Editor Kyle Hentschel
Writers Amos Horn Teja Kritika
Managing Editor
Casey Minter
Amos Horn
Scott Pontoni
Advertising Director Jac Thomas
Photographers Kathryn Boyd-Batstone Marco Feil
Creative Director Scott Proctor
Aaron Jamieson Teja Kritika Matt Leslie
Photo Editors
Casey Minter
Kathryn Boyd-Batstone
Patrick Orton
William Saunders
Max Owens Klaus Polzer
Marketing and Social Media Megan Ganim Copy Editor Kevin Mataraci
Scott Pontoni William Saunders Designers Lorin Anderberg Sora Boyd
Printed by
Erin Hampton
Ram Offset Lithographers
Cover Shot: Despite freezing January temperatures, Tanner VanLeuvan runs Wildwood Falls along Oregon’s Row River. Photo by Kathryn Boyd-Batstone
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Photo Kathryn Boyd-Batstone
editors note By Kyle Hentschel
T
o survive as restless people, we
sue represent a beautiful convergence
need movement. We need our
of talented storytellers and outdoor
lives to spin around in colorful
enthusiasts who take risks, break
arrays of sights and sounds
through comfort zones and ambi-
because when things remain stagnate,
tiously approach the unknown — this
they deteriorate. Life, especially for
project being one of those uncharted
college students and young profes-
endeavors.
sionals, is about change and improvi-
So as you—adrenaline junky,
sation. It should involve new people,
world traveler, mindful nature-walker,
new surroundings, new mindsets and a aspiring photographer—are transportmold that is perpetually re-shaping. New York Times columnist Frank
ed to destinations across the Pacific Northwest and beyond, note how none
Bruni says, “college needs to be an ex-
of this is a result of standing still and
pansive adventure, yanking students
passively letting life happen. It is not
toward unfamiliar horizons and un-
a result of fair-weather photography
tested identities rather than indulging
or ease of access. O2 Magazine is a
and flattering who and where they
new exploration of the human outdoor
already are.” Oregon Outdoor, a maga-
experience produced by, about and for-
zine we like to call O2, is a medium for
matted for those willing to challenge
showcasing those who have harnessed
the boundaries of what’s expected.
this thought.
Whether it is by board, bike, rope or
The stories and photographs you will discover throughout this first is-
paddle, take the trail and let these pages inspire your next adventure.
05
CONTENTS
C anada Climb 18 Photographer Matt Leslie accompanies climbers on their mission to grab first ascents in British Columbia.
F r eesk iing F emales 24 Professional skier Sandra Lahnsteiner talks about her new film Pure, and the rise of women in the sport.
War ner Moun t ain 30 Sleep 41 feet above the ground in one of Oregon’s fire lookouts.
Discover ing P a t agonia 3 4 From Los Torres del Paine to Cerro Fitz Roy, a backpacker’s search for a wild Patagonian experience.
Back pack ing Tahoe 4 0 Black and white film photos illustrate a story of tradition on the Lake Tahoe Rim Trail.
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Photo Scott Pontoni
02
Petzel Quark
GEAR GUIDE
Choice of hammer or adze Interchangable picks
The Workhorse
Adjustable trigger finger
In a world seemingly without balance between ridiculously aggressive ice tools and traditional ice axes, the Quark stands apart. Filling the hole between the two, the Quark is at home on ice, steep snow or even glacier travel. Need a tool that can plunge? Just take off the griprest at the bottom so it won’t get in the way. Climbing some steeper ice? Reattach the griprest and slide down the adjustable trigger finger rest to where you want it—your grip on the tool will be as solid as ever. This lightweight, perfectly curved mountain workhorse will take you where you want to go and you will look good doing it.
Amos Horn, Oregon Outdoor
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Removable griprest
A gallery of photographs from the Pacific Northwest and beyond.
M O M E N T S
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A vibrant hot air balloon floats above the Tualatin Country Club as part of the annual Festival of Balloons in Tigard, Oregon.
