new meaning in that little phrase.

The river is more than just an allegory for life. The river is who I want to be. Always moving, always flowing, independent, strong and consistent. People dam rivers, restrain it and control it. But in the end, the river is bigger than anything humanity can fathom. Its spirit can never be contained.

I stood up, smiled at the reflection of the canyon walls on the river, and walked back to my friends at camp to start dinner. There will be more time for soul-searching tomorrow.

More Alive Than Ever

I turned off the live-view on my camera as I focused on the headlamps of two tiny people standing underneath the dark and ominous figure of Delicate Arch in Arches National Park. There were at least fifteen photographers sitting in the little sandstone bowl that is the home to this iconic arch, and we were all shooting long exposures in attempt to capture the beauty that lay before us.

Camera set for 30 seconds, I pressed the shutter and let it rip. I was still annoyed by the fact that I left my wide-angle lens in the car parked at the trailhead 1.5 miles away so I decided that a portrait-style photo of the arch with my standard lens might just work as a creative bailout. In the final five seconds of the exposure, a bright but small light raced across the sky behind the standing piece of rock. My camera finished processing, the screen lit up, and my heart dropped—in the best of ways.

I ended up with my first ever shot of a shooting star and an image that in my opinion, captures the raw magic of Delicate Arch under a dark night sky. It is rare that I snap a photo that visually explains my feelings in a landscape in a particular moment. They are incredibly special.

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be living, in the truest form of the word, and what it is that inspires me and what exactly makes me feel the most alive.

I’ve known for a while that the wilderness is essential to my mental health and stability. Time spent in the wild resets my mind like a clock. All of life’s little stressors and annoyances seem more and more insignificant. In fact, I’m convinced that there’s a direct relationship between time spent in the wilderness and how much you care about your responsibilities. A slippery slope…

Walking out into the darkness, in the land of solidified ocean sediment that has been preserved for hundreds of millions of years, to find something special to capture, makes me feel alive. Sitting out in the cold under the stars, contemplating what lies beyond our own little world, and realizing these are the darkest night skies you’ve seen in months— is just like coming home. Communicating with surrounding photographers, focusing in on tiny specs of light, the joy that washes over you when your camera screen lights up and you first see what you’ve just created; that is living. Being able to put all of your feelings and connections and energy and emotion that you experience in both the wilderness and everyday life into a single image is damn near impossible. But when it works out, it is truly extraordinary.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the wilderness in the last year or so. I almost always bring a camera, but rarely do I put my heart and soul into the creation of an image. A little night hike with some friends re-sparked my creativity and my passion for photography. It, combined with my story-telling is my method of self-expression. I was reminded of my passion over the span of two days in one of the most inspiring landscapes on Earth. And now sitting at home, I feel almost lost back in civilization after a weekend in the desert, but never before have I felt more alive.

Finding Presentness

As myself and nine other photographers loaded our gear into our cars, our first pilgrimage of the season to the desert began. From Boulder to Moab, the transition of mountains into desert is slow, gradual and always exciting. The snowy peaks reflect golden light, the Western Slope turns pink from the fading sun, and we first see the desert in complete darkness and stillness.

I had a lot on my mind leading up to this trip. I found my old favorite saying buried in a stack of notes and journals as my excitement for the desert grew, “don’t fight the river” and decided that I would be as present as possible while accepting what I can’t control, here, under the stars, in Moab, Utah.

We arrived at camp and the photographing began. Tripods were unburied from trunks, cameras mounted and we all began to click our shutters as we gazed up at the Milky Way, which was more clear in the dark sky than we thought it would be.

I walked a ways off from camp and sat down in the red dust. I started my first exposure and ended up with the chattering headlamps of photographers as they moved around underneath the clouds of the Milky Way. I missed that desert sky. It was just as magical as I left it six months ago on a return from an epic trip to Grand Gulch in Utah and Grand Canyon National Park. It was on that trip where I learned that my emotional connection to the desert is not unheard of.

It is the quiet thinkers who love the desert. Those who are strong-willed and opinionated, those who don’t take life for granted, and those who are always willing to speak up who understand the desert. They appreciate the silence and tranquility. They love the freedom of the open and endless road that winds through time told by ancient rocks. We’re the ones who can hear its voice within its complete silence.

