It’s been over a month since I’ve turned an ignition key, written up a shoot proposal, hit the gym, or cooked myself dinner that didn’t involve more than pouring melted snow into a foil bag. In a country like Nepal, one step outside the airport and it is quite obvious that a lot of the familiar is long gone.

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English here is a recessive language, and along with that comes the comfort of letting the din go free into the diesel-soaked airwaves above. I find a certain comfort in being awash in other languages: the melodic sine waves of East and Southeast Asia, the fevered crescendo shared by Eastern Europeans and South Americans, and one of my favorites, the hypnotic and patient lull of East Africa. Makes hearing English all the time seem rather pallid, especially when this colorful blend of tones comes together weaving in and out with tablas and sitars on these local streets.

Here in an itinerant city like Kathmandu, foreign tongues lick at the ears like flames. Of course Nepali dominates, rushed but not tempered, and often direct. But walk through the streets of the Thamel district (main tourist hotel area), and the aural sense is treated to a diversity that must resemble the Spice Road thousands of years ago. Language students are given ample opportunity to practice in this crossroads of East and West: French, Russian, Arabic, English (courtesy of Brits, American, and Aussies), Hindi, German and Korean can all be heard along the length of a single avenue.

The freedom comes as part of surrendering to the local culture. My Nepali is limited to about 9 phrases, and that includes climbing jargon. The local written language makes about as much sense to me as it would to a second grader in Seattle, and only a small percentage of signs are also in English. Sometimes in European cities you can figure out what the signs say – a few years of high school Spanish or French and you have a chance with a Germanic language – but short of a Sherpa heritage there’s no prayer of reasoning the flourishing scripts.

So, along with being 6-foot tall and white, the language thing pretty much discounts me from fitting in. I can’t blend, so best I can do is my best not to stick out further. Throw in a camera costing more than a year’s income for most on the streets, and my chances are even more diminished.

However while the camera draws attention, it also helps paint me a professional, which seems to get some respect here. Just like them, I’m conceivably working their streets, and the vendors and beggars give me a little more distance than most. I appear focused on shooting, and most don’t want to bother the guy who’s obviously not interested in their 3-dollar trinkets.

This hasn’t been the case in other countries – particularly China, Mexico and Kenya – where being a foreign journalist lands you scrutiny (often with rifles), taxes (aka bribes), and constant hassling. It’s best to identify with the tourist set there and hope you’re not caught onto. Which is way easier in the digital age – I always struggled to explain why a tourist needs 200 rolls of film for a 2-week trip.

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As with total lingual transparency, also suspended in this bustling city is any notion of traffic control. And up till today when I picked up a newspaper revealing more than a few traffic deaths yesterday, I felt local drivers had the greatest example of organized chaos I’d seen. Apparently not the case.

Over a month in the country, travelling hundreds of miles by car, I counted exactly one traffic signal. A masked officer stood beneath it’s humiliated flashing lights; apparently a gift from Japan I was informed it functioned for a few weeks from it’s installation.

There are no lane lines or stop signs, and it’s really hard to say what side of the road people drive on over here. Seems they favor the left, but at any given moment it’s subject to change.

With petrol lines putting the 70s US crisis to shame, the preferred mode of transport is motorcycle, which are seemingly subject to less rules than their 2-axle brethren. Sidewalks are fair game, and I lost count of the motorcycles with children passengers, never with helmets, and always between the rider and handlebars. They are used as cargo transport with homemade saddlebags and baskets – just today I saw a rider and passenger separated by a stack of beer cases taller than the passenger, fighting its way up the dusty streets.

It’s not far from the city center that the mix gets thicker – I’ve seen countless 400-lb cows wandering the streets (Kathmandu is predominantly Hindu), some of which end up between lanes of traffic. At least they are more predictable than the motorcycles.

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Capturing a portrait of a moving target like Kathmandu is no easy task – especially when the locals themselves are foggy – not a single person I asked had any idea how many were within the city limits.

With over a week spent within its borders dealing with briefings, planning, and official business I still find it hard to qualify entirely. A city of simultaneous crumbling and rebuilding, a ballet of chaos and warm faces.

They say when you go to the Himalaya to climb its not the climbing that leaves the strongest impression – I’m likely to agree.

MAY 9
NAMCHE BAZAR

We were awakened late night by the unmistakable thunderclap of avalanches – I recollected three separate slides, but others reported even more. The same storm system dropped enough snow to cause a fatal slide (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/47320432/ns/world_news-europe/) in Pokhara, with 20 dead and far more missing.

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Unusual weather with cold and snow has delayed/cancelled Spring expeditions, and we are all safe in Namche after reaching a high-point on Ama Dablam of near 19,000 feet, 3000 from the summit. After putting in a strong effort, none of us wanted to roll the dice with Mother Nature in an arena  so beautifully violent.

Standing atop a Himalayan peak is an obvious metaphor for accomplishment,  but for those of us in the game we know better to not risk it when it comes to things as nebulous as those. Whether we top out or not we are the same person when we come down; feet planted on a pile of rock and snow will not make you a better man.

Sometimes the best lessons are taught in failure to reach the top, in which case the true reward is learning. We’ve all learned our share during the expedition – some of us hard lessons. One member spent a night lost in freezing temps, forced to sleep out without a tent. Another had to retreat to a lower village to recover from altitude illness. Each of us dealt with altitude, weather, and total exhaustion – at basecamp nighttime temps were never above freezing, and at high camps they were in the single digits.

