Poppy red tucked into soft Icelandic moss.
* Some photos were taken with a tripod and self-timer.
** More write-up TBA
As a photographer I’ve always appreciated the beauty of the mountains. I wanted to get closer. I wanted to know a mountain by more than its triangle caricature. But how was I going to teach myself the skills to scale that granite when I didn’t have any climber friends?
In 2016 I moved to San Francisco. Riding a motivation wave from a relationship break-up and a renewal of energy as I started to overcome crippling imposter syndrome at my first software engineering job, I decided I wanted to climb. Without friends to mentor me, I scoured google and joined Sierra Mountaineering Club (SMC) where I built a solid foundation in mountaineering and rock climbing.
From that year onward many summer weekends have been spent in the Eastern Sierra. I buckle up for 8 hour one-way sleep-deprived drives to and from the mountains. The mountains test my mental strength and patience. The mountains fill me with awe and a sense of smallness that help me let go of the unimportant things in life. Some say the mountains are their church.
A few years ago I discovered a letter that resonates deeply with how I feel about being in the mountains. It was penned by legendary photographer Ansel Adams and later published in Letters of Note. In 1936, in the midst of an overwhelming workload and the near-demise of his marriage, Ansel Adams suffered a nervous breakdown. After a stay in the hospital, desperately in need of escape, Adams returned with his family to the one place where he could find solace: Yosemite, California.
As his health returned, he wrote this letter to his best friend, Cedric Wright. A violinist and wilderness photographer, Wright was Adams’s mentor and closest friend. In his autobiography, Adams described Wright as “almost an occupant of another world and a creator and messenger of beauty and mysteries. Perhaps his greatest gift was that of imparting confidence to those who were wavering on the edge of fear and indecision; often it was me.”
June 19, 1937
Dear Cedric,
A strange thing happened to me today. I saw a big thundercloud move down over Half Dome, and it was so big and clear and brilliant that it made me see many things that were drifting around inside of me; things that related to those who are loved and those who are real friends.
For the first time I know what love is; what friends are; and what art should be.
Love is a seeking for a way of life; the way that cannot be followed alone; the resonance of all spiritual and physical things. Children are not only of flesh and blood — children may be ideas, thoughts, emotions. The person of the one who is loved is a form composed of a myriad mirrors reflecting and illuminating the powers and thoughts and the emotions that are within you, and flashing another kind of light from within. No words or deeds may encompass it.
Friendship is another form of love — more passive perhaps, but full of the transmitting and acceptance of things like thunderclouds and grass and the clean granite of reality.
Art is both love and friendship, and understanding; the desire to give. It is not charity, which is the giving of Things, it is more than kindness which is the giving of self. It is both the taking and giving of beauty, the turning out to the light the inner folds of the awareness of the spirit. It is the recreation on another plane of the realities of the world; the tragic and wonderful realities of earth and men, and of all the inter-relations of these.
I wish the thundercloud had moved up over Tahoe and let loose on you; I could wish you nothing finer.
Ansel
Europeans sure know how to climb in style.
I’m accustomed to weekends in the Eastern Sierra that look like this: wrap up work on a Friday afternoon and drive 7 hours into the night. Sleep in the car. Hike heavy packs to base camp on Saturday, kick off summit day Sunday with an alpine start as early at 3am, summit, decamp, and drive 7 hours back to the city. It's 1am by the time I get back home, leaving just a few hours to conk out before the Monday workday.
Contrast my reality with this one: in July 2018 my climbing partner Derek and I made a trip to Chamonix. Every morning we would wake up at 6am, saunter a few blocks from our apartment to the gondola, play in the mountains, then catch the gondola back down just in time to wine and dine. Rinse and repeat. No matter how battered we were after a day out we knew we'd be coddled up in cozy blankets reading a book by sunset.
Chamonix was a treasure trove. We grew accustomed to mixed climbing, building confidence in delicately toeing cracks in the rock with our steel crampons. Many of the easy and moderate routes were crowded, which—thankfully—I found more entertaining than frustrating.
