“I think it’ll clear up by morning,” Christian said as I stared out of our tent at the night sky. He was trying to be hopeful. Neither of us believed it. We hadn’t seen a break in the storm in days.

This trip down the Rogue River was produced to provide content for Chaco for the launch of the sandal collaboration with NRS.

As I stood shin-deep in the middle of a stream shivering, I questioned what I was doing. Rain poured down and the temperature was dropping. I was losing my ability to stay warm.

Wyatt looked at the map. “It looks like we entered the creek too low,” he yelled over the sound of the water. “We need to go further upstream.”

Backpacking Kentucky Falls in Oregon’s Siuslaw Nation Forest.

River trips are full of special moments. Exciting rapids, stunning landscapes, cherished time spent with loved ones. Scenes can be magical, but what you see in front of you doesn’t always translate to a photo. Have you ever gotten home from a trip and been disappointed in your images? You aren’t alone.

It can be easy to blame bad images on gear, but there's more to it than that. A little bit of knowledge can go a long way. Learning what to look for can help you get good photos in any condition.

As I arrived at the put-in, the sun streamed down into the valley. I stepped out of the car and the gravel crunched beneath my feet. A slight breeze carried the scent of the river by my nose. Everything was perfect. It was… unexpected.

I don’t know what I expected when I decided to summit and ski all seven of my local peaks in a summer. Adventure, alpine views, some suffering. I couldn’t have imagined everything it would entail. Whiteouts. Sunset skiing. Even heat exhaustion all played a role as I raced to climb the summits before the snow melted. By the end of the summer, my body was worn down. But time has a way of changing perspective. Blisters and bruises have healed. Only cherished memories remain.

As the pandemic raged on, I found myself stuck at home and in need of adventure. After years of thinking about ordering a raft, I decided it was time. Months later it arrived and I was ready to get on the water.

I’ve wanted to ski Mt. Washington for a couple years. It stands out on the skyline as I’m driving around town. Over fifteen hundred feet of open alpine skiing. Every time I lay eyes on the mountain, I imagine skiing it.

As I prepared for a day of climbing, it was storming in the mountains. Though it was almost summer, it had been snowing for days. The forecast called for more snow and increasing winds. A summit bid seemed unlikely.

I’ve always heard outdoor athletes talking about inspiring lines in the mountains. Lines that called to them and forced them to push to new levels. Lines that consumed them. Their thoughts and dreams. I never really understood. I could see the lines that they were talking about. I heard the excitement in their voice. I just never felt the same way. I didn’t relate to that feeling of inspiration. I never felt that a line was calling to me. At least, I didn’t until last spring.

In my goal to climb 100 boulder problems V2 or harder this fall, there was one thing that was instrumental in my success. It wasn’t my shoes or crashpads. It wasn’t a traditional piece of gear at all.