Back to the Mountains

It's 2:45 in the morning. I just woke from a restless sleep but don’t feel tired. My lack of sleep has done little to hamper my spirits as I eagerly prepare for the massive day ahead. I'm excited to ride my bike again, a feeling I haven't encountered since the latest in a series of concussions that essentially ended my racing career and left me questioning my relationship with mountain biking as a whole.

Progression had driven my riding for almost a decade. Bettering myself as a rider gave me purpose, and with this mindset, I was naturally drawn to racing. For the past few years, I had oriented my entire life around pursuing the lofty goal of becoming a professional athlete. However, a nasty string of injuries forced me to come to terms with the fact that things weren’t adding up, and this latest concussion was the nail in the coffin for my racing ambitions.

It had been a little over three months since my crash. While my mind and body had returned to good health, my motivation to ride had not. I still loved mountain biking, but needed a break. Nothing about riding my local trails, slower than I ever had before, in the punishing mid-summer heat, sounded appealing. I was perfectly content staying off the bike until I felt legitimately inspired to ride again.


Earlier in the year, I briefly reconnected with a high school friend, Conor Rieland, who had been sharing an increasingly impressive portfolio of large-format panoramic film photography on social media. He had recently started mountain biking, and we loosely talked about working together on a photo shoot. When I considered the possibility of a backcountry adventure combined with the challenge of a new creative endeavor, I felt a spark of excitement. I gave Conor a call and chatted through some ideas. Before I knew it, we had settled on a plan which led to this day, early in the morning, giddily jumping into my car for a two-hour drive to higher elevation.

I met Conor at the trailhead. The initial zeal that had energized me out of bed had worn off as I started to feel the apparent lack of sleep. We didn't have much time for small talk as we quickly scrambled our gear together and started up the climb, still in complete darkness. The elevation and aggressive grade of the climb weren't kind to my lack of fitness, and of the two of us, I had it easy. Conor had the privilege of lugging a massive backpack that housed over $10,000 of awkward, heavy, and delicate camera equipment. As dawn began to bask the burned landscape above Kirkwood in soft light, we pushed hard to reach our destination in time for sunrise.


Minutes after we climbed out of the trees onto an exposed ridge line that revealed the grandeur of the terrain around us, we were greeted by the first rays of morning light. The sun projected powerful tones of rich orange and yellow over the mountains in the east, which blended seamlessly into the softer blue shades of dawn in the west, where a full moon hovered closely above the horizon. The spectrum of color on display in this panoramic landscape was truly spectacular. Experiencing a sunrise in a setting like this, with the crisp mountain air flowing through my lungs, had a unique way of making me feel alive. We took a brief pause to appreciate the moment, then set out to capture it.



Conor and I entered into a unique form of teamwork that I have come to enjoy when shooting photos or videos. We were converging creative visions in real time, making quick decisions, and executing what was needed to bring the shared vision to fruition. Intensified by the pressure of the quickly fading morning light, it felt like a type of flow state where we were both fixated on a common goal. I hustled from one section of trail to the next while exchanging a few words with Conor to make sure we both understood the plan for the shot. Conor loaded the film slides and dialed in his camera with the smoothness and proficiency of someone who had spent countless hours honing his craft. We moved efficiently through the breathtaking landscape, and for a brief time, all that mattered was executing the shot and getting to the next one. Working with film put several constraints on the process, and without the ability to review and adjust each take, we had to make every click of the shutter count.




After about an hour of combined focus, we had moved through most of the inspiring scenery, and the warm light that had greeted us first thing in the morning grew harsh. Besides a slow-speed OTB from Conor that briefly had both of us thinking we may have totaled his thousands of dollars in delicate camera equipment, the shoot went smoothly.

