Stories from The Outside
Last Chance to Dance Trance (Perhaps)
It has taken me quite some time to get around writing this post. The title is a nod to track 4 of Medeski, Martin and Wood’s album Friday Afternoon in the Universe. Chris Wood’s solo on the intro is superb. Here’s a Spotify link:
In this life where I am an Adventure Photographer (yes, capitalized), I must logically go on adventures and take photographs. So it seems, anyhow. Portfolio building and such, but also because it’s sort of my reason for existing. Perhaps.
For much of the New England snow riding community, a trip to Mt. Washington, and specifically Tuckerman Ravine, marks the end of the effective winter season. The exact date of this party tends be something of a moving target. Prime time is usually between mid April and mid March. The famously wild weather takes a breath, temperatures moderate, avalanche danger drops and the crowds turn out.
I generally prefer to avoid crowds , but unfortunately, most of my more experienced backcountry friends have moved on in some manner, and mid-winter Mount Washington is not a wise objective to take on alone (yes, some do, and some don’t come home). The spring party it is, then. On a more positive note, the camping is easier, safety assessment more straight forward and I have a more diverse selection of images to capture. So, let’s get on with it.
My trip spanned the weekend of April 22-23, beginning with a very early drive from Connecticut on Friday morning. I managed to be at the trail head and in motion by about 11:00 am. Not bad, all things considered.
I allowed myself some time to shoot a few frames on the hike up, taking about two hours to make it to the ravine proper. Photographically speaking, this is the part that I struggle with the most. I just want to get on to shooting THE THING, whatever it may be, but telling the story (visually, of course) is every bit as important as bagging that one perfect image.
People are often astonished by the heavily lopsided ratio of time spent climbing vs. descending, but I rather enjoy having so much space to roam around inside my own head. Expect another 30-45 minutes, depending on your selected route and fitness, to get to the top of the bowl. Left gully was my choice.
The weather was absolutely perfect, the snow soft and forgiving. Unfortunately, my shooting was uninspired and my riding clumsy. Severe sleep deprivation followed by intense physical exertion does not a sharp Taylor make. Once up and once down was all that I had in me that day. Despite a rather useless amount of self judgement, just getting out, on the road and in the mountains felt great.
2015 and 2016 absolutely sucked for a number of reasons. I’m not going to go into exactly why, but I full on ejected from normal life at the beginning of 2017. Some concerned folks assumed that I was going to go try to “find myself”. That sort of thing always struck me as a bunch of narcissistic naval gazing. I was really just looking to take a break and have a bit of an adventure. I pulled the classic sell/discard material possessions, move into the van, roam the earth routine. If I’m to be honest, that is more just an act of pure hedonism, in a strange sense.
I took the picture below on my birthday weekend (early June). Around that time, it was starting to sink in that I’d have to return to some kind of normal life in the near future, but my sense of normal had all but died.
I suppose some folks are able to just gleefully jump back into the mix like nothing ever happened, and to some extent, I almost envy them. However many long term travelers, thru-hikers and the like report a fairly substantial and lasting shift in thinking and being. For those exiting the corporate world, the transition is especially sharp. Going back seems nearly impossible, and the old-normal barely makes sense at a basic, logical level. I recently read one traveler’s account, likening the experience to signing up for permanent societal maladjustment. That’s a wee bit harsh, but not entirely off.
Despite the immense gravitational force pulling me elsewhere, a year and a bit later, I crash landed right back where I started. NOTHING had changed. Only me. The trick now, is to try to live life in the shoes of some other guy who had more or less vaporized on a mountain top.
Sunday’s effort began when I woke up in the back of my car around 4:15 am, having made a rather poorly conceived plan to catch sunrise from the trail somewhere. All things take longer than intended, and I made it to the trail head about an hour later. A slightly clearer head and some gorgeous morning light yielded a much more satisfying day.
Right Gully proved to be a worthy morning objective while the ravine was still quiet and relatively empty.
My legs were mostly trash and I rode with very little grace, but the snow was once again perfect and the ever enthusiastic crowd beginning to build.
Shortly thereafter, the sun was eaten by a persistent, low hanging cloud. Generally feeling my mojo again, on both sides of the lens, I managed a decent batch of texture-centric b&w images and an encore run down Hillman’s Highway.