Bir d ’s Ey e V ie w
//
B y K a t hr y n B o y d - B a t s t one
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A climber ascends Bullet the Blue Sky (5.12c/d) in Colorado’s Penitente Canyon. Located in the San Luis Valley, the canyon’s pocketed, high-quality volcanic tuff makes for excellent sport climbing. Photo by Max Owens
C A N A DI A N S UNS E T Hearing a rumor of snow-covered trees that take on an ethereal blue color just before sunset, photographer Kathryn Boyd-Batstone snowshoed six miles up Mount Seymour in Vancouver, British Columbia, to capture these colors.
IN T OO DEEP Explorers pose for a picture next to a large rock found deep within a lava tube near Mount St. Helens, WA . Photo by Scott Potoni
F RE S H T R A CK S Footprints form in the deep snow between the Warner Mountain Lookout tower and its outhouse. See the full story on page 30.
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HOOD NIGH T S The moon lights up the south face of Mt. Hood to reveal an empty Timberline Lodge ski lift. Photo by Joe Riedl
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L A ID B A CK Central Oregon athlete, Trevor Ford, points his finger to the sky as he performs a perfect backflip at the Lair in Bend. Photo By Will Saunders
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S ur f ing S oli t ude
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//
B y W illiam S aunder s
A lone surfer waits for the next set of swells as the ocean calms for a moment. When surfing at the Oregon coast, it’s not uncommon to be the only person in the water.
Alex Quitiquit stares out at the mountains as the climbing crew drives to Kitimat, B.C.
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P ho t o s b y M a t t h e w L e slie
TURNING BACK Each year, The American Alpine Club gives grant money to climb-
who offered to drive them in his boat down the river. After a
ers with a dream. Their goal is to fund the exploration of new ter-
night at his boathouse, Rick dropped the climbers off at a re-
ritories and personal journeys within the climbing community.
mote beach with promising peaks towering in the background.
In the summer of 2014, Utah climbers Alex Quitiquit, Andrew
Far from civilization, the guys geared up for what would be-
Lam and Hunter Nicholas received one of these grants for a pro-
come the most grueling bushwhack they had ever experienced.
posal they created to put up first ascents in some of British Co-
The goal was to follow the river until a stream tribu-
lumbia’s most remote terrain. Using Google Earth as a guide, the
tary, which would lead them toward the granite peaks.
crew set coordinates on untouched walls outside of Kitimat, B.C.
before long, their path was interrupted by dense foliage.
The tographer
climbers Matt
invited
Leslie
to
Oregon-based document
the
adventure journey
But
pho-
They muscled their way through it for a while, cut-
north.
ting their arms and legs on Devil’s Club, a thorny plant
After months of training and extensive planning, they arrived in Kitimat. The crew then found Rick, a local fisherman,
that
dominates
the
area.
Hopping
down
from
a
log
meant submerging into a sea of sharp, green branches.
A local fisherman gave the crew a ride down the river and dropped them off on a remote beach.
“I was four feet away from him and I could barely see him,” says Leslie, who photographed from behind as the climbers disappeared into the brush. The situation did not improve The group decided to get closer to the river to see if there was an alternate route but the thick foliage covered the entire bank. Not even a full day into the trip, it became apparent that it wouldn’t be achievable and they
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were forced to call off the trip. “We realized the timetable for us to get up there, to climb this thing and then to get back just wasn’t going to be possible,” Leslie says. Emotions sunk in for the climbers, who had been training for months for this opportunity. They left their jobs and relationships behind to pursue this project and it would no longer be attainable. The feeling of failure is one known
to many rock climbers. It is the nature of a wilderness to create obstacles for those who enter it. It took multiple attempts and steep learning curves to complete nearly all of the most famous climbing expeditions. Some projects take years, even lifetimes, to complete. The journey back to the dropoff point was tense and Mother Nature tested the group’s strength once more when Quitiquit nearly drowned crossing a river.