The summit of Petit Aiguille Verte was a jamboree of climbers, guided and unguided, from France, Germany, Italy, the USA, Japan. On Grand Montets we passed a Brit yelling to his partner, “Even though this terrain is easy you should still place pro. Don’t just wander up like a muffin!“ Climbers in bright jackets wove in and out of the snowy ridge like animated Christmas lights.
It was only when the weather took a turn for the worse that we could experience this alpine playground in solitude. One such day was when we climbed the famous Arête des Cosmiques. The two of us found ourselves alone on this popular ridge. We traded crowds for snow, hail, and thunder. Mont Blanc cheekily hid behind the thick fog; we could only imagine the beautiful mountains that towered around us. A truly alpine experience! Iced eyelashes. Numb fingers jamming into hand cracks. Swearing. Bruised knees. Happy hearts. We were exalted as we clambered back onto the platform and caught the last gondola back to Chamonix.
Photo featured in Strava Best of 2018 Photo Contest
A collection of classic moderate rock climbs on the Eastern end of Yosemite National Park feat. Cathedral Peak and Eichorn Pinnacle; Tenaya Peak; Matthes Crest; Mt Conness.
Yosemite was my gateway into high Sierra climbing. It was where I experienced so many firsts. Tenaya Peak was my first alpine trad climb. Cathedral Peak was the first time I made a new friend and climbing partner from a chance encounter on the descent.
Matthes Crest was the first time death from climbing felt tangible when we saw a search and rescue helicopter fly terribly close and later learned that someone had fallen while on the same route as us earlier that day.
Mt Conness was my first epic in the mountains. As the leader of the group, I didn’t have the mindspace to feel fear: I was solely focused on three things, staying safe, routefinding, and supporting my partner. I comforted my partner as the more experienced climber, even though I barely had much experience under my belt myself. It’s funny how you rise to the occasion. We pushed upwards through a black moonless night to summit at 2AM. We forced ourselves to make forward progress walking like zombies. We succumbed to shivering naps under rocks when our eyelids grew unbearably heavy.
At sunrise we were filled with an indescribable mix of relief and elation. We waited until the golden rays of morning basked our numb bodies in warmth and lit the surrounding peaks aglow to reveal the path back home.
Overshadowed by its more famous sibling Yosemite, Death Valley National Park receives less fanfare. With no expectations, I was blown away. There is no light pollution so the stars actually twinkle at night. I was so moved as a wee 13 year old that I wrote a poem about the night I saw the stars come alive.
I’ve returned many times since, always to show friends this special place in my heart.
My first (2015) and second (2017) trips to Iceland contrasted summer and winter. More TBA. For now, I’ll leave a quick list of my Iceland favorites:
In the South: Fjaðrárgljúfur canyon, Reykjadalur thermal river in Hveragerði, Reynisfjara basalt columns, Jökulsárlón glacier lagoon, Skogafoss and Sejlandfoss, Kristínartindar in Skaftafell.
In the West: Glymur waterfall, Rauðfeldsgjá ravine (venture inside but have an extra set of dry clothes), Kirkjufell (don’t just take photos from below; hike to the summit)
In the North: Lake Myvatn, Dettifoss, Godafoss
In the East: waterfalls along the route around Seyðisfjörður
Isn’t it magical to see a city inverted? We arrived in Marrakech under looming rainclouds. Below the horizon of grey, the Medina is a swath of pink maze-like walls. It’s the inversion of what we’re used to: cities of grey high-rises against pink sunset skies.
Alice, Claudio, and I stayed in the Northeastern neighborhood of the Medina (old city) that had a rooftop patio that overlooked a tannery. The narrow stairwell leading 4 flights up to the rooftop smelled strongly of jasmine incense. It was only at the top could you smell the unpleasant but bearable scent of raw animal hide.
