The Ride
NOVEMBER 2021 ● JOURNAL
It was approaching the peak time in Colorado as far as Aspen trees and classic autumn colors and scenes were concerned. The air was beginning to feel more crisp — dry and cold, yet fresh. The misty mornings were leaving remnants of that peculiar, yet familiar scent of the changing seasons. Mother Nature had taken to the canvas that is Earth, seized her paintbrushes yet again, and was underway, mixing and fusing shades of greens, yellows, golden-browns, and vivid reds. And this was just the onset of her yearly craftsmanship in composing masterful gradients of colors and visuals for life to gaze upon.
As winter approaches, life, to me at least, seems to regress into a period of melancholy. But, while life technically thrives in summer, there is a certain solace in contemplating the cycles of the seasons. As habitats decay, leaves fall until trees are left barren and bleak, and the vibrance of landscapes settle into dreariness, it's important to recognize the fundamental need for cyclical periods of life and death. Once the abundance of summer has gracefully come to rest, it will inevitably be reborn. We are creatures and products of this Earth, and naturally, we too must embrace the seasonal changes and inherent growths and recoveries from within our souls. To ponder upon and visualize the junctures in nature's course of action is grounding — it sets a pace, a rhythm, and calls for grander, more philosophical considerations of one's own journey. I've historically struggled with the winter. This time around, however, I'm going to try and reframe my view. Maybe this year, I can take the time to reset, let go of the old, and embrace and contemplate growth. Maybe this year, I'll stop gritting my teeth as I glare at the setting around me on the way to work, bitterly thinking to myself, “motherfucker, would ya look at that — it's as if life through my eyes was a TV and we just reverted back to the 50s.” Plus, I'm moving to San Diego in the spring. So, for the foreseeable future, I've got one more shot at this. Let's see if I can embrace the cold and the snow and the gray (I plan on relying heavily on photography here — perhaps I'll dive deeper into black-and-white film). Wish me luck in drawing beauty from that which I've generally found to be “bleh.” I'm imagining my future self furiously searching the internet for tips on how to artistically capture snowfall in a way that meshes with my tone. And as I pen these thoughts, I'm actually already concocting some raw but nifty little ways in which I can express myself from behind the lens. Would ya look at that.
Beyond all of that, though, let's be real — the city is still fuckin' bustling and raging at night. There's plenty of life around if you know where to look. It's also dependent on the people you choose to spend your time around. And if you are familiar with my photography, you already know I love shooting neon and capturing nightlife — scenes that are conveniently void of all that gray and melancholy. Anyway.
“Who needs sleep?” That's the question we all asked ourselves. Actually, it was more so posed as a statement rather than as a question. Almost like a demand or a commitment we made to ourselves. Perhaps subconsciously, we figured the sentiment would galvanize each of us to remain in a constant state of creative liveliness and help rationalize our ambitious pursuits over a five-day period. As a group, we chased our photographic dreams with intensity, leaving little time for rest and making ample time for shenanigans, successes, failures, laughter, annoyances, and so on. We just wanted to explore. Build off of one another. Discover techniques and things and places. And we were keen on riding the ride. I mean, you could argue that we were foolish at times, but we just had to keep up with the momentum. We had to push ourselves. Ok, we didn't have to, but it was necessary to get the most out of our time together. Personally, I didn't want to get off the ride. But inevitably, we all had to. Reality slapped us in the face after those five days, and I was left beat, empty, and goddamn exhausted. Those emotions were all temporary, though. More importantly, I was rejuvenated. Fulfilled. Those feelings left a more impactful, longer-lasting sense of significance. Nothing beats sharing memories and hopping around hundreds of miles with like-minded friends, chasing light and grand landscapes. And we used film photography to form a small, adventure-hungry collective. Film greased the wheels on our ride.