People can sometimes be ridiculous. They get caught up in their daily dramas and to-do lists and forget how important it is to be selfless, honest, and present. I’ll admit, I do this often in my daily life in Boulder. But a little weekend trip to the land of sand and rocks humbles me and reminds me of my values. I watched what the desert did to my nine friends who came along over the weekend; one of my friends and I came to the realization that our “spiritual being lies in the desert”.

We spent the next two days exploring arches and canyons. We took hundreds of photos and laughed and sang “Bohemian Rhapsody” and ate our meals on the ground in paved parking lots. We wandered around on slick-rock in the dark and ate too many Cheetos and admired the stars.

Even when the highway closed from icy roads and inches of snow, we couldn’t stop laughing. There was no worry about missing assignments and classes as we checked into a hotel for an accidental extra night. These were simply problems for our future selves. We enjoyed the time we had left with each other.

It was so refreshing to return to one of my many sources of inspiration. My mind is clear and I am more present than I have been in quite some time.

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.

It Never Gets Old

It can be so easy to feel alone. 

When you're stuck in the grind, working day after day, and following the same routine, it's easy to feel like it's you versus the world. Even if you would term yourself to be "happy", the grind and the routines can make you feel stuck. You lose sight of yourself. Your boredom intensifies. Your happiness dwindles. It's easy to feel like you're the only one who thinks and the only one who cares.

Honestly, this is how I've felt for the last few months. Not necessarily lost, or unhappy, just alone. 

Last week, myself and ten others pulled up to Desert View in the Grand Canyon after five days of backpacking. Five of them had never seen the big ditch before, so they paired up with each other, covered their eyes, and walked blindly to the edge. I led the way, unpaired, and emotions started to flood my thoughts. I was back, less than a year later, to my center of the universe. 

Once at the viewpoint, I positioned everyone on the railing, and told them to open their eyes. I'll never forget those five faces. They were in shock, stunned, mesmerized by the canyon. Just like I always am. I told them that it never gets old.

We walked down below the viewpoint a little ways to the edge of a cliff, which we probably shouldn't have done, but none of us were mentally capable of handling the National Park crowds after being in the Utah backcountry for several days. Time slowed down, the sun drifted below the rim while we all watched and shivered in the coming cold.

I set up my tripod and photographed the light on the canyon walls as the colors shifted from gold to pink. But once the pink began to fade and the blue hour began to rise, I just watched. I hadn't been that happy in a long time.

That was the real me. Standing there on the edge of the grandest place on Earth, camera in hand, surrounded by those who also think, and who also care. We were all so present in that moment, there were no distractions and no extraneous thoughts. The light, the canyon, the wind, the silence. That's all that really mattered.

So whenever you start to feel alone, find those who love to truly live, drive away to somewhere grand, and watch what the world really has to offer.

Desert Addiction

We were just walking through the desert, led by cairns, inspired by the landscape and each other's company.

Last weekend, when a group of CU Hiking Clubbers and I stumbled upon the same view where a few new friends and I agreed to sit in silence for several minutes and stare out at the land of the Needles under a purple sky, I smiled. I remembered that view, the feeling, and the magic.

A year ago, my trip to the Needles District in Canyonlands National Park in Utah was where the seed of desert addiction was planted within me. I was simply inspired by its raw beauty and one of our trip leaders, who understands the Southwest in the same way that I do now. Since then, the desert has continually called. From the Grand Canyon to the San Rafael Swell, from the Maze to Colorado National Monument, the desert has always been on my mind. 

But what really is the desert addiction?

It starts with an underestimation— there's nothing in the desert. The Southwest is a wasteland. It's hot and dry and things don't really live there. 

It grows with an appreciation— a classic first trip to Utah shows you the delicacy of Arches National Park, the grandeur of Canyonlands, and the vastness of the Grand Canyon. A realization is born that the desert does indeed have things, but things that cannot be comprehended until witnessed firsthand. The desert silence stuns you, the desert night skies blow your mind, the desert canyons humble you.

It then nests within you into an understanding— it becomes a part of your deepest self. The desert is not a wasteland, it is a perfect balance of too much and too little, where any elemental addition throws the entire ecosystem off neutrality. The desert says nothing, in it is only interpretation. Its sandstone layers and twisted junipers lead you to the heart of the desert.

