Fresh Guac and Reflections

Several days of lounging by the pool, reading Desert Solitaire, using my limited Spanish with the locals, and shopping in the supermarket, La Comer, had gone by when my family and I were lucky enough to have a Mexican woman and her daughter come and cook for us. 

We were staying in a house raised up on the hills of Puerto Los Cabos overlooking the most southern part of the Gulf of California. We knew Lulu through a mutual friend. She cooks often for the houses in our neighborhood and loves to feed her traditional cuisine to hungry American tourists. I was relaxing by the poolside, reading about the intense heat of the Utahn desert, when Lulu and her daughter knocked on our door—an hour early. 

She spoke no english. My mom quickly recruited me to translate, and I led her to the kitchen where she said dinner would be ready in an hour. We said we wanted traditional Mexican. And we got it.

Lulu cooked up little steak burritos, fresh guacamole and salsa mexicana (essentially pico de gallo), chicken enchiladas with mole, steak and chorizo, and stuffed peppers wrapped in bacon. It was a feast! I have always loved Mexican food; I probably eat way too much guacamole. But this was a whole new type of Mexican. American tex-mex can come pretty close, but the cheese, avocados, peppers, chorizo and tortillas are never quite the same. 

Lulu and her daughter went to clean up the kitchen by themselves, even though I asked several times if they needed help. "No, no! Let us pamper you!" she said in quick Spanish. I passed by my family sitting on the patio, enjoying the view of the sun sinking behind the Sierra de la Laguna mountains and an incredible moonrise. I sat down with them for a few minutes, thinking that I would never be able to quite capture the moon in a photograph. 

But eventually I gave in and sprinted to my room to grab my camera and tripod. I set up by the pool, noticing the moon's reflection on the water, a unique little frame for the city lights. Somehow I managed to make it work. It was only a waxing crescent moon, but I decided to increase my ISO and lengthen my shutter speed in order to get a glowing effect of its full shape. 

With a belly full of my favorite guacamole so far from our trip, I took shot after shot of the sinking sun and rising moon. 

Life in Baja

My family and I fell in love with the desert lands of Baja California Sur, Mexico when I was eight. Since then, we've traveled to the touristy, crowded beaches of Cabo San Lucas several times, but we wanted to make this family vacation a little different. We're staying in a residential area in San José, a town 45 minutes east of Cabo, and about half as touristy. 

I was especially excited for this trip in the hopes that I'd learn a little more about the true Mexican culture, instead of sun-bathing in what was basically an American sanctuary city. So far, I've done my best to speak as much Spanish as possible, ask the natives plenty of questions and soak up the vibrant Mexican culture. 

I've discovered that the best word to describe life for a Mexican citizen in this little town in Baja Sur— is routine.

Each morning, the sun rises up over the clear horizon of the ocean, shining a soft coral light over the desert hills. Workers crowd old school buses and are driven to their construction sites, where they begin to patter away at the foundations of a house (that will most likely be bought by an American). Children are guided to Catholic school, dressed in plaid and collared shirts. Street vendors try their best to encourage female tourists into their stores. Workers in the supermarket, La Comer, slice low-sodium lunchmeat for customers, and laugh at the tourists when they put their little knowledge of Spanish to work and try to order the same thing. 

As the day heats up over the arid desert, dust and smog become visible over the mountains to the West, but the ocean remains clear, only with a few whitecaps every now and then. Workers find shade under the midday sun for a lunch break, with a meal most likely consisting of a quesadilla and fresh guacamole. As the sun finally goes down and after a long day of sweat and dust, the workers sit on the street and wait for the bus or their buddy to pick them up. Cows roam through the roundabouts. Life starts to quiet down. Everyone is relieved that the sun is no longer beating down on their backs. It eventually sets behind the western mountains, casting a new coral lighting over the ocean and bringing the bugambilia flowers to life. 

This is every day for a Mexican. But they're happy. Far happier than an American worker ever seems. In Mexico, there is appreciation for the little things in life. They appreciate that they get to watch a stunner sunset everyday. There is never a cloud in the sky. The sun will always come up tomorrow. There will always be more houses to build. There will always be more tourists to sell to. And there will always be fresh guacamole. 