They collected themselves for camp and hit a spot beacon that had been set up before they left Rick’s boathouse. This automatically sent a text to Quitiquit’s girlfriend telling her to send the boat. Rick arrived the next morning to take the disheartened crew back to Kitimat. Recovering from the disappointment, the group did some hiking and jumped off bridges into
rivers to lift their spirits. They then drove to a more established climbing area outside of town.
After another impassable river spoiled a second backcountry attempt, they made their way to Squamish, one of B.C.’s most iconic climbing spots. They finished their trip on a high note with a few days of climbing at Smith Rock State Park in Oregon. With eyes still fixated on those mysterious walls, Quitiquit, Lam and Nicholas are resilient. Climbers don’t give up that easy, they’ll be back someday.
“I WA S F OUR F E E T AWAY F ROM HIM A N D I C O U L D B A R E LY S E E H I M .” “We finally got some climbing in, which really revived everyone’s spirits. Leslie says. “We hadn’t climbed at all and it was a climbing trip.”
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Emotions set in when, after months of training and preparation, the crew had to call it quits on the journey.
Q&A
Lahsteiner takes a huge turn in the powder at WeiĂ&#x;see Gletscherwelt, a ski resort in the Austrian Alps. Photo by Klaus Polzer
F RE E SK IING F E M A L E S
BY AMOS HORN
SANDRA LAHNSTIENER Her new film Pure and the rise of female skiers
F
lying just below the radar, Sandra Lahnsteiner has been quietly working her way up in the freeski world by dominating giant lines and creating some of the best female action on film. Sandra has been featured in 10 movies — four of which she produced herself — that feature all female athletes. Her most recent film, Pure, is the second film she produced with her production company Shades of Winter, and has solidified her spot in the industry as both an athlete and a filmmaker. If you haven’t heard of her yet, it’s about time you do. Oregon Outdoor: What inspired you to start Shades of Winter and make these two films? Sandra Lahnsteiner: It all started in 2009, when I made my first movie. It was the result of being out all winter with guys in 2008. At the
end of the season I said, “Hey, what do you think? Can I put it together with girls?” This was the start of my first movie and, in the end, this was the start of everything. I wanted to create a great ski movie to showcase the best female freeski action, but I also wanted to tell a story inspired by the feelings of everyday life. O2: Why all female athletes? SL: After the first all-girls ski movie I did in 2009, it was more of just a fun thing to do. I thought, “Okay, I can do female ski movies.” And then after that, right before Shades of Winter, there was my freeski documentary, Shukran Morocco, which is about a freeski trip in Morocco with a friend of mine. It was only two girls and that was so motivating. All the media, athletes, friends and sponsors said, “Sandra, you should just push it and put it all together.”
For me, now, it’s not super important to have it be entirely females. We are trying to make one of the best ski movies with female athletes featured. O2: In 2009 there wasn’t anything like this and, since then, we have seen a huge explosion of female athletes in the sport. How have you seen the industry change? SL: We earn our places with performance, which wasn’t always the same. The media and the sponsors put us in the spotlight because the female side of the sport inspires them. They really like how Shades of Winter is showcasing some of the best female action. It was great, in the past, to have a ski movie with one or two female athletes, but now there is high demand for more female athletes. We are all pushing it and I hope we can inspire more girls to do it. O2: What does the future of the
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Lahnsteiner hiking her skis back up the mountain at WeiĂ&#x;see Gletscherwelt. Photo by Klaus Polzer
Lahnsteiner cuts throught the trees in Niseko, Japan. Photo by Aaron Jamieson
sport look like for female athletes? SL: These are professional athletes who are really pushing the limits. This is what helps us improve our credibility in this scene. For me, the important thing is that we try to be professional and performing athletes — without even focusing too much on the girl thing. Sure, there is a difference between men and
women, but that’s not a problem. We have different abilities and different strengths. We like to feature more about what drives these girls and why are they willing to push their limits. O2: What does the future look like for you? SL: Well, we said last year that we wanted to step it up in every aspect of filmmaking with Shades of Win-
ter 2, and that was our goal for this year. Now, we have even a bit more in mind. We are going to do a twoyear project while we are busy on tour. My goal is to step it up and make something different, something new. Pure is available on iTunes. More information about the film can be found at shades-of-winter.com
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Can you spot her? Lahnsteiner drops in while filming Shades of Winter in Haines, Alaska. Photo by Patrick Orton
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Lahnsteiner flies off a cliff face at WeiĂ&#x;see Gletscherwelt. Photo by Klaus Polzer
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P aci f ic Nor t hwes t
The morning sun reveals a powdery blanket upon a section of the Central Cascade Range in Willamette National Forest. The balcony of the lookout offers a the 360-degree panoramic view.
