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.

A New Adventure, A New Year

As summer came to a close, I couldn't wait to get back to Boulder to start up my sophomore year at the University of Colorado with a new major decided and as a new officer in the Hiking Club. My first week was incredibly chaotic— first day of classes, countless meetings and catching up with friends who I hadn't seen all summer. I was planning on saving my first weekend to get myself together and settle into my new house with a few roommates. 

At the Hiking Club's first potluck party of the semester, I was talked into joining the club's first backpacking trip of the season. Instead of organizing my life, I would be driving to Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming with a group of nine friends for a 27ish mile hike through the backcountry of the newest range in the continental United States. It didn't take much to convince me. 

Less than a week later, I left our campsite in Alaska Basin with a friend to go refill water bottles before it got dark. The sunset was absolutely incredible, illuminating the stream, flowers and peaks with a beautiful pink light. I forgot to grab my camera, so I had to soak in the scenery without capturing it into a photo—which is pretty hard for me. My friend and I watched the sun sink lower and the colors disappear, continued to fill the hand full of bottles and chatted about our love for the wilderness.

The next morning, the ten of us packed up our campsite during sunrise and began our last day of hiking. We stopped along the same stream as the night before and refilled our water bottles (all adorned with hiking club stickers of course) before continuing on. After helping set up the water filter, I grabbed my camera from my pack and began shooting. It was especially hazy on this morning from the smoke of Montana's wildfires. While the smoke gave a few of us trouble while climbing over passes, it definitely added to the sunrise colors that were cast over the range. 

I snapped a few shots and sat down in a field of flowers and listened to the sounds of the fresh mountain water gushing over the streambed's rocks. Always my favorite sound, I had listened to rivers all summer, from the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon to Clear Creek in Idaho Springs, CO. I had missed this river sound since my last day of work over two weeks ago, and was so glad to hear it again. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then stood up to join my friends on our final stretch of trails back to our cars, and back to Boulder. 

Skylines and Lodgepole Pines

One of my best friends from high school now lives in Seattle. She's so busy working towards her nursing degree at SU that she rarely comes home to Colorado to visit. It has been a few months since I've seen her and I've been threatening to go up to Seattle for a few days to hang out. A couple weeks ago, my dad finally convinced me to spend a couple hundred bucks on airfare and go stay with her for a few days.

She's not the biggest hiker ever, but we had such a great time in Rocky Mountain National Park in the spring, that she wanted to take advantage of my presence for our long weekend, and have me pick out a day-hike for us. 

So I found what was most likely the most popular hike in the area on The Outbound, called Rattlesnake Ledge, about 45 minutes outside of Seattle in North Bend. We woke up (relatively) early and stopped at Snoqualmie Falls, then continued on to the trailhead in North Bend. 

Our hike was awesome, I was so impressed by the lushness of the forest and the vastness of the Cascades. Once we reached the top of the ledge, the view opened up, proving the infinity of the Pacific Northwest views that I've heard about, while giving us a great viewpoint of the turquoise Rattlesnake Ledge. We hammocked in the forest for a while, soaking in the vibes and then made our way back to Seattle. 

A Seattle skyline photo has been on my bucket list for a long time. We chilled out in her home for few hours, and then made our way to Kerry Park for sunset. The park was the exact view for the photo I had planned in my head, with the Space Needle in the foreground, and Mt. Rainier showing off in the distance.

We waited with a crowd of people for the city lights to come on in the blue hour, and then I went crazy with photos, and eventually thought to do a panoramic shot. The image above is what I ended up with, it is a composite of four separate images blended together in photoshop. Mt. Rainer isn't super distinctive, but I'm happy with its faintness in the background.

Overall, I'm so happy I finally splurged on a short trip to Seattle. Special thanks to Lian Rivers for showing me around, (and housing/feeding 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.

Canyon Voices

A few months ago, I came home from college and discovered a new book on the kitchen counter. It was Ansel Adams' collection of National Park photos. I was immediately sucked in. I sat in the kitchen and glazed over each of his photographs, admiring the shadows and simplicity of his work with film.

Of course, I especially loved his photos of Grand Canyon. 

After my twelve-day river trip through the grandest place on Earth, my mom and I spent a day hiking on the South Rim, and made it to Hopi Point for sunset. That was my goodbye to the Canyon. I went crazy with photos. My mom and I were the first ones there and the last ones to leave after the sun went down. I was doing my best Ansel Adams impression.

But during the last few moments of daylight, I was just trying to take it all in. The shadows. The desert sky. The river flowing, thousands of feet below. The colors of the steep canyon walls. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. Tears came to my eyes as I watched the sun's last rays disappear behind the canyon rim. 