Despite the scent, we enjoyed spending time on the rooftop where we had a sweeping view of the entire city. Drying clothes, drying food, and broken furniture scatter the neighboring rooftops. The rooster crows at odd hours. Moped motors purr in the distance from every which way. And most strikingly, when the clock strikes three, chanting male voices sing through loudspeakers situated throughout the city—none of them in unison—a powerful hum echoing across the city in a call to prayer.
Zermatt was the second stop of my solo trip after graduating from Stanford. By chance I was in town for the 150th anniversary of the first ascent of the Matterhorn.
To honor the infamous climb, local mountain guides installed solar lamps along the original route taken by Whymper and his ill-fated party. At night the lights would ceremoniously turn on one by one until the path reached the summit.
Illuminated, it looked like a constellation of stars had sighed, tired from sailing the skies, and had spread itself across the mountain to slumber.
Men crouch half-naked by their storefronts, pouring basins of cold water over their leathery skin. As a part of their morning ritual the shopkeepers of Old Delhi bathe their bodies out in the open. The typically hectic Chandni Chowk market is quiet at 6am. But tucked in a winding alley while the rest of the world yawns awake, a scant team of five workers toil away. They are kulcha bread makers who bake and distribute 40 thousand kulcha breads every day.
Here I am in the heart of it all, to witness the intimate ritual of Old Delhi waking up.
These kulcha makers move like clockwork. Each man has one job: one man manages the oven. One man takes the baked kulcha tray and slides it across the ground to the next man. This man constructs neat stacks 24 trays high. Another man has the job of moving these stacks back and forth. This routine outputs 4 breads every 3 seconds!
This is impressive manpower, but Anchit reminds me there are kulcha machines that do this work far more efficiently. In this case though, technology is purposefully set aside for the sake of creating more jobs.
Next, we bike through Khari Baoli, Asia's largest spice market. Anchit points out a women shopkeeper, calm and poised. She’s the only woman shopkeeper in this market and she took on this work as the head of the household when the patriarch of the family died. We make an unexpected turn into a building and spiral up an outdoor staircase where spice workers labored away on each level. Anchit equates this to modern day slavery; they work for 10 months at a time toiling and living in these quarters without seeing their family. During the other 2 months they return home, but only to provide the manpower to swap out the farm crops.
Our final destination is the Sikh temple of the old city, Gurudwara Sis Ganj Sahib ji. We take off our shoes and glide through a shallow pool of water to clean our feet. We also tie pink cloths to cover our hair before stepping inside the place of worship. Unexpectedly, I find a community kitchen beyond the prayer halls. It’s all hands on deck: women are sitting crossed legged on the ground rolling kulcha dough into balls. A portly man oversees a massive boiling pot of lentils, the lip of the pot rising from his feet up to his waist. Outside under an awning, women and men sit together and chop vegetables. These are men and women are all volunteers, donating their time to the community before they start their work day. The Sikh religion focuses on doing good. I learn that every man and woman must donate 10% of their income or 10% of their time volunteering.
We visit the mess hall where men and women sit in neat rows, eating from their trays, drinking chai. A young boy walks around scooping lentils onto their plates. A man smiles at me and insists I take a bag of mystery crackers. This is why no one in Old Delhi ever dies of starvation, Anchit proclaims proudly. Anyone can visit the temple for a meal, even if they are not Sikh. Free housing is provided, too. No questions asked.
That was the final leg of an eye-opening day. But let’s rewind—how did I get here? For my last day of my business trip in India I booked a city bike tour with SpinMonkey Tours. It started at 6am. I was staying in the city of Gurgaon which meant I needed to get up at 4am to take a long taxi ride. When I was dropped off the sun had not yet risen. All the shops on the block were closed. Wild dogs roamed the unkempt street. I had no idea if I was where I should be. Many adventure starts with slight discomfort and nervous anticipation, after all. The discomfort was quickly forgotten after I was greeted by Anchit, the founder of the bike tour company. As we wove through the overwhelming traffic of Old Delhi via bike, dodging rickshaws, pedestrians, horse wheeled carts, mopeds, and the occasional water buffalo, he showed me the city through his eyes.