O ak r idge , Or egon
By Scott Pontoni
WARNER MOUNTAIN Experiencing a whiteout in one of central Oregon’s fire lookouts
T
he weather looked promising as we started our trek up to the lookout on a warm and sunny afternoon in March. Eight hours and about eight miles later, we were still trekking. It was dark, cold and the wind whipped the heavily falling snow, but we trudged on, exhausted and lost. The only reassurance came when our headlamps revealed another marker pole navigating us to our destination. Reserving the Warner Mountain Lookout is not easy. The remote fire lookout in Oregon’s Willamette National Forest, south of the town of Oakridge, fills up quickly. Reserving the lookout for weekdays must be done months in advance and reserving it for a weekend is some-
thing few people can enjoy. When a friend of mine finally secured a reservation for a weekend in March, I quickly seized the opportunity. Two friends and I left Corvallis on a Friday with a plan to carry our skis and snowboards up to the lookout that night. A second wave of guys was going to meet us on Saturday, riding up on a newly-purchased, 1980’s Yamaha Exciter snowmobile. The old sled was a result of a last-minute Craigslist search and a college budget. Our goal was to stay in the cabin for the weekend and make it back in time to glimpse at a few textbook pages before returning to school on Monday. South on I-5, past Eugene, we drove through the little town of Oakridge on Highway 58, and then onto gravel
roads before we arrived at the trailhead. We began the hike up an icy road on cross-country skis with downhill skis and a snowboard for the return trip. Following faint snowmobile tracks through the forest, we steadily gained elevation on a trail better suited for skilled cross-country skiers. Our lack of experience made for some frustrating and comical outbursts. The backpacks were and cumbersome and as our frustration boiled over, the profanities flew wild. Just like infants learning to walk, we fell constantly. Darkness fell quickly and as we approached the long ridge leading up to the top, I noticed my friend was missing a ski boot from his backpack. He furiously had to retrace his tracks
his tracks in the darkness to find it. We continued through the blizzard as the ridge opened up into a large, inclined meadow where the tower stood. The sight of the lookout was warmly welcomed at about midnight. After climbing three stories of wooden stairs we found the door barricaded shut. Apparently it had been broken open in the weeks prior to our arrival. A note on the door suggested the window as an alternative entrance and we willingly complied. The 14-foot by 14foot enclosure housed a table, chairs,
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a propane stove, a full bed and a twoway radio for emergency use. Exhausted, we turned on the little stove for warmth and crashed instantly. The three of us woke early Saturday morning to howling winds and a pure whiteout. Happy to have shelter, we melted snow on the stove for drinking water and broke out some coffee and pastry bread. Listening for the snowmobile, we recapped the long ascent over a warm breakfast and hung our wet clothes up to dry. We dozed off again and it was impos-
sible to know how long we had slept when we woke to nothing but white once more. I kept imagining the faint call of the snowmobile’s engine but each time it was only a false alarm. Waiting for the others, we enjoyed some time messing around on skis, embarking on cold trips to the log outhouse below and enjoying a hearty meal of ramen, freeze dried Santa Fe-style chicken and astronaut banana cream pie. We went to sleep Saturday still expecting a handful of rowdy boys to roll up with an old sled.