I thought of a moment, probably about a week before, when we were deep in the Earth. Pilar and Kristy had fallen asleep again during a long day of driving. I was sitting in the swamper's seat in the motor well with Chango, sharing our thoughts about life when we rounded a corner and he cut the motor. We just floated down the mighty Colorado and observed the evening unfold before us. The birds were madly chirping in the bushes, the sun cast shadows around every pinnacle, the water sparkled under the sinking sun.

He whispered, "Listen to the birds, the wind. Listen to what the river is saying to you."

It was so peaceful, so inviting, so inspiring. I fell in love with the Canyon all over again when I closed my eyes and listened for its voice. 

I stood on the rim a week later, in a whole different world, and listened to the Canyon for the last time. It was a little different, with a crowd of people behind me all trying to capture the same moment. 

I wasn't nearly as sad to leave as I was almost a year before. Instead I felt more self-aware than I had ever been before. This was where I was meant to be and what I was meant to do. The Grand Canyon. I'll be back; this isn't goodbye for long. 

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. 

The Edge of the Earth

I'll admit that I've always been a passionate person. I become obsessed with things very easily—music, movies, places, hobbies. As soon as I fall into something, it takes a lot for me to come out. 

When I first rafted the Grand Canyon, it sparked something in me. Our guides could tell that I caught the river bug. I saw the entirety of the big ditch's bottom, and was amazed by every corner, pocket, side canyon, tributary, eddy, cliff, and rapid. But I had never seen the top of the Grandest place on Earth. Which isn't an unusual phenomenon for me. It took two visits of San Francisco for me to see the Golden Gate Bridge, three visits to Los Angeles to see the Hollywood sign. I guess I'm not the most observant person... but I knew that I would get super emotional when I saw the enormity of the Canyon for the first time.

My mom and I decided to make a road trip out of my second time through the Canyon. We had camped in Bears Ears one night and explored a few Native American ruins, then drove to the North Rim and found a campsite on a Forest Service Road. We drove another 30 minutes from our campsite to the North Rim.

I love National Parks because you always seem to be driving and driving, wondering how anything incredible could be so far away, and you become impatient, wondering where "it" is, driving aimlessly through a desert or forest. Where the hell is it? And then BOOM, it's right in front of you. It's like you didn't know what you were getting yourself into.

We entered the gates at the North Rim and drove a few more miles through forest to the parking area at the headquarters. We could tell it was near the edge because through the trees was open air. We walked through a maze of cabins. 

I remember there were people all around us, like cattle all trying to get to the same destination—the edge of a cliff. But once I stepped through the last of the trees, the world seemed to open up in front of me. It was incredible. Magical. Like nothing I'd ever seen before. Unimaginable. Tears came to my eyes. I'm not kidding. I stood there, in a maze of people, with nothing before me but openness and a fire of curiosity as to how something so amazing has been here. All this time, and I hadn't seen it until then. The people were gone. It was just me. On the edge of the Earth. 

About a week later, I was in it, the great big ditch. And I had packed up my cot and dry bag and was making my way to the kitchen for breakfast before a big day of fishing. Chango approached me and said, "Okay K-hal, tell me something that's going to make my day."

"That's a lot of pressure!"

"It doesn't have to be long, it can be anything!"

"Uh okay.... well when I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time a few days ago, I cried. I was in shock."

Chango smiled. "You just made my day."

Science Never Stops

There are three types of trips that run through the Grand Canyon: commercial, private, and science. Commercial trips are those that tourists pay thousands of dollars for, and was what I did last year with Arizona Raft Adventures. Private trips require a permit from the National Park Service's lottery system, anyone can go. Science trips are typically funded by NPS, the Department of the Interior, or Grand Canyon Monitoring and Research Center (GCMRS). The Arizona Game and Fish Department (AGFD) does three trips per year to study the fish populations—all funded by Glen Canyon Adaptive Management Program. 

This was a science trip. There were four boatmen, three scientists, two other volunteers and myself.

AGFD was collecting data to examine the trends of the native and nonnative fish populations in the Grand Canyon section on the Colorado River. On the second half of the trip, we mostly caught flannelmouth suckers and humpback chub, with a few speckled dace and bluehead suckers, which are all native fish species in the Canyon. There are tons of brown and rainbow trout in the upper third of the canyon, which are nonnative fish. 

The first two photos above are of a young humpback chub, named for its hump behind its nose. The chub are an endangered species due to habitat destruction from the dams and nonnative predators. They tend to congregate around the turquoise blue waters of the Little Colorado River and Havasu Creek because of the warmer water from these tributaries, but are also spread out in the lower third of the Canyon (3rd photo). Data collection from AGFD's trips have shown that the chub populations in this section of the canyon has rapidly increased due to range expansion that occurred within the last 5 or 10 years; they have been around the Little Colorado and Havasu for as long as scientists have been studying them. 