In November 2019 I spent a week in Gurgaon, India on a business trip. I was itching to cover more ground so I booked day tours to Agra and Jaipur.
“Have you heard about the truck culture in India?” my guide Karni Singh asks. Indian truck drivers adorn the backs of their trucks with colorful cloths that flap wildly down the motorways. “They also write quotes, witty jokes, philosophical things. They also just write names of family and friends. And almost always the names of their exes.” I laugh. Even though I can’t make sense of the Hindi painted onto the sides and backs of each truck, I see that each has a distinct personality. It feels like an externalized, motorized version of the driver inside.
My guide for my Jaipur Pink City tour has a masters in French literature. How many people in his school studied this subject? One. His passion project is translating French plays into Hindi. When he speaks, a “donc” slips out every few sentences. It’s endearing.
I look out the window of the car. Teenage girls in braids and blue school uniforms. A man wearing a pink jumpsuit along a perfectly matching teal pastel backdrop. Loose bricks and piles of rubble are shoveled into molehills; it looks like the sidewalk is tearing itself apart. Three men pedal their bikes each pulling cart of flowers. Stray dogs. The morning sun is a red-orange hazy orb. One fat brown cow.
Karni tells me about the caste system that has since been abolished, but is still an undercurrent. The men of the Singh caste can be identified by their earrings, he says. I can see his.
I see two boys coding hands as they ride their bikes through a side street. We make eye contact and they giggle sweetly before looking away, abashed.
We turn onto the highway, peppered with signs in big bold letters that warn the unruly to “Maintain lane discipline” and that “Over speeding will invite prosecution.” Two kids sip drinks on the back of dad’s motorcycle.
We pass through Shahjahanpur, dubbed “Japan of India” because so many Japanese factories are there.
I spy a flock of rowdy monkeys on the side of the freeway and we pull over. Two shopkeepers were selling watermelons from their carts. The monkeys go nuts. It is hard to tell if this is an intentional tourist “trap” to entertain foreign visitors, or just serendipity.
Jaipur is the capital and the largest city of the Indian state of Rajasthan. Rajasthan is a desert region in the west. Karni tells me that North India is more mixed with immigrants from Arabic countries or Iran. South India is more “Indian” and more conservative, he says.
At the palace, the home of Jaipur royal family, I was surprised to see hurried workers stringing up colorful pink and yellow flowers and cloths, sequins and lights around the palace inner courtyards. A wedding was happening tonight. The royal family may host wedding receptions for their close family friends.
I was lucky to be at the right place at the right time.
We spent our first night around a campfire at Mercey Hot Springs, listening to Isaac describe the Panoche Hills.
The Panoche Hills are a desert ecosystem located an hour west of Fresno, California. The hills are an oxymoron, seemingly barren and lush at the same time. Doubletrack dirt roads wind in and out of windswept grasses. Rippling hills that pan out as far as the eyes can see.
“The real kicker is the second climb. Very steep. Very loose.” Isaac muses, as his wok hisses over the campfire. “And when the sand gets wet it’s the stickiest clay in the world. Wheels go to from free spinning to not turning in 2 rotations and wrecks bearings.”
Luckily tomorrow’s forecast was clear. I threw on my 47mm WTB Ventures, topped them off with sealant, and replaced both brake pads before this weekend trip. I attached extra bottle cages to the fork of my Thesis, too. There’s no cell reception; “bring everything you might need” was our mantra …
To read more, check out the story in print form in Dropped Magazine Vol. 3 https://www.droppedmag.com/shop/p/issue-02-n79ym
Thank you Isaac, Randall, Catherine, and Andy for a great weekend.
Majority photos by me; photos of me by Andy Wong.
GPX route on Strava: https://www.strava.com/activities/5105675109