The group stays warm up in the lookout while the whiteout continues outside.
Sunday morning was crystal clear and beautiful. It was the first time we were able to see anything from the lookout. The sun shined a violet and yellow light with a bluish cast in the shadows. We were high above a freshly powdered wilderness with morning clouds lingering off in the distance. The stilted cabin — no longer swaying in the wind — featured a wrap-around deck for ultimate visibility of the spectacular view. Ready for our return journey with our packs on, we slid by fresh rab-
bit tracks in the powder, reveling in the beauty of the scenery we missed on the way up. After circling around the ridge, we could just barely see a silhouette of the lookout against the blue sky. We bid farewell to the shelter and continued down through the snowy forest toward the car. The snowmobile crew never made it up. The heavy snow quickly overwhelmed the Exciter’s old treads, forcing the guys to cautiously turn back and head home. After that trip, someone lost the keys to the snow-
mobile, making the Warner Mountain attempt the last time it would run. I have since been back to the lookout. The climb was equally relentless and draining, but the fruits of our labor were delicious once again. It’s a calorie-burning, character-building, relationship-testing climb and well worth it. Though this winter trip may not be suited for the faint-of-heart, with an early start, the challenging trek to the Warner Mountain Lookout promises incredible rewards.
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IN T E RN AT ION A L
The backpackers set up camp at the base of the Cordillera del Paine, Chile, after a long day of hiking.
PATA G ONI A , A RGE N T IN A
P h o t o s a n d S t o r y b y Teja K r i t ik a
AT THE END OF THE EARTH
The search for tranquility in Patagonia, Argentina
E
xploring the mountains of Patagonia had always been a childhood dream of mine. As a kid, I would marvel at pictures and videos of the vast, snowcapped mountain ranges, glacial lakes and stormy seas. Upon landing in Ushuaia, Argentina’s southernmost city, I knew I had made it to where I needed to be. After years of imagining what it would be like and months of
planning, I had arrived in Patagonia. I fantasized about the images and stories of explorers and outdoor enthusiasts in Patagonia for my whole life. All of those snowboarding, surfing and climbing videos I obsessed over had finally been put into context upon arrival in Argentine Patagonia. Granite peaks rose out of the landscape like towering giants and among them sat lakes of the most striking
turquoise. To the southeastern side of the Andes Mountains extends a glacier reaching far into the mountains of Chile. Nearly inconceivable, the shear volume of ice revealed how vast glaciers have carved these mountains. Torres del Paine National Park, in the Southern Patagonian region of Chile, was my first and only planned destination after landing in Ushuaia. For a breathtaking five days, our
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group, which included a few close friends, backpacked over 55 miles through the park’s stunning landscapes. We hiked on a trail known as “The W Trail” for its distinctive, curved shape leading through the mountains. While our experiences in this region were remarkable, we were unable to find the wildness we had come to Patagonia to discover. Despite the iconic reputation of Torres del Paine, we could not experience any extreme isolation or tranquility as the
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park had a populated and developed feel. We encountered groups of people, structures and camping facilities at nearly every turn. The national park is a place where backpackers of all different levels can go with accommodations ranging from yurts and served meals to tents and cooking fires. It all felt comfortable, which was not what I had come to Patagonia to feel. Hungry for a more rugged Patagonian adventure and a desire to encounter the true nature of this
place, we crossed the boarder back into Argentina and, upon recommendation from a local, found our way to a more remote part of Patagonia. After four plane rides, accounting for more than 24 hours, and seven bus trips, accounting for more then 46 hours, we found ourselves in El Chalten. This mountain village—about one-third of the way up Argentine Patagonia and 280 miles north of Los Torres del Paine—provided an experience void of the con-
The Perito Moreno Glacier, located outside of El Calafate, Argentina, humbles visitors with its shear mass.