We all worked, there wasn't much time for relaxing. A typical day would look like the following:

We would wake up after sunrise, normally around 7:30 and have some coffee. The head cook, Perkins, and a few other helpers would start breakfast while everyone else would pack up their cots and dry bags. We'd eat, share a few laughs and load up the boats while jamming to a morning run through Perkin's only playlist—which consisted mostly of Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Then a boatman, scientist and volunteer would head out on each of the two sport boats to retrieve the hoop nets that we set out the night before. The retrieval and data processing would take between 1.5-3 hours, depending on how many fish we caught. After, we'd all meet at camp and start heading downstream.

We would drive the boats for 30 minutes or 4 hours, which depended on where our fishing sites were, and thus how many miles we had to cover each day. We'd either eat lunch on the boats, pack a lunch, or stop somewhere to stretch our legs and cool off in the shade. Then we'd find a camp for the night, unpack the boats and set up the kitchen.

A boatman, scientist and volunteer would head out on the sport boats to set the hoop nets and reflective batons to mark electrofishing sites (last photo) and then we'd all return to camp for dinner and some free time. The scientists would go out to electrofish once it got dark, and the rest of us would hang out in the motor wells of the rafts and chat with the boatmen.

Whenever we'd pass the other sport boat when pulling hoop nets in the morning, and if we had caught any chub, we would shout "CHUBBBB" across the river to the other boat and fishermen. Scientists tend to get pretty stoked about endangered fish.

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.

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. 

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.

A Hiker's Playground

I'm thankful for yet another weekend exploring the magnificent southwestern deserts with plenty of new friends through the CU Hiking Club. Our weekend was full of campsite-spotting, dirt-road driving, arch-gazing, canyon-squishing, couscous-munching weekend. It was a much needed break from piles of assignments and a looming finals week. 

A mix of old and new friends and I got an early start Saturday morning to improve our chances of obtaining a permit to enter the Fiery Furnace in Arches National Park. We left our BLM campsite and arrived at the visitor's center at 8am. After waiting outside for an hour and crowding around the doors as the opening approached, we were first in line! We watched the short instructional video, and listened to the rangers explain the importance of remembering which way you came from and to avoid stepping on the biological soil crust. 

We approached the Furnace by 10:00, took the trail to the right and began our descent into the maze of rock formations and the hidden "gems" of Arches NP. The rumors about Fiery Furnace are all true. It is spectacular. There are countless sandstone hoodoos, slot canyons, oddly-shaped boulders, and arches—basically a hiker's playground. 

We scrambled over rocks. We slid down slickrock. We climbed on top of boulders. We found countless dead ends. We entered amphitheaters through narrow canyons. We spent around 5 hours in this natural, desert labyrinth, and probably only explored 10% of it. 

Eventually we emerged from the furnace, sweaty, tired and happy, and drove back out to BLM land to find a new campsite. For my fourth time in Arches NP, I was happy to finally check the Fiery Furnace off my list. 

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.

Primitive Beaches & Early Mornings

I used to love getting up early, whether for work, to go camping or to the airport, or for a photo op. But as a freshman in college, I'll admit that I haven't seen a sunrise in a long time. So it was especially hard to wake up at 4:30am in the middle of a vacation. 

My dad, brother and I are a little addicted to fly-fishing. Every summer, we try to get out to the Gold Medal waters of the Frying Pan River in Basalt, CO to challenge ourselves against the stubborn trout. Whenever the three of us venture away from our beloved Frying Pan, we try our luck at another type of fish, fishing and water. 

Hence the three of us were up and at 'em at before the crack of dawn and drove 45 minutes west of our temporary home in San José to downtown Cabo San Lucas to meet the surf fisherman of Cabo. We piled in his car and drove over the last of the Sierra de la Laguna mountains on the western side of downtown Cabo and made our way over a pothole-filled road to a private beach. The sun was just beginning its journey into the day. 

After a short hike down the beach, my brother and I began casting aimlessly into the surf. There were no signs of any fish, although my dad and our guide assured us they were there. The sun came up over the southern hills and I could no longer resist the morning rays of sunlight. I ran to grab my camera. My brother continued to search for fish while I captured this photo of him, reeling in a cast in front of the 10 foot waves with a 12 foot rod.

Three hours later, we were still empty handed. But we explored another excluded beach and its hidden caves and dunes. We were lucky to be taken to a part of Cabo that most tourists never see, even without a catch and at such an ungodly hour.