Bagging a respectable amount of vertical on snow and a few decent images is a nice treat, but feeling reconnected with the version of myself that I strive to be was the most significant part of this experience. With heavy rain in the Sunday weather forecast, that was certainly my last dance for the winter. Regardless, but I opted to spend a second night at the Dolly Copp campground, curled up in the back of my rusty little car, just because it felt so good to be out and away. A good, hot meal, and warm bed are nice. Open road, big mountains, uncertainty and possibility keep drawing me back out.
And I guess this is about where the narratives collide.
Moody skies and soggy weather on the four hour drive home provided perfect atmosphere to explore thoughts on this. As much as I don’t always look forward to planting myself in front of the desk on Monday morning, a life of endless roaming, and permanent social detachment is not the correct path for me either. With a raft of changes and challenges on the horizon (including a big one called “parenthood”), the obvious answer is to seek balance. It sounds a bit corny when spoken aloud, and I believe that’s because it is. A better solution is to pursue a sense of momentum. Where am I now? Where am I going? Am I closer today than I was yesterday? If you’ll allow me to be an engineer about it for a second (because I am) , static equilibrium does not lead to change or action, by definition. Last week, I turned 42 and I’m not quite sure where I’m going, but I think I’m another year closer to it.
I may have once again lost the thread with this post, so it’s probably a good time to wrap it up. Here’s that one, good, trip defining image:
Huffy and Flip Flops
Gear does not matter. But also, it does.
In a previous iteration of my life, I was an avid mountain bike racer. I chased the local series calendar. Outside of my day job, it was the major focus of my life. I was what one might call serious (Wait. Hold up. Amateur bicycle racing is a game. The stakes are non-existent. Me and Taylor-Past are having an ongoing conversation about what all of this actually even meant. SERIOUS. Maybe I’ll write about that someday). I had a buddy with whom I occasionally raced. We shall call him Chuck. Chuck was a fit guy, and could reasonably handle himself on a bike. Chuck is a bit older than me. He’s been there and done that. Chuck once told me a story from back in his earlier, fitter yet, and more competitive years, of being smoked by some kid on a Huffy. Wearing flip flops. Let me just say that all bikes are good bikes. If it is what you can afford, gets you to where you are going and makes you smile, you have won the game. That’s it. However, for those of us who are serious (there’s that word again), it is considerably less likely to see certain bikes at the start line of certain races due to certain practical limitations, but also because we are serious (we have some unpacking to do). But also, flip flops? Nah. I like my toes. What’s fun, and I suspect this is particularly true in mountain biking, is that if you keep at it long enough, the Huffy and Flip Flops phenomenon is fairly common. My own personal experience involved some shaggy dude wearing tattered Chuck Taylors, on a geriatric loaner bike of who-knows-what brand. I distinctly recall feeling good about myself while standing on the start line astride my very fancy bike, wearing my snazzy team kit. I distinctly remember watching that shaggy dude slowly pull away from me, just a fraction of a second at a time, just a hair cleaner through each corner and rock garden.
Gear does not matter. But also, it does.
Photography is not mountain biking. Mountain biking is not photography. But maybe there is a lesson that can be extrapolated. First, let’s talk about my Rat Rod Photo Kit. This is the gear that I primarily shoot with.
The Body:
I found this Canon 7D Mk I on Craigslist for $250. It is OLD. Canon stopped producing this camera in 2014. The maximum resolution is 18 MP, and I don’t currently need any more than that. There is no in-body stabilization, so I have to pay a little more attention at low shutter speeds. There’s a bit of noise at very high ISO, but I can compensate with wider aperture in low light. It is weather sealed. It is durable. It has great battery life. It is easy and intuitive to use. If I break it, lose it, drive away with it sitting on the roof of my car, or it just plain stops working, I will be annoyed. But I will not cry. I paid $250 for this decade old cinder block of a semi-pro camera. I can find another just like it with very little effort and for very little money.
The Short Lens:
This is a Tamron 17-50mm F2.8 lens. I bought it used for about $100. This lens does not have image stabilization, but there exists a version that does (the internet reviews suggest the non-stabilized lens has better image quality). It works well and does exactly what I need it to. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The Long Lens:
This is a Canon 55-250mm F4.0-5.6 lens. Image stabilized. It came with the camera body. $0.00. The front of the housing is slightly damaged, causing the lens cap to fall off unless it is positioned just so. But it works. I will replace it when it has turned to dust.