straints of check in dates, time limits, trails and campsites. With the gear packed and our bodies rested, we set out on a short trip into the Cerro Fitz Roy Mountains. In the wilderness outside of El Chalten, we were able to fully immerse ourselves without a destination or limits. The trek out of El Chalten included a long, off-trail hike up a steep mountain face that led us to a beautiful glacial lake at the base of the magnificent snowcapped peak of Fitz
Roy. We spent several days among the mountains, learning from each other and ourselves as we explored new terrain and swam in icy lakes. Our endurance was tested on the third day when we were caught in one of Patagonia’s frequent mountain storms. We spent a sleepless night listening to the howling wind and relentless rain from inside our leaking tent. We woke up the next morning, soaked and short a few belongings the storm had carried away. Patagonia has something for any-
one looking to enjoy the outdoors regardless of previous experience or physical strength. For me, it represents a place separate from modern society and development. I was able to discover the full power of Patagonia and all of its elements—liberated and humbled by the terrain and weather. There is a great deal of value in embarking on an adventure without a plan and with a willingness to learn along the way, going deep into the mountains where few others have been before.
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At the end of the trek down from El Fitz Roy, just outside of El Chalten, a magnificent rainbow joins the stunning view.
Tr a i l o f Tr a d i t i o n Story and photos by Casey Minter
A film photographer’s journey on the Tahoe Rim Trail I haphazardly slap a mosquito perched on my dirty arm. The stings have become less of a nuisance and more of a constant reality. Its crushed body mixes with my ruby red blood, adding to the layer of grime that has collected on my skin after only three days away from a shower. Dirty is the first word that comes to my mind when describing backpacking. The weight of a 70-liter, grey Osprey backpack pulls me backward, its burden in dissonance with a unidirectional desire to get to another point on a point-filled map. My sore shoulders shudder as I pull that map from a pocket in my pack and survey the miles we’ve covered. The four of us departed from Reno, Nevada early in the morning of our first day, putting in at the northernmost entry point on the Tahoe Rim Trail, a 165-mile loop around Lake Tahoe. The trail weaves through a sprawling wilderness area on the border of California and Nevada and extends between two towering mountain ranges — the Sierra Nevada and the Carson Range. Numbers and colors on a map did little justice to the view from our vantage point on Barker Pass: Tahoe glistened like lapis through the tree-lined mountaintops. An imaginary line, conceived by humans yet ignored by nature, separated
the two states, and the Desolation Wilderness beckoned ahead of us. Our initial plan was to hike the western half of the trail, pulling out at Echo Lake after about 90 miles. We gave ourselves five days for this, which meant we’d only have to hike about 18 miles a day. Compared to our previous hikes, that wasn’t bad. Or at least I thought. You see, in the end, this isn’t simply a story about a summer backpacking trip. It’s a story of tradition. James Church, the son of two
Our tradition maintained a necessary caveat: we would welcome anyone along our expeditions. The two tepid tag-alongs this year were good friends of ours as well, but perhaps a little less hardened to the trail. After our third day, as we reached Barker Pass at a grueling pace, their wills were faltering and their bodies were broken. The first day out, one had bled through his two t-shirts, his hips were chafed deeply and we were running low on the gauze I foolishly didn’t think we’d need. He is a stoic man, quiet and witty. I had never seen him complain before this hike, in three years of living with him. He took the pain in silence but I could feel every wince as the weight on his back bounced, rubbing his bloody skin raw. There was little we could do except keep moving forward. A rest would help, and Barker Pass offered us this respite. The droning bugs, stragglers from the swarm, elicit a random swat from each of us every few seconds. The only sounds piercing our solace are buzzes, slaps and an occasional grumbled, “Shit!” A cool, gusting wind tugs at the map in my hands. The wind and the high altitude keep the bugs from continuing their feast. After our last few miles, it’s all we can ask for. We had sprinted through the
“ We gave ourselves five days, which meant we’d only have 18 miles a day. Compared to our previous hikes, that wasn’t bad. Or at least I thought. ”
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salt-of-the-earth rural Nevadan ranchers and a good friend of mine since before I have memory, had been with me on hikes like this every summer for the past six years. He stood by me now, and I knew he’d be standing with me on a new trail with a new group the following summer and beyond. We had hiked over 25 miles a day in higher elevations with more ascents and descents than this trail had, and we’d done it in harsher weather with even less preparation. To me, 18 miles a day seemed like a moderate pace.