THE FIRST DAY
This collective I'm speaking of, started out with Joseph Anzaldo (IG: @damn.thatsnicelight), Dylan Stewart (IG: @dylanstewart), and Liatris Hethcoat (IG: @liatrisnoel), all making their way out from Southern California to come and visit my girlfriend, Jules (IG: @cowgirlbones), and I in Denver. They crashed in our two-bedroom apartment — Dylan and Liatris took an air mattress in the office room and Joe got stuck with the couch in the living room. Fully stretched, I think Joe is longer than that couch. Sorry, man. Bet ya wish you were shorter. I've said this before and I'll say it again: trips always get fucked up in some way. The first fuck up technically came before anyone actually arrived at Denver International Airport. I'm sitting there at work one day, minding my business and tinkering with spreadsheets when I get a text from Joe. He tells me he'll be ready for pickup at the airport at 11 a.m. that Thursday. I immediately phoned him and said something like, “Hey brother, so you know I work that day, right?” I SCRAMBLED to get everything done at work that usually takes five days and managed to condense the load into three days. Bastard. I know for a fact he had told me he was landing at 11 p.m. But hey, if ya feel like changing your flight, go for it, eh? I've also been vegan for two years now. I genuinely insisted that the group didn't need to cater to my eating habits, yet we still wound up eating vegan the entire trip — save one slice of pepperoni pizza Joe chowed down on the last night. My dude was probably going through withdrawals.
So anyway, back to the first day. I picked up this damn.thatsnicelight fella from the airport (I had already been out to visit him and some other friends in California back in May) and we immediately grabbed some food and hustled on over to the local film lab for some rolls and chitchat with an oldhead who loved Joe's wealth of film and developing knowledge. Joe works two jobs — one at a film lab back home in California. We made a quick stop at the apartment, greeted my pup, Pablo, and snatched Jules before heading off for Boulder. We desperately wanted to capture golden hour up at Gross Reservoir. Gross is one of my favorite spots of all time — I took Jules there on our first date and taught her how to shoot her first roll of film. She absolutely crushes it now, only a year later. I had this remarkable idea of canoeing across the reservoir. In my head, I had all of the compositions framed. It was going to be cinematic and glorious and we were, without a doubt, going to have a hell of a time. But did I have a canoe? No, I did not have a canoe. Nor did my old pal's parents — they sold or trashed the one we used to use back in the day. I rushed to find some shop that would rent us one. I felt compelled to make everyone's experience in Colorado the time of their lives. It was my duty. We get to the shop, I fill out the paperwork, and the clerk says to me, “I only have canoes that fit one person.” Ok, so after spending 30 minutes in that shop, providing my ID, jumping through his hoops, explaining what we had in mind, this fella didn't think to mention that fact 30 minutes earlier? How were the three of us supposed to utilize a one-person canoe? Just leave the fun for one individual? What were they going to do, take a selfie with an expensive analog camera in the middle of the water? I guess we could have “risked it for the brisket,” as Joe would say. But I had envisioned snapping images of either Joe or Jules madly thrusting the oars into the reservoir, splashing water up against a backdrop of layered mountains with silky-smooth, deep-blue, glimmering water in the foreground, all to be completed with joyous expressions on their faces. Hell, we would have color-coordinated with some cliché yellow rain jackets or something to really get those moody, banger shots. Come on, canoe shop guy — this isn't rocket appliances. So, that was a waste of our time.