This is what I've learned in the last year. I doubt that I understand the desert in the same way as some Southwestern fanatics, such as Edward Abbey and a few of my friends, but it has been slowly coming to me.

A similar trip to the Needles a year later gave me the chance to lead others to this desert addiction. As I pointed out some of the major landmarks and biological features, I think I hooked a few of them. I can only hope that they have the chances to experience the Southwest deserts in the same way that I did, so they can overcome their underestimation, begin to appreciate and eventually understand just why the desert continually calls us.

First Looks

I spent winter break working on myself. Yes, I was happy with who I was and where I was going, but there's always room for improvement. Change is a good thing.

To start with, I spent ten days in a classroom working on getting my WFR certification, or Wilderness First Responder. A NOLS program, I learned more than how to splint an arm, treat a puncture wound, and administer various medications. I learned the importance of good leadership and the importance of selflessness. The instructors from the course taught me that intellectual humbleness and humility goes a long ways with people. So, my journey of forever-learning began.

To complete my month vacation from school, I headed to the Maze District in Canyonlands with a few friends. The most remote and wild district, the Maze is admired by desert enthusiasts for its loneliness and serenity. I was stoked. My friends at CU that have been to the Maze always seemed to have more desert knowledge than the rest, and more appreciation for the depths of Utah. I couldn't wait to understand their devotion to this district in the national park!

We began our adventure Thursday evening and left Boulder for canyon country. We arrived at the highway turnoff onto the 40-mile dirt road that leads to the Hans Flat Ranger Station (i.e. the only building/somewhat source of civilization in this area) around 12:30am. We camped on the side of the road, BLM land, and woke early the next morning to excessive condensation and early desert light. We drove to the ranger station, chatted with the rangers, distributed our group gear between packs, and headed out for the Maze.

Our first day would be roughly 13 miles, which consisted of a descent through a canyon onto a plateau and an old four-wheeling dirt road which would lead us to the Maze Overlook. I had no idea what to expect once we reached the Overlook. I had heard of the Maze as a complex canyon system, I had googled photos of the area, but the images you find online fail to create a sense of expectation. There's simply not enough photos of the Maze in the immensity of the world-wide web to explain just what the Maze actually is. Not enough cameras get to see it.

But the hike did include the classic National Park "we're-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-how-on-earth-is-anything-cool-here" right up to the last second before we were stunned. The last bit of walking was slightly uphill, with the Overlook on the top of a ridge, so we couldn't see anything until we got there.

And once we did, we couldn't peel our eyes away. Below us, a canyon system more complex than anything you could imagine opened up, revealing the inner workings of water, dust, rock and wind. They twisted, turned, and wound through the basin, with different shades of khaki, orange, and pink. I was speechless. We all walked to the rim of the Overlook, found a spot to ourselves, sat down, and stared off in wonderment.

It's the kind of scene that makes you believe in God.

I'll admit, the Grand Canyon has spoiled me. I've spent time in many awe-inspiring areas in the American Southwest, but none of them had rivaled the greatness of the Grand Canyon—until this moment. The Maze is different. And confusing. My first look at this section of Canyonlands left me with eagerness to learn more, experience more, and be more. 

Life Crossings

In the last few weeks, I've had so many people ask me, "how do you have time for all of these adventures?"

I just got back from my third weekend in a row of camping, where I skipped class on Friday and Monday (sorry Mom and Dad), put about 1,000 miles on my car, and many miles on my feet. I came home to two papers that needed to be written, and frantically begin studying for my midterm exams in the coming weeks.

I'll admit it's starting to catch up to me a little bit. 

Leaving Boulder every weekend, and thus temporarily escaping my academic responsibilities, has kept me sane this semester. But it does make for some busy weekdays. 

Last weekend, I led a Hiking Club trip to the San Rafael Swell in the middle of Utah. Our first desert trip of the semester, we were stoked to be in warmer weather with blue skies and lots of cool rocks. 

On Saturday we hiked a still-debated number of miles through the Little Grand Canyon in the Swell, which took us about ten hours. We descended into the canyon around noon, where to me the fact that we would be ending our hike in the dark quickly became obvious. I made sure to pack my headlamp.