James Ochsner looks out across the Desolation Wilderness, anticipating the many miles ahead.
last stretch of trail. The low-lying lakes were infested with enough mosquitoes to bring down a horse, and they had appreciated four hotand-ready meals walking through their territory. The bugs would not abate, and they surrounded us like a river flows around a stubborn rock. Unlike that flowing river, their combined caresses were neither cold nor calming; the bites were annoying, and en masse, enraging. We were forced to stop once during our sprint; running low on water, we needed to filter and fill our Nalgenes. My
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friend’s face was covered within seconds of leaning down to the mountain stream to pump. From forehead to chin, every exposed inch was caked in biting bugs, a writhing mass of beating wings and thirsty proboscises. Sitting in the wind on top of Barker Pass, he picks a few of their desiccated carcasses out of his unkempt beard, flicking them off the cliff face in an act of futile defiance. Hiking, and backpacking specifically, is a spectrum sport. It has high and lows, dismal valleys and glorious peaks. A successful trip, by definition, has to
have both moments of hardship and moments of sublimity. That’s why I travel hundreds of miles away from civilization, away from computers, online shopping and easy living. It’s a liberating way to rediscover how to live without that technological crutch. I refused to bring along my DSLR camera for this same reason. Usually my constant companion on any outing into the natural world, the photographer in me was not about to spend a week in the wild without documentation. Resting at my hip was a Canon AE-1 Program SLR camera with a
Overlooking Lake Tahoe, James Church (right) and William Bourget take a short water break before continuing the hike.
with a 28mm f/2.8 lens and 32 empty frames on a black and white roll of film. Built in 1981, it was the most complex piece of technology we packed. I contemplated my surroundings, wondering if the scene was worth exposing and immortalizing. The infested swamp that flanked our current lookout had been a dismal low along that spectrum, but that moment resting at Barker Pass, with a hellacious struggle still fatiguing our bodies and minds, was a high well worth the fight. I pulled the camera’s eyepiece up to my dusty face and went
through a well-practiced routine. Focus, compose, meter, inhale and click. The shutter opened and closed with a delightfully mechanical sound, freezing the scene in front of me: a solitary figure looking out across a rolling sea of mountains and trees, his wide brim cowboy hat peeking around the frame of his now monochrome backpack. From a digital photographer’s perspective, film can be daunting. When I first began making images in 2011, film photography had been effectively dead for years. By the time I picked up my first DSLR, film was an antiquity re-
served for hipsters and outlier artists. But there are hidden benefits of using this seemingly anachronistic technology that were starkly apparent while backpacking. Film cameras don’t require charged batteries, more effectively resist the elements and can pack easily without fear of damaging sensitive electronics. They are mechanical in nature and less demanding than their electronic successors. The constraints of film photography allow only finite opportunities. It forces me to adopt an attention to detail that isn’t as present
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when I use digital. A photographer should always be paying attention to the contents of the frame, but with digital it is easy to get carried away. You can blast off 500 shots over the course of an hour and not have to worry much about composing each one. With film, I check, double-check and triple-check every aspect of the image I am about to make. Transitioning from digital to film (instead of the other way around) has improved my photography. My options are not endless, as with digital; I only have 32 unexposed frames of film, all of which have the potential to become a compelling image or just another picture lost among the modern wave of Snaps, hashtags and selfies. This restraint allows me to truly appreciate when a scene calls for capture, like the panorama that greeted
us upon our ascent to Barker Pass. Stretched out in front of us is the Desolation Wilderness, an oddly foreboding name for such a beautiful place. A sea of sugar pines with scatterings of gnarled pinions high on mountains frosted with stalwart summer snow. Nestled in the Sierra Nevada mountain range, this area