Strangers

I've never been one to be nervous for anything. Not for tests, competitions, or social events. I have been on plenty of trips where I knew no one. I have travelled across the globe with strangers. I have backpacked to hot springs with strangers. I had made it through my first semester of college. But for some reason, I was nervous from the beginning about my upcoming trip to Canyonlands with the CU Hiking Club. 

It may have been partly due to the fact that i-70 had been a mess the night before we left and that there were blizzard-like conditions on the front range. Or it may have been due to the weather forecast, with temperatures of 15 degrees at night, and that I had never experienced winter camping. 

But now I realize that I was nervous because I was driving to another state with nine strangers. We were going to be completely on our own and unreachable. 

On the first night at camp (the COLD night), everyone was sitting around the campfire, talking, getting to know each other. I hung back with my camera and starting shooting star photos. This is where the above photo with the red glow of the fire comes into this story. I was asked what I was doing several times and eventually resorted back to the circle and remained quiet. I was even called out for being quiet. But of course, that didn't last long.

It's amazing how you become completely comfortable after spending three days with strangers. It's amazing how fast humans can find ways to relate to and care about one another. Like I said, I have experienced this before, where I miss my new friends after a great trip. But nothing has ever come close to this. 

Our trip leaders told us that we were a "remarkable group" of campers, ready for anything and willing to go the extra mile in the dark. And now, more than a week later, I look back at photos of us all together and can't help but smile. I don't know if we'll all come together again, but we'll always remain in each other's memory, out amongst alien-looking rocks, winding through the Needles, laughing under the stars.

Desert Silence

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

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

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

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

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

Not Just a Hole in the Ground

After the long drive over the Rockies and into Utah, only half of our group had made it into Moab, (we weren't sure if the others were so far behind due to an extremely old vehicle, slow driver or excessive bathroom breaks). To kill some time, we made a stop in the Island in the Sky district of Canyonlands, the most northern part. 

We crossed many free range grates and probably took the sharp turns a little too fast, but all of us were amazed at the storm that was rolling in over the La Sal Mountains and the many canyons. 

I had only been to Canyonlands once before, several years ago with my mom and we visited this same section of the park. Then, I honestly wasn't too impressed. But after becoming much more involved in outdoor recreation and beginning to appreciate the wilderness more, especially canyons and desert settings after my 8-day rafting experience through the grandest canyon on the planet, I was definitely more intrigued by the seemingly massive holes in the ground.

The weather probably added to the view, with the dark clouds casting an ambiance over the park while the mountains stuck out underneath blue skies. But everything just felt bigger. I hadn't realized the enormity of this section of the park before. It almost looked fake, like a painting, or as if it were a mirage and wasn't really there. We could see a tiny car driving on the White Rim Road, several miles below us, adding scale to a mind-boggling perception of size. 

I think my expressions as we approached several viewpoints was just as stunned as the others. Our trip leader even said, "I love taking people in here for the first time. I love watching their facial expressions. It's so amazing driving through the park, on top of the plateau, and not being able to see anything until you find yourself standing on the edge of a cliff."

Rocks are Rad

After a long week of school and fresh snow in Boulder, I was so grateful to be a part of the small group of CU Hiking Clubbers that drove to newly protected Bear Ears National Monument in Moab, UT for a much-needed weekend escape. This will be the first of several stories from our three-day adventure.

We somehow managed to sleep through the 15-degree Friday night and were ready for our longest day of hiking. We were stoked to be out in the desert. The plan was to explore much of the Needles District in Canyonlands, including the Druid Arch and through Chesler Park into "the Joint" section. All the trails made their way through red sandstone canyons and the paths were surrounded by unique biological soil crust. 

The first half of our journey was the 5.5 mile trek to Druid Arch. I have seen plenty of incredible arches while exploring Arches NP, but none of them came close to the enormity of Druid Arch. After plenty of conversations with new friends, and a final scramble up a ladder and several boulders, we came to the arch's viewpoint and all of us stood still in shock. Photos will never do it justice. 