We crossed the San Rafael River twelve or thirteen times. We hiked up to one side canyon, took lots of photos, and admired the light shining down through the top of the canyon and onto the glowing red sandstone. We came across a herd of cattle. We were shook by one of the cows—whose body was black, and face was white, and stared us down for several minutes while we were deciding the best possible route around the herd. We bushwhacked our way through sections with no trail and slipped on steep riverbanks of mud.

The sun sank over the canyon walls around 6:00. We still had at two river crossings, and at least five miles left before we reached our camp at the end of the canyon.

At this point, I was becoming frustrated. I wasn't feeling the hike in the dark, where we had to find appropriate points to cross the river and search for the trail. I was hungry, and getting tired. Not everyone had a headlamp. I'm sure my frustration was obvious to some, but I did my best to keep my cool. 

Of course, we made it across the river the last time, and finished our last few miles in the dark. The moon cast fantastic shadows on the canyon walls, we'd stop every few miles to turn off our lights and admire the serenity and silence of the desert night.

After leading several club trips this semester, I've begun to understand what my love for the Hiking Club really means. I remember that as an ordinary member, the club was a way for me to simply push my boundaries and step out of my comfort zone. I remember my first accidental hike in the dark. It was also deep in the Utah desert, with one of the same officers, with an unknown number of miles left to go. I remember how accomplished I felt once we made it back to camp.

Selfishly as an officer, I can now say that my favorite part of the CU Hiking Club is watching other people do the same. Pushing comfort zones is what makes us grow as human beings. Those times of exceeding our own preconceived limits not only makes for great stories, but also for perfect times to connect to other humans. The desert is an especially good place for that. I loved watching my new friends struggle and succeed through river crossings, hike more miles than they ever have before, and become speechless by the natural wonders that the desert has to offer. I definitely had moments of uncertainty, but reminded myself that these are the moments where we can fundamentally change.

I'm incredibly thankful to be a part of such an amazing group, to be able to spend a weekend in the desert, and to be able to learn from my constant adventures.

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.

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.

Three Rules for Life

On Day 2 of our 12-day rafting trip from Pipe Creek at river mile 89 to Pearce Ferry at river mile 280, we woke up early to get a head start on a long day. We had to pull the hoop nets that were set out the night before, drive about 30 miles on the river, and set the hoop nets early enough so that the scientists had time to rest before a long night on the river electrofishing. 

We had a day of big water on the river, consisting of Hermit and the Gems (Crystal, Tuna Creek, Agate, Sapphire, Turquoise, Ruby and Serpentine). So the morning was wet and crazy, and we then reached a long stretch of flat water. Two of the scientists on our trip, Pilar and Kristy, decided it was nap time, since there would be nothing but smooth sailing for the rest of the day. 

There was no way I'd fall asleep. I was in the middle of the Grand Canyon, only for the second time. I formulated countless questions as I looked around at the rock layers, plants, river currents and eventually grew tired of leaving my questions unanswered, since the scientists were both asleep. I stood up, moved to the back of the boat and sat down in the motor well next to Chango, one of the four boatmen on the trip. 

This was the first real conversation I had with Chango, and he read me like a book.

"Have a lot of questions and no one to answer them?" 

"You can't nap out here now, there's too much to see!"

Chango had a long full beard. Shoulder-length, curly hair, painted toenails, and a beer belly. He had been running Grand Canyon trips for about ten years, mostly commercial, he was just starting his journey with science trips. The more I learned about him, the more I realized we're much alike—both our faults, and strengths. 

So I spent a lot of our driving time in the motor well with Chango, picking his brain, listening to his philosophical quotes, learning his outlook on life, asking countless questions about the Canyon. And surprisingly, I don't think he ever got sick of my company.

We made camp on river left, at an unknown river mile. I helped cook and clean and took a nap next to a really cool exposure of the tapeats sandstone. The sunset lit up a cliff of redwall limestone that was perfectly framed by the Tapeats, and was even reflected into an eddy next to our camp. I sat down on the beach after I finished with my camera, and thought about what Chango had told me on the boat.

Two points had really stuck with me from our first conversation... First, there is a red, round figure on top of a cliff on one of the last corners before Crystal Rapid. Grand Canyon boatmen call it the Crystal Ball and use it as a signal that the daunting Class IX rapid is around the corner.