tends beyond our tired feet, zigzagging out of sight and reappearing as it rises along a hazy hillside in the distance. It is the only visible implication that human beings had visited this wilderness before us. Spending the night here required a permit, an expense many backpackers try to avoid. Of course, the four of us hadn’t known we needed the permit until the night before we left Reno. A morning full of frantic phone calls and quick credit card transactions left us with the appropriate papers and a stark reminder of how, despite the tradition we had begun six years ago, we were still terrible at remembering all the details. Tradition had started this trip, and the people resting next to me defined that word well. James and I had begun our tradition along the Ruby Crest Trail, a
“It was the only visible implication that human beings had visited this wilderness before us.” is a well-preserved hiker’s paradise because the water is plentiful and the views are magnificent. Lakes dot the landscape, their round, pale blue heads shimmering in the sunlight from behind the trees’ green screen. This is where we had been hiking to and, even from a distance, we could tell the bugs, blisters and bandages were all worthwhile. A thin trail ex-
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45-mile hike that spanned the length of the Ruby Mountains, a range in northeastern Nevada. Despite our utter lack of knowledge and preparation, it was a stunning trip. I vividly remember a moment where, as I sat on a peak recuperating and looking out across my home state, I knew that this was not a singular experience. It was something I wanted to continue enjoying until my body could no longer keep up with my spirit. That first trip was the beginning of our tradition. Every year since then it has changed — different people and different places — but the idea remains the same. We haven’t learned all that much as the recurring lack of preparation on this sixth trip illustrates. Our bodies keep getting slower and fatter, and our dreams more wild yet further away, but as long as we spend some time outside and get the chance to sleep under the stars, we are happy. Despite the distance between James and me, and the time between our meetings, this yearly outing keeps us close.
That is the power of tradition. Despite what many of us believe, our best friends — those people we simply can’t function without — will drift away from us over time. This isn’t pessimism, it’s just a reality. Along come careers, families, children, old age and decrepit memories, and those cherished relationships change. Maintaining traditions may not prevent that inevitable transformation, but I can hope it will make these relationships change in a positive way. Having this single week every summer gives me a happy certainty to look forward to. It’s a mutual contract written to combat the abrading march of time. As important as this tradition has become in keeping memories alive, I went with the idea of a more tangible takeaway from the trip along the Tahoe Rim Trail. This is why a camera full of film can mean so much, and although our trip went off course a bit — the winged-devils, mosquitos, forced us to pull out a day early — the images I have will always re-
mind me of the necessity of tradition, which marries dirt, pain, exertion and solitude with love, laughter, catharsis and lifelong friendship. With our minds in different places — past adventures, present pains, future endeavors — the four of us simultaneously rise and put our packs on, wincing as the familiar weight settles on our varied aches. I sip from my Camelbak, wetting my dry tongue and spitting on a bloodstain and a bug. Tan skin revealed underneath the layer of grime reminds me of the many hours I’ve spent under the sun. The map folds itself with the help of the wind and my tired, calloused hands and I place it back in the safety of my pack. Six more miles and plenty of sunlight. The silence of respite is quickly broken by swapped stories and whistled tunes as we get back into the simple rhythm of one foot placed in front of the other. Steadfast and smiling, we continue down the trail.
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ICE CAVES
FIELD NOTES
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Camera Settings
he sun slowly melts a snow cave in the Three Sisters Wilderness in central Oregon. When Will Saunders stumbled upon the cave in August 2014, the roof contours were shaped
by hundreds of dropping points caused by the late summer heat.
Camera Canon EOS 5D Mark III Lens EF 16-35 mm f/2.8
As the group of backpackers stopped to rest their legs, wind funneled down the icy tunnel to cool them
Shutter Speed
off. Despite the danger of collapse, especially this
1/40 sec
late in the season, Saunders crouched down inside to capture this image.
Aperture f/7.1
Will Saunders is an outdoor adventure and travel photographer from Sisters, Oregon.
ISO 1000
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