We raced up the mountain and made some stops at some classic overlooks. At our first stop, we found this amphitheater nestled right on the edge of the mountain overlooking all of Boulder. But there was a wedding going on. So instead of barging in on the couple's special day, we just hung around nearby and made the most of the spot. Joe had me whip around the bend on my skateboard for some shots when suddenly, one of the wedding attendees appeared. “Wow! Are you a pro?” She asked me. Before I had a chance to say of course not and ask what they were serving at the wedding, Joe cut in — “Yes! He's sponsored and everything!” He built me up. Now, I don't believe she genuinely thought I was a pro — I was wearing boots for fuck's sake and just doing some simple carving — but she immediately walked up and took a selfie with me. She asked for my social media while Jules stood behind a tree on the other side of the road fuming. Also, quick note to all of you with partners out there — bringing an old-fashioned analog camera out to the bars is a great talking point, especially for sober folks like me who need some other sort of vice present to feel comfortable, but it will also potentially madden your significant other when the other party gets a little too into the conversation. Now, back to the mountain. We found the perfect lookout at Gross Reservoir after making a couple other stops for photo ops. We waited until the sunset would come through and light the sky with a golden haze and blood-red clouds, but nothing happened. The sun just sort of went down quietly. Where were all of those magnificent colors I had promised Joe? I had shown him years' worth of photos of this place talking it up. Fuck. We had our fun climbing around the cliffs and gawking at the landscape, but we ultimately departed unfulfilled. After driving about 45 minutes back down the mountain, we arrived in Boulder, well after sunset should have peaked. It was at that time it peaked. The sky was picturesque — everything we had hoped for while we were there. Fuuuuck. So off to the bar we went. Joe and Jules slugged a couple beers, admired the decoration in the most offbeat dive bar Boulder has to offer, and I cried a little bit inside and clutched my camera, occasionally entertaining numerous questions pertaining to my camera.
Now it was time to pick up Dylan and Liatris. These two are some of the sweetest, most kind, and gentle humans I have met. And as an aside, I have been so blessed this past year with all of the connections I have made through film photography. It's baffling looking back and exciting looking forward now knowing what is possible through this community. Dylan and Liatris immediately hit it off with my pup, entertaining him as they just beamed with happiness to be in Denver, ready for adventure. Now let me take a step back to address another fuck up. Joe and I dropped off Jules after roaring on out of Boulder. She offered to tidy up the apartment and take care of Pablo while Joe and I swooped the rest of the gang. The couple had landed maybe 20 or 30 minutes early. Ok, no big deal, right? We hurried on toward the airport, only to find ourselves at a roadblock with a battalion of police cars and ambulances and firetrucks at a major junction in the road. Some gas station was completely taped-off and we were forced to take some back-road detour. At this point, Joe and I were practically delirious. We listened to corny, early 2000s punk and stopped to piss in the wind. I was making jokes that earned labored laughs from Joe. I dunno, maybe I was being funny in a totally non-funny, ironic way. Joe was so tired he seemed high as a kite. When we finally got to the damn airport, our communication skills had tanked. Dylan and Liatris were thankfully more than understanding and, after an hour, maybe an hour and a half of circling around Denver International Airport, we finally found them. I have never struggled at picking someone up so much in my entire life. After the third loop around the airport, Joe and I were just slap-happy, mocking ourselves and finding entertainment in our own stupidity and the absurdity of our inadequacies. We arrived back at the apartment in Denver, shot the shit, talked film and gear, and got everyone settled in. Most of the gang threw back a couple of beers and headed off to get some rest by maybe 1 or 2 a.m. Without much motivation to cook up anything worthwhile, I fashioned a tortilla wrap with vegan cheese, hot sauce, mashed up potato chips, and seasoning. I didn't even heat it up or anything, just scarfed it over the sink like an animal.