All that remained was a 3000 ft descent back to the car, something I was somewhat nervous about given that this was the first sustained section of trail I had set my tires on in three months. My last crash was still top of mind, so I proceeded with caution. I felt awkward and timid on the bike, but as soon as I banked into a few corners, my anxiety faded. The flood of familiar sensations brought a smile to my face as I became more comfortable and started playing with the trail. I had missed this feeling. The fast and flowy single track sliced through a beautiful alpine meadow and offered me a brief moment of tranquility before suddenly turning into a rock-filled double track torn apart by motos. My tires seemed to find every rock and hole on the trail, and I couldn't help but laugh at how much I was struggling. We took advantage of one more photo opportunity at a bizarre-looking rock formation before arriving at the cars feeling thoroughly fatigued but accomplished. We loaded up and headed to South Lake Tahoe for a long intermission and a heavy dose of caffeine before our afternoon shoot.


After the morning frenzy, I appreciated the chance to relax and catch up with Conor. Up until this point, we had spent little time together outside of a group setting, and this long mid-day break allowed us to take a deeper dive into each other's lives. It turned out we had more in common than I initially thought. I identified with Conor's enthusiasm for photography and mountain biking and felt a similar energy to what initially propelled me to pursue these same endeavors over 10 years ago. Recently, however, my view of both had become slightly jaded after being caught up in the constant battle of trying to monetize my riding and creative energy to keep a fledgling career as a professional mountain biker afloat. My relationship with mountain biking had slowly become more structured and less creative. It was refreshing to get back in touch with the passion to create something just for the sake of creating it.

We chatted for a few hours and enjoyed a quick nap on a local beach before it was time to prepare for our afternoon shoot. We begrudgingly left the beach's warm sand in favor of crusty knee pads and another high-elevation climb to a particularly scenic section of the Tahoe Rim Trail.


A few minutes into the climb, it was clear the ride had devolved firmly into type-two fun. My tired legs struggled against the soft dust and decomposed granite characteristic of South Lake Tahoe, and it felt like quicksand pulling me backward. We resorted to some long stints of hiking and eventually arrived in the area of interest for our shoot. The terrain was completely different than what we encountered that morning. The exposed granite and patchy pine forest gave this high-elevation landscape a feel of its own and the trails a plethora of natural features to take advantage of. We stumbled upon a trail-side granite slab that looked to be roughly in the form of a step-down. It was an awkward feature; the landing was less than a bike length long and quite steep for how mellow the lip was. I popped hard off the takeoff, leveled the bike out in the air, then extended my body to place my tires right where I wanted. The bike shot out from the landing with a nice bit of speed as a reward for touching down in the sweet spot. Confidently navigating this little moment of technical air time provided a refreshing reprieve from the low traction, rock-filled trails I had struggled to get along with all day.


As dusk crept in, we stopped for one last photo at an open meadow that overlooked the vast array of mountain peaks that faded into the eastern horizon. With Conor's last film slide painted in light, the shooting portion of the day came to an end. We carefully navigated a 1500 ft descent as the light quickly faded, eventually arriving at the cars in complete darkness just as the day began. It was an interesting feeling, finishing a massive day of shooting with essentially nothing to show for it. On any digital project, it's usually clear what's been accomplished and you can feel confident that the SD cards are stocked full of great shots. This was different. Did Conor botch the settings on his camera? Did I look like a total dweeb on the bike? We would find out in a few weeks, but in the moment, it was satisfying enough to know we put in a solid day's work, and there was at least a chance we took some quality photos.


I ripped off my knee pads, loaded my bike, said a quick goodbye to Conor, then sunk into the driver's seat of my 30-year-old Nissan pickup. The cracked upholstery felt like a luxury recliner, and for 30 minutes, I sat there, depleted, unable to work up the courage to start the dreadful two-hour drive home. I stopped for a burrito in South Lake Tahoe but felt my body craving more calories and couldn't resist a second dinner at In-N-Out, closer to home. I finally arrived in bed at 10pm after a much-needed shower. Before I let myself doze off, I reflected on the experience. The day had checked so many boxes for me and given me a sense of fulfillment that I had struggled to find during my time off the bike.

It was hard to pinpoint why I felt so excited that morning. It definitely wasn't chasing the next step on the progression ladder. I don't think I was even that motivated to ride my bike. What inspired me to get up so early that morning was the call of an exciting creative endeavor, spending quality time with a friend, seeing the sunrise in the mountains, and the greater sense of adventure. What brought me back to my bike wasn't the bike itself, but it was the catalyst that allowed all these other experiences to happen.