The Sierra High Route (abbreviated SHR) has been described as the most remote hiking route in the lower 48 states.
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In his second book, This Game of Ghosts, mountaineer and climber Joe Simpson describes a theory called deep play, where the potential failure of an event far outweighs the benefit. What's the benefit of climbing mountains or sailing an ocean? The failure of such things can most certainly mean serious trouble or even death, yet people regularly pursue such activities.
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One morning, a cold spring snowstorm blew in and beautifully frosted the trees. I grabbed my film camera (and iPhone which had become my primary video camera) and headed out. During this outing I came up with the idea of simplifying everything and presenting a more poetic, rather than literal, representation of the way I work and see.
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Walking in the upper reaches of Yosemite Valley, rock hopping on slippery granite, my feet, whom I’ve always trusted, gave way and I slammed my face into the rock, snapping all my upper front teeth in half. I had no cut lips or gums and my nose was untouched, which can only mean...I must have been smiling on the way down.
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You may look at the picture above and think “That’s a nice image.” If I left you there, maybe that’s all it would ever be…but let me tell you a story.
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Photography is omnipresent. It is the only medium that’s continually paired with everyday functions like email, texting, social media and the phone. Unlike the tools for other forms of expression, almost everybody has access to a camera in their pocket. Photography is relatable because it is universally accessible. It lives equally as art form or family documentary, as decoration or advertisement. It can be both an artistic pursuit as well as a commercial commodity. And therein lies the struggle
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I turned local instead. And our local ecosystem is pretty special, living at the base of the Sisters Mountains and the Central Oregon Cascades. As the summer set in I started to hike a series of long distance routes weaving throughout the Sisters Wilderness.
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To walk along a river each morning, its bank edged with juniper and ponderosa, marsh grass and other unnamed water plants.
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There’s a myth of the ancient Chinese hermit. A lone mountain recluse, bent over and wizened with long grey hair living in rocky caves
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An old close friend of his once told me the best description of my father was a line from Allen Ginsberg’s poem Howl, “…angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…”.
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My own prejudices are quickly exposed looking at my bookshelf and artistic inspirations and it’s predominately western white and far eastern authors and artists.
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I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
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