Second, Chango has three rules for life that he's learned while spending time in the Canyon:

1. Always do your best.
2. Be impeccable with your work.
3. Never take things too personally.

I can't count how many times I've thought of his rules while I was still in the Canyon, and since the day I stepped out of it.

Why Grand Canyon?

What a privilege it was to raft the Grand Canyon for a second time. 

Almost a year ago, I set out on an adventure that changed my life. My family and I left for an eight-day trip through the Grandest Canyon on Earth, from Lee's Ferry to Diamond Creek with Arizona Raft Adventures (AzRA). Since then, not a day has gone by where I don't think about the mighty Colorado River, the canyon walls and the desert skies. 

After our trip, I was looking for any way to get on another river trip, whether it was as a swamper, an assistant or a volunteer. I reached out to both of our guides from my first trip, the head guide at AzRA and found nothing. I gave up after a few months of digging. One day I was scrolling through Facebook and stumbled upon a link that AzRA shared, Arizona Game and Fish (AGFD) was looking for volunteers to help them electrofish and study the native fish populations for ten days. I applied without hesitation. 

And here I am, on the other side, reflecting on my second time through the Canyon. I can't believe I've done it twice. 5 million people visit the National Park every year, only 22,000 ever get to raft through it—that's less than 1%. Only a handful of permits are given out to private boaters every year, some enter the permit lottery annually, and never are given the opportunity. This will be one of many posts about my twelve-day experience from Phantom Ranch to Pearce Ferry.

The Grand Canyon is something truly special. I'm not the first one to notice it, Native Americans have called it sacred for centuries; John Wesley Powell admired it's beauty in 1869 during his legendary expedition; Teddy Roosevelt said to leave it be, men can only mar it. 

So about a week into our trip, we camped below Diamond Creek (new territory for me), had dinner, and the scientists went out to electrofish while we stayed behind to watch the sunset and relax. I set up my Gorilla tripod, neutral density filter, and wide angle lens, to capture this desert sunset that was forming around the canyon walls. 

I sat on the beach, watched the moon rise, and began to think about what makes the Grand Canyon so special for me.

Rafting the Grand Canyon comes with a plethora of challenges. It's hot. It's dry. It's long. It's easy to get claustrophobic, dehydrated, cranky, hungry, exhausted, etcetera. But all these challenges come with great rewards: desert sunsets, sounds of the river, boatman's stories, the company of new friends, loads of history, and never ending beauty. 

The Grand Canyon makes you feel small and insignificant. It makes you think about who you really are, what is important to you, and who you want to become. Every night, I watched unforgettable sunsets and reflected on my life and what I can do to make it better.

The Desert Says Nothing

Finally, I was getting back into the daily grind at CU, when my mom called me one morning to discuss our summer plans as I was on my way to class. We are planning a little road trip through the southwest to go along with a very exciting volunteer opportunity (more information to come in May!!). After our conversation ended and my political science class began, I couldn't stop thinking about the desert. I told her that I was in a lecture hall, surrounded by people, but was ready to jump out of my seat from the excitement of our plans. 

She said, "Oh K, you really like the desert, don't you?"

"Mom. I LOVE the desert."

"I wish my mother were here."

"Why?"

"She'd be so amazed to hear you say that."

I guess my love for the desert does seem a little far-fetched. Growing up, my parents dubbed me to be the "polar bear" of the family. I was always hot, always sweating, always complaining about the heat. My grandparents lived in central Florida, so my grandmother got an earful of how horrible the heat was every time we'd come to visit. To my parents, my constant yearning to be in one of the hottest environments probably makes their heads spin. To be honest, I'm not sure I understand it either. 

As my hiking club friends and I sat under the North Window in Arches National Park on Saturday evening, watching the sunset, I climbed through the arch to the small rock formation to look back towards Turret Arch, where I took this iconic photo. I looked southeast, towards the La Sals, and began wondering what it was about these lands that causes them to always be stuck in my mind. 

Grand Canyon. Arches. Canyonlands. Capitol Reef. Monument Valley. Zion. Bryce. Death Valley. White Sands. These are only the headliners. There are thousands of other natural wonders scattered across the Southwest, whose names seem to multiply like bacteria every time you travel to a before-unseen feature or get lost in the depths of Instagram. What is it about the desert that is so fascinating?