The Bag:
I bought this bag new. It’s a Think Tank Digital Holster 20, purchased new for about $75. I sweated every penny, but it was worth it. I’ve threaded a piece of 2” webbing with a squeeze-clip-buckle ($0.00 from my box of random sewing project stuff) through the belt loop. I can comfortably wear this setup along with whatever other backpack I choose. If/when I am finished shooting for the day, the entire holster can be strapped to the outside of or stuffed inside the main pack. In the context of on-the-go outdoor/adventure photography, all backpacks are now Photo-Backpacks.
The Tripod:
I purchased this tripod back in 2016 when I was frantically preparing to run away from real life. It has been to Alaska. It has been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It is a stable place to put one’s camera. I paid about $30 for this Hakuba T3500. I would love it if one of the $200-$500 professional models (for the serious photographer) would magically appear before me, but for now, buying one is completely unjustifiable.
So that’s it. I shoot on about $450 worth of gear. For counterpoint here’s Canon’s mirrorless EOS R body, on sale at B&H for just $1400. Just the body.
Gear does not matter. But also, it does.
Back then, my race bike was a custom built Sinister. It was a very nice bike, not that it mattered. Mr. Huffy and Flip Flops simply rode a better race than I did. There were places where I would make up ground, but then he’d dance around another slick corner, leaving me just little further behind. On a given course, no two riders are equal, and everyone sets up their machine a little differently according to their own strengths, weaknesses, limitations and personal preference. Understanding that framework and working harmoniously with one’s machine is key.
In context of making images, no one cares what body, lens, settings or modes you use, so long as the end product is worth looking at. Know your strengths and leverage them. Know your weaknesses and work on them. As for the device itself, greatest value will be realized by intimately knowing its abilities and limitations. Work within that human and mechanical framework. Make something beautiful. That’s it. That’s the whole entire game.
Gear matters. But also, it doesn’t.
If you must buy more stuff, consider buying used, and consider supporting your local shop.
Apropos of nothing, here’s a recent shot of my friend J., trying hard not to be shredded by the gnar.
Enter the Dirtwagen
At the end of 2016, I sold most of my stuff, put the rest into storage, moved into my minivan, pulled chocks and took off. Here’s my old van, Spacepod
Spacepod was a 2010 Toyota Sienna AWD. My “build” consisted of a folding cot from the big-box sporting goods store, some old milk crates for storage and a roof box. Spacepod and I enjoyed an all-too-brief eleven months and 30,000 miles together. From Connecticut to southern California to Alaska and back, with plenty of stops and adventures in between.
I’ve never really been much for social media, so I can’t comment much on the origins, but in the background, some strange phenomenon called #Vanlife was brewing, as a sort of polished counterpoint to the slightly more established idea of “overlanding”. It seemed that one needed various combinations of locking differentials, mud tires, granite countertops and reclaimed wood interior to post up at an established campground.
Who knew!
Subtle shade-throwing aside, if one intends to either traverse many miles of difficult terrain unsupported, or spend an extended period of time traveling in a sustainable amount of comfort, some reasonable preparation is needed. Ultimately, that preparation will be payed for in either time and experience, or hard cash.
My time away from so-called reality was cut short by my dwindling bank account, but if I am to be honest, I was exhausted. Spacepod was not a long term sustainable option for comfort reasons. Another winter in the mountains, in an unheated van was not something I looked forward to. Coming off the road after nearly a year was an unbelievably harsh experience, but it was the right decision, given my means of travel.
Five years later, trying to pose as a “normal” person, I’m much more stationary, but still have strong, recurring urges to get out and roam. I do not need a quarter-million dollar Sprinter build. I do not need a 4x4 set up to cross the Sahara. I need an inconspicuous, fuel efficient beater that will serve as a hard-sided tent on the weekend, and practical transportation otherwise, all against the backdrop of densely populated, overdeveloped New England.
Enter the Dirtwagen
The Dirtwagen is a 2006 Pontiac Vibe. It is a tired, dirty, overworked (similar to its pilot) hatchback. It features a symphony of clunks and rattles, various rust perforations, a broken radio and a hazy, pitted windscreen. Improvements include Spacepod’s old roof box and gracefully aging snow tires. My interior build consists of some foam pads to approximate a mattress, reflectix window covers, and a single milk crate to carry basic camping gear. It gets the job done.
Dirtwagen is not glamorous. Dirtwagen is not photogenic. Dirtwagen will never be instagram famous. Dirtwagen is just enough,
and nothing more.