THE SECOND DAY
The next morning, we woke up around 6 or 7 a.m. and made our way to Great Sand Dunes National Park. Man, we had props filled to the brim in the trunk: roses, cowboy hats, boots, flowers, random antiques from thrift stores, dresses, and various obscure items. We made some stops along the way. Somewhere in a nowhere, forgotten town — if you can call it that — we met Bear Man. This man declared his life story to Dylan for what had to have been an hour. Bear Man had his portrait taken in the back of his shop, where he specializes in carving bears out of wood, and talked about old cars and trucks and his sons and whatever else he could come up with. I don't think many people pass through there. And then, we got caught up in a town called Walsenburg for way, way too long. The town was pretty dead, but for people like us, it was a gold mine. So many vintage aesthetics to capture on film. At one point, Joe wanted me to go swing in some playground so he could snap my feet up in the air for some cutesy, bullshit photo. I obliged, ran over to the park, hopped the fence, and damn near mangled myself. The shoelace on my hi-top Converse snagged the edge of some protruding metal. I barely managed to catch myself and was then subjected to laughter and shame as I awaited help from the gang, which would only of course come after they could all document my predicament with their phones and cameras. These setbacks put us a little behind schedule. We had been hellbent on getting up to the top of the dunes for golden hour and were doing everything in our power to make that happen. But again, we couldn't resist making more stops for photo ops. By the way, please do yourself a favor and check out everyone's Instagram profiles. These shots are all amazing. Once at the dunes, which was a casual three or four hours from the apartment back in Denver, we opted for the back route and kicked the 4Runner into four-wheel drive to get over some sandy, rock-infested roads. The road less traveled ought to bring us some unique experiences, eh? God, I kind of hate myself for saying that corny shit. But we didn't want to go the basic route, the same route everyone else took. We were already compstomping the hell out of each other — we had to at least make our shots different in some way.
Have I mentioned the gear we had? Aside from lenses and tripods and filters and all that jazz, I'll just mention the basics: the cameras. We were rolling with two Mamiya RB67s, a Mamiya 6, a Mamiya 7 (mamamiya that's a lot of Mamiyas — assuming I'm remembering correctly), a Pentax 67ii, a Bronica ETRSi, a Hasselblad 500cm, a Canon AE-1, and some other 35mm cameras that I cannot for the life of me remember the names of. We were armed to the teeth and ready to capture some gold. At times the world was still, and then for brief periods, the wind would rev up and roar, blasting sand into our eyes and pelting our faces. Every direction we looked was a scene of pure beauty. We were alone with no one else in sight, trekking up the dunes, which looked as if they had been transported from some other continent for us to enjoy for the day in Colorado. It was such a stark contrast and change in environment from the places we had been only hours prior. The ridges cast magnificent shadows, and the mountains, way off in the distance, almost looked fake — it was all so surreal. The sand, while still, was smooth as ice and soft as fresh snowfall. As the winds would flood in, it was easy to forget the beauty we saw as we braced for coarse, fine-grains of sand nailing us and disrupting our photographic exploits. Sand launched off of the tips of the ridges and would roll like waves in the oceans of the valleys between dunes. Even if we hadn't lugged our cameras along for the journey, the whole trip would have still been just as worthwhile and breathtaking. Each step from the leader of the pack would leave an imprint in the sand, giving off the impression that we were the first to have ever walked those paths — of course, that's obviously not the truth, but visually, it looked like we were in our own world.
I do have to unfortunately revisit the recurring theme of fuck ups, though. One lesson we learned during the whole trip was to never doubt Jules' ideas. At the dunes, for example, she had her ideas on which routes to take and we had ours. Why didn't we listen? I suppose it's because we're asshats. Jules insisted on taking a certain path from the get-go, but I was obdurate. We ended up taking the most burdensome, laborious route possible. Up and down peaks and valleys over and over again, navigating never-ending ridges and craters. The sun was falling fast and we were quickly losing that valuable light. We plunged forward and drained ourselves to get to the highest point we could. Each step became more and more difficult. We would hit soft spots and would have to slowly tread forward, occasionally sinking in, falling down, or slumping over in defeat. Eventually, we prevailed in some