As Edward Abbey described, the oceans are dangerously open, leading men to another beach, another continent, another place. Climbing a mountain only provides a thrill as you ascend the summit, reaching more and more dangerous territory, with more and more exposure, until you are eventually forced to come back down to a habitable environment. The ocean says escape. The mountains says challenge. "The desert says nothing."

The desert always seems to be waiting. There is no traveling to a foreign state, there is no ascent to the sky. The desert is just there, waiting for you.

As I stared out over the eastern slope of Arches National Park, contemplating the same scene Abbey probably did in 1956, I too wondered where the heart of the desert was, or if it even exists.

The desert ropes you in. The excitement that hits you as you enter your first slot canyon, the tear-starting awe that absorbs your body as you walk under Double Arch for the first time, the freezing rapids of the Colorado River that slam into your raft at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, the blinding amazement that pulses through your veins as you watch your first desert sunset. Once you enter the desert, you're forever looking for it's heart.

That's how my love for the desert began. It's wonder causes your curiosity. You find yourself to be forever searching.

Desert Silence

My nine new friends and I continued on for the remainder of our trek through the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park. We had made it to Druid Arch and the Joint section of Chesler Park and now were on the home-stretch. 

We wound our way through the rock formations and into mini-canyons, if you look closely in the center of the photo above you can see the trail below in the field. Eventually we came to the top of a little hill and stopped for a quick break to enjoy the last few minutes of the sunset. I walked around the lookout, shooting photos and sat back down with the group. We all agreed to be quiet, just for a few seconds, to hear what the landscape truly sounded like. 

And damn, it was quiet. Growing up in the mountains, I was used to experiencing silences like that. A quick walk across the street from my house into the local park and I could enjoy the peace and silent of the forest. But desert silence is a whole different ball game. There was no breeze. There were no creatures rustling. It was deserted. Everything was still. 

Our moment of silence lasted longer than I had expected it to and after a few minutes I got a little impatient, (I'll admit), but then reminded myself to enjoy this moment. The sun was sinking lower and lower, casting a purple haze over red and tan rock, creating a view that could have been from a whole different planet. It was beautiful. We were afraid to speak up, soaking in each other's and the landscape's presence before moving on.

Finally, one of us said, "I never expected it to be that quiet". We all laughed, stood up and continued the last several miles of our journey in darkness.

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.

This is What I Live For

I had been to San Francisco once before, but I had never seen the Golden Gate Bridge, (don't ask me how that happened). I was absolutely stoked once my family decided to do the Highway 1 road trip, from LA to San Francisco, along the winding California coast in November 2016. 

But I was most excited for this photo. I've seen photos of the Golden Gate Bridge in all of its glory countless times on Instagram. I pictured the image in my mind, the bridge emerging underneath a layer of fog while glowing in its trademark red appearance. 

On our last night in San Francisco, I somehow managed to convince my mom to drive me to the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, so I could finally get this photo. It's incredibly frustrating to not be able to drive a rental car by myself to my photo ops. 

Immediately as we got off the exit for the park, we drove right into a line of traffic. After sitting in the car for about 10 minutes, we managed to get a parking spot about 1.5 miles from Battery Spencer, where I had planned to shoot. I got out of the car, and sped-walked 1.5 miles to the viewpoint, next to a line of tourists, with my camera on my back and tripod in hand as the sun sank lower over the horizon. 

Finally I reached my destination and set up. I probably took around 100 of the same photos while waiting for the perfect light. Eventually, the sun sank and welcomed the perfect soft dusk lighting for the bridge and surrounding city-scape. I was completely lost in the scene. My mom probably called me several times, urging me to come back to the car so we could make our dinner reservation. I don't know how she expected me to leave my perfect moment.

The fog wasn't there, but the colors that the departing sun painted on the sky easily made up for it. I stretched my shutter speed for as long as possible for the car trails while trying not to sacrifice the overall exposure. 

It was after I had captured my long-anticipated Golden Gate photo and walked back along the trail towards the car that I realized that this is what I was meant to do. 

I was meant to drive my mom crazy with my photo opportunities. 

I was meant to walk the extra mile to reach the best spot. 

I was meant to carry more weight in camera gear than any other type of equipment. 

I was meant to stand on edges and cliffs. 

I was meant to be in constant search of beauty. 

I was meant to press the shutter. 

Today, I realize that I must continue to live my life with this purpose.