The arch is isolated at the end of Elephant Canyon and is 450 feet tall. I cannot describe the curiosity and wonder that my nine new friends and I were feeling as we reached our first destination. I did my best to line up the mid-day sun behind the rock formation and used a slower shutter speed to add the sun flare, which was an attempt to make this image slightly less-stereotypical of a proud hiker.

We continued to snap photos, stand heroically on ledges and stare at the landscape before continuing on through the desert towards Chesler Park.

Not so Gross

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

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

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

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

Venture Everywhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hike to the Sky

So far, the transition from actually living in the mountains to simply looking at them has been easy. But every now and then, I find myself longing to escape to the wilderness and be among the Rocky Mountains.

During the record-setting heat in November, I was not only getting antsy for nature, but for colder weather as well. Luckily, the CU Hiking Club was planning a day hike to Sky Pond in Rocky Mountain National Park.

After sleeping through my alarm and almost missing the departure, a group of 9 strangers and I made it to the trailhead and began our trek. I was immediately relieved to be back at a higher elevation and in the silence of the woods. The 9-mile hike never ceased to amaze me; we passed two waterfalls and two lakes along the way. 

I forgot my microspikes, but still somehow managed to make it up the snow-packed trail to the isolated pond at 10,900 feet. I had seen several high-alpine lakes before, but none of them even came close to this frozen wonder. 

The Pond was almost entirely surrounded by Patagonia-shaped peaks and lightly covered in ice and snow. It was a cloudy day, only adding to the lure and mysteriousness of the seclusion. I began exploring the area, taking shots all around the Pond's perimeter.

There was a weird feeling between my fellow hikers and I while leaving this little slice of heaven. We continued our journey back to lower elevation, back down the mountain and into civilization.  

Bear Claw

Some of my earliest memories are from making the hour long commute from Evergreen, Colorado to Winter Park and driving over Berthoud Pass. The vision of the peak with the iconic bear-claw-looking inscription is forever lamented in my recollection. But every time I drive over the pass, I swear that the Continental Divide looks bigger and even more breathtaking. 

As I was driving back over the pass after a day of skiing, I pulled off the road several times trying to find a perfect setup to shoot the sunset that was beginning to take its shape. Soon an incredible ambient coral light illuminated the tops of the eastern peaks, while a glowing purple sat looming in the base of the valley, welcoming darkness. 

I've never seen such candescent lighting on Berthoud before. I passed an estimated five tourists on the side of the road taking pictures on their iPhones, a record number of viewers for the pass. The light began to disappear quickly, so I set up my tripod and attempted to angle my camera to best absorb light of all sorts. 

I didn't even notice the subtle cloud surrounding the bear claw until I pulled the image up on my computer later that night. 

Frozen Fingers

While there may have been ten inches of fresh powder in Winter Park, CO, I decided to make the hour commute to my home ski resort in search of a photo instead of epic skiing. 

After a morning of complications with running errands for my family, car issues, traffic, and a forgotten ski pass, and with a temperature of -5 degrees, I didn't make it to the chairlift until almost 2:30. With the lifts closing in little over an hour, I rushed over to the Mary Jane side for the best views of the Bear Claw peak, and the valley as daylight ran out. 

I got a few decent photos while skiing, but wasn't pleased. I stopped about 5 times on Berthoud Pass during my drive home. Each time I stepped out of the car into the subzero temperatures, my fingers literally froze pressing the buttons on my camera. I was seriously surprised that the battery didn't accept defeat under the cold. 

At about my third stop, it was getting dark enough to begin shooting car trails. I parked my car, left the heater running, and climbed up a 10-foot snowbank on the first major curve of the Pass. As I began shooting, some guy in a pickup truck shouted out the passenger window at me, asking how the photos were turning out. 

"Great but I can't feel my hands!"

My first attempt failed, so I kept driving, getting more and more frustrated as I got closer to the end of the pass. I took a gamble and decided to try the last turn, or "Big Bend". Again, climbing up the side of a snowbank and switching to my wide-angle lens, I finally found what I was looking for. A scene interesting enough for car trails, dark enough lighting, and yet still enough light to illuminate the mountain in the background with a long exposure. 

The first degree frost bite was worth it. 

This is What I Live For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was meant to stand on edges and cliffs. 

I was meant to be in constant search of beauty. 

I was meant to press the shutter. 

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