sense. We succeeded in having an absolute blast. The five of us captured some shots we were incredibly proud of and celebrated by taking a couple pulls out of a whiskey bottle we had brought along as a prop. I don't drink anymore, though, so I instead threw on my poncho and cowboy hat, ripped a couple darts, and blew smoke off into the void at the top of the world. That only lasted for a short while as an extra, almost vengeful gust of wind sent my hat flying hundreds of feet, maybe yards, off my head at the top of the dune. I turned around and watched it roll, stunned, offended, betrayed — there was nothing I could do but watch my hat soar away before finally resting at the bottom of some wretched valley. It was practically dark at that point and I really didn't have a choice — I had to leave right then, physically drained to go retrieve the hat. No one said much — their expressions did all the talking. We were all on the same page. What an unfortunate situation I was in. I hurried on down the dune, hopping and rolling about until I reached the damn hat. I turned around and looked up at my friends standing on the ridge. From there, they looked like miniature figures. I was cold, winded, annoyed, and groaned before letting my cigarette burn out (don't worry, I didn't leave it there). The voyage back up was, well, I'm not going to exaggerate and say it was hell or anything, but it certainly wasn't a good fuckin' time. For a moment, I wanted to just accept my fate and melt into the sand (dramatic, I know). The time had come — we turned on our flashlights and spent the next hour or so hiking back to the car in the dark. By the time we reached the car, it was pitch-black and the sky was littered with stars. The kind of night sky you only see in movies or fake renderings. I sparked another cigarette and looked up, absorbing the day, and ruminated on how all of the grains of sand in those massive dunes we had just traversed don't even light a candle next to the number of stars out there in the universe. After some rest and cogitation, our little crew headed back north, ignoring all of the lousy little towns we had been fascinated by during the day. We made it home by 3 a.m.
THE THIRD AND FOURTH DAYS
The next day, we met up with my best friend and fellow film-photographer, Trevor Ogg (IG: @_trevorogg). Trevor immediately clicked with the group and became a “fan favorite,” if you will. His whole shtick consisted of giving hilariously inaccurate tour-guide facts about Denver. After the previous day, we opted to just stick around the city and take it easy. Urban shooting was the theme for the day. We thrifted, lounged around the apartment, coming up with little riffs on the guitar, and ate some more vegan food in some nearby park. Come nightfall, we were back at it pushing ourselves to the limit. I've been infatuated with capturing neon signs on film for quite some time now, and the rest of the gang wanted in on some of the action. I provided the best tour I possibly could, which ended up with us staying out till 5 a.m. I had already shot many of these signs several times, so I was mainly just focused on and fascinated by observing how the others would shoot them. That's one of the biggest, most rewarding perks to these types of ventures. Watching other film photographers in action, using different methods, techniques, tools, and creating scenes rather than just simply taking a photo of a scene is invaluable as an artist. I'm all for solo shooting — it's fulfilling and good for the soul, but artistic collaboration and interaction can be both competitive and constructive, ultimately benefiting everyone's skill sets. I've since returned to these neon hotspots with new ideas inspired by that night.
At around 3:30 or 4 a.m., we were near one of the more sketchy areas of the city: the far east end of Colfax. We were shooting some glorious motel sign, one that could just barely justify us being in that area at that time of night (or early morning), when we witnessed a drug deal go down. Now, this isn't the first time I've seen this at this particular motel. But this time, the dealer would not keep his eyes off of Joe rummaging through the back of the car, which was filled with expensive cameras and gear. This dope kept walking back and forth, almost as if he were contemplating making a move on us. For some reason, his ten-second walk was taking him two minutes. I can only imagine he had bad intentions. And to make matters worse, Dylan and Liatris were out of sight doing their own thing. I felt responsible. As this guy approached closer, I separated my distance and held my hand to the grip of my pistol. I think he got the message and hurriedly completed the deal in the parking lot before fucking off. We blew through a few shots of film and got the hell out of there. You know when you play Tetris or something for too long and close your eyes and still see the game? That's how it was laying down, but with neon. It was total neon-overload.