Perfect for a few nights out, chasing experiences in far away places.
If I am to be completely honest, I think I may have lost the thread in the process of writing this post. I think it may have had something to do with not getting hung up on money or image when dreaming up an adventure. Perhaps it was just an unsolicited love letter to my junky, little, grey hatchback. Maybe there should be some perfunctory, motivational tagline at the end, like “just get out there”, “don’t overthink it”, or some such business.
Perhaps all of these things are true. Good thing it’s just a blog post.
Long live #Hatchbacklife!
Because no one asked, I’m currently digging David Steca’s (of Only a Roadtrip Away) general philosophy of cobbling together semi-deliberately unsuitable vehicles for ambitious trips. HERE.
Vermont Splitboard Festival
I’m about a week late writing this one, and I’m going to blame it on a certain, slightly sketch, cherry doughnut, purchased at a gas station in Holyoke, MA along with an equally dodgy cup of “highway-coffee” (you know the type). I don’t know what kind of fool would think a cherry flavored doughnut from a gas station would ever be a good idea, but after an hour and a half of white-knuckle driving from Hartford in trash weather, starting at dark ‘o clock, my judgement may have been skewed. A few more hours of white-knuckle driving landed me at the Middlebury Snowbowl, seconds after the parking lot had reached capacity. Clearly, this situation would have been avoided, had I not stopped for that cursed doughnut.
Overflow parking was located a few slushy, slippy miles down the mountain at nearby Middlebury College, where I promptly missed the next shuttle. It was almost 10:30 and rumors of an hour and a half wait circulated amongst the grumbling crowd forming in the parking lot. Stupid dougnut. The nice couple who parked next to me hatched a plan and offered a ride back up the hill. Bill was just going drop Leslie and I at the lodge, but “accidentally” found a few precious inches of space to park his truck in the process.
Thanks Leslie and Bill!
Okay. Back on track. Uphill pass, then event registration. Let’s get at it.
The Vermont Splitboard Festival is the Green Mountain State’s year yearly get together for the region’s self propelled riders, featuring equipment demos, avalanche safety education, guided tours and a well stocked raffle. Here are a few scenes from the expo area at the base .
Of course, the real action was happening out on the mountain.
At about 2:00, the Unlikely Riders hosted their guided tour.
Unlikely Riders is a Vermont non-profit focused on encouraging BIPOC participation in snow sports. Their projects include getting donated gear to those in need, community ski/ride days, education and instruction. You can find out more about them HERE.
Several tours, and a few hastily eaten pb&j sandwiches later (chased with some beef jerky and a couple of Pop Tarts), late afternoon caught up with me. A small mountain of gear, donated by the event sponsors, was raffled off, with proceeds going to support the Catamount Trail.
A big Thank You goes to Splitboard VT, the volunteers, tour leaders, and brand ambassadors who put in time on a powder day to make this event a success.
Fortunately, my drive back to Connecticut fairly was uneventful, and I managed to walk through the front door before midnight. Unfortunately, I spent the next two days in bed, unable to eat, while the angriest of microbes waged brutal war on every inch of my digestive system. I have no scientific, logical or otherwise reasonable justification, but I’m going to say it anyhow -
Stupid doughnut.
From Then to Now
How did I get here?
If I am to be honest with myself, this recent career development has been a long time coming. That said, it has been a bit of a surprise. Bouncing fully out of my engineering job in 2017 was a very calculated maneuver. As was coming back just a little over a year later. After five more years at the same job, a number of developments internal and external to my life, some fantastic and some terrible, seem to have forced the issue. Not my usual, carefully crafted, long term plan. Let’s not get it twisted, though; I still love math, thermodynamics and mechanical design, but it has become painfully clear that that path was not one I could continue to follow in exclusion. This world has some big problems that demand equally big technical solutions. Turning my back on that feels completely awful, so I maintain my status as a part-timer, and pursue this other thing with all of my remaining energy. Is engineering now the hobby?
So, where to now, then? Boldly forward, I guess! The above photo is of the first day of my glorious un-retirement. Just a cheesy self portrait, taken on a cliff overlooking Tariffville, CT, early in the morning while waiting for the morning light that never really came. I suppose this is just what I do now. The stakes seem a bit high, but I’m in it for the long haul. Wish me luck!
[One For The Road - Baxter State Park, Maine - 2.11.23]