Fast forward to the next day. We're running on little sleep but still want to milk this trip for everything it's worth. Another good pal of mine, Patrick Sheehan (IG: @justsheehanigans), met us just past Georgetown up at Guanella Pass. We didn't find the town particularly interesting — it seemed to be mostly a tourist trap. Patrick is an absolute trooper. He's an avid landscape photographer, rock climber, and nature lover. This dude has no quit. Again, just like with Trevor, the gang immediately clicked with Patrick, and everyone became one big family. We bought into Patrick's mentality and pushed ourselves to do another hike. By then, I was just straight up spent. I don't think I took a single photo during that hike that I was happy with. But that's how she goes sometimes, yanno? The sunset provided us with pink sensations cast over golden-brown mountains that surrounded some lake. We couldn't get too close to the lake because I guess someone owned it. Imagine owning a lake off of a hiking trail. Sounds like a load of shit to me. We once again hiked back in the dark, drove hours home, and grabbed a late-night meal around midnight downtown before heading back to the apartment. Now this is where we had to make our final push.
THE FIFTH DAY
After two and a half hours of sleep, we woke up and drove from Denver to Estes Park, arriving at Rocky Mountain National Park at 4:45 a.m. It's funny how the film community works. Just two weeks prior, I received a message from someone on Instagram complimenting one of my photos. We chopped it up, talked film, and the night before our squad's RMNP trip, he reached out to let me know he was in Denver for a wedding and was looking for something to do the next day. He had seen what we had all been up to for the past four days on social media and wanted to link up and get in some good shooting. I laughed at the insanity of what I was about to tell him shortly before midnight. I basically said, “Well, we're uhh, we're gonna go to Rocky Mountain National Park...at 4:45 a.m. if you want to join us.” And this dude came through! That morning, in the dark and cold parking lot at the Bear Lake Trailhead, we awkwardly looked around, wondering where he was. We asked a stranger if he was Scott, and from then on, he was a stranger no more. Scott Bullock (IG: @scottric5) was now part of our growing family and offered even more to an already wild ride. We hiked up to Emerald Lake and then backtracked to Dream Lake in the dark, craving those heavenly sunrise shots in one of the most beautiful places Colorado has to offer (in my humble opinion). This time around, we actually managed to get everything right. The timing was on point. We got the light we wanted. The gang was stunned by views and landscapes they weren't accustomed to. And we were fulfilled and exuberant.
Looking back, I'm amazed at how everything came together: the grueling hours of driving, the lack of sleep, the meetups, how well everyone meshed together, the quality of our work in artistically executing images we were all proud of, and our ability to make the absolute most out of our time together. We all made new friends, genuine connections, and honestly, I wouldn't change a single thing about the trip. Sure, we made some mistakes. But in the end, they weren't really mistakes at all. Each facet of our grand adventure was just a piece of a larger puzzle that ultimately made for an unforgettable experience. There's no real way to honestly express my feelings toward this whole thing and wrap it up sufficiently. I'm just grateful. Well, now I am. For at least a week afterward, I was tired and irritable. But yeah, now I'm just grateful.
Oh — I can't forget to mention this: after dropping off Dylan and Liatris at the airport post-RMNP trip, Joe and I went back to the apartment, found a gritty little spot just ripe for horror/gore-themed photographs, and went at it. Yeah, the shooting wasn't over. This bastard draped me with a white sheet, tied a rope around my neck, set up proper lighting, and poured the most realistic fake blood I've ever seen all over me. At one point, I was holding bottle caps with my eyelids as roses were punched through the sheet and caps. You know, classic spooky season stuff. Please go check out his photos and just imagine the setting: both of us physically and mentally drained, blasting metal out of the back of my car, going at it until we were literally out of time. As we rushed to clean up, I still had that fake blood all over my shirt, hands, and neck. We had to run back up to the apartment one more time, and in the elevator, there was a nurse riding along with us. She had her head down the whole time. I'm not quite sure if she noticed, but I couldn't come up with a better way to end our insane days of shooting in Colorado.
All of my photographs were taken with either my Canon AE-1 or Mamiya RB67 using CineStill 800T, expired Fuji Reala 100, expired Fuji Superia 100, Kodak ColorPlus 200, Kodak Portra 400, Rollei Ortho 25 Plus, Silberra Color 100, and Velvia 100.
This article is featured in the eleventh issue of the Y35 Mag. Check it out here.