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Mountain climbing is a personal thing – just in this journey I was introduced to an expanded range of emotion I had never felt before. From dark despair of shivering in my sleeping bag, struggling for each breath, to moments of pure blinding  elation walking among the most sacred mountain gardens on Earth. Just to be present, as I am often reminded, is a gift in a place so special.

Topping out on a mountain is of course an amazing thing – whether a 8000m giant or a local unnamed peak – especially when all the combined efforts come together to pay off in a heightened moment of “we made the top!” But in reality, there is no guarantee for a summit no matter how much effort is given. No degree of sweat, risk, even cold hard cash (a neighboring team shelled out a lot of money to be supported by Sherpas every step of the way and still didn’t reach the top) can buy your way to the top. In fact, the hardest part about this pursuit is knowing when to turn around. As one of my close climbing partners’ puts it: “There are old climbers and there are bold climbers, but there aren’t any old bold climbers.”

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It’s easy to look at failing to summit as a trip failure – it takes conscious effort to see around the massive multi-headed ego dragon staring you in the face saying you failed. The dragon looks down upon you and scowls, trying to cut down all of your hard work because you didn’t top out. Cutting back is no easy task, but when you reflect upon all that was learned, all the experiences and emotions had – the idea of the summit quickly fades into the background.

On a very personal note I wouldn’t trade the expedition for anything, but also look forward to all the freed energy and focus that for the last 9-months was occupied by a singular objective. Few have the chance to dedicate such a large portion of their lives to such a task, to see if they have the resolve and commitment to stand up in the face of the many dragons along the way.

For every step through thin air I struggled, I felt the strength of loved ones and friends back home pushing me one foot further, one step higher.  It took this army of support backing me up against my dragons to make me realize just how critical a part of life this support is and how often it is taken for granted.  I look forward to returning home and returning the support – a heartfelt dondevat (Nepali thank you) to all of you in making our journey a success.

APRIL 30 – 11:49 pm

CAMP 1 – 18,850 ft

Sleeplessness has me. One thing I’ve learned on his trip is every first night at a new altitude usually means a restless night. But that’s ok – I’m warm in my sleeping bag, despite temps so low I have to keep breathing on my pen to unfreeze the ink and my vitals are stable (ed. note – the pen froze and this entry was finished the day after).

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Most bad situations begin with a bad decision, and this morning proved no exception to the rule. The past few days we’ve been staging at our advance base camp (16,300 ft.) and shuttling loads between 20-50 lbs up the mountain. It’s a grueling day, slapping you in the face with a 30-minute uphill climb with 2500 feet to go.

That morning I wasn’t 100% sure I’d be making the move to camp 1 with Cam, as I’ve been nursing a cold with some pretty strong potential to get worse. I was wiped out from the carry the day before to camp 1, suffering rib-wracking coughs, incubating some sort of intestinal bacteria, and getting used to perpetual headaches. We were low on food at ABC, so breakfast was a hunk of stale bread and 2 powergels, about 350 calories in total. Like any fool, I decided to go up.

I burned off breakfast by the time I was 15 minutes into the climb, and still had 4-hours of hard uphill ahead of me. Once the initial hill tops out, you’re left with am endless sandy ridge with a gentle incline. We were pacing slow, but I could already tell something was not right with my body – every move felt like I was walking underwater.

My pace slowed to a crawl, and the usual afternoon clouds settled over the ridge. The wind picked up and even under my shell gloves I felt how raw the wind was. I dropped back significantly behind cam and finally reached the talus field, a sloping boulder traverse across a hill that went on for about a half mile.

Cairns mark two paths through, but with visibility getting down near 100 feet I quickly lost my way. I was now clamoring through, over, under, and between precariously-balanced boulders, trying to maintain balance with the heavy load on my back. Every once in a while a rock would shift threatening my balance, some as small as softballs and others the size of cars.

It began to snow.

Between the thin air, cold wind, and calorie deficit, I was feeling quite lost at this point. I had traversed too low and knew I had to make my way higher, all while chasing thoughts of catastrophic rock slides from my head.

I picked my way through slowly and deliberately and finally reached the other side of the field, depositing me at the base of a 400-foot 4th class slab leading to camp 1. So far I had climbed 2000 vertical feet and didn’t know if I had the reserves in me to make it any further. But sometimes the only option is up – I downed another powergel, tightened my pack, and started up.

I had been on the slabs twice already to cache gear up at camp 1 ad had a route of least resistance I preferred. Normally these slabs would be a cool part of a day hike, but while exhausted with a heavy pack and tough weather at 18,000 feet I knew I had to be super careful.

You only climb about 400 feet up the slabs, but below you is a thousand feet or more of exposure: steep slabs, rockfields, gullies, and a runout thousands of feet below. A fixed rope hangs about halfway up, but having examined it on prior carries I felt better on my own. The rope is part climbing cord and part nylon rope that you’d expect to find in a trashcan at a fishing marina, and fixed to a single anchor point. Trusting your weight to it certainly didn’t seem prudent.

I started up and moved like I was climbing the hardest route I’d ever done. Move with my breath. Each step slow and deliberate, almost in slow motion. Never committing my full weight to one or even two holds.

Every three moves I’d have to rest, dropping my weight over a bent knee to catch my breath. Eventually I made it up, not looking up or down but being present in the moves in place. I’m not sure how long it took but was certainly one of the hardest things I’ve done.

Cam was already at the tent, and seeing me move way slower than usual he let me recover while he sunk the last few stakes in the ground. He reminded me to drink a little water – I’d only put down about a liter since I started out that morning. I quickly tried to rehydrate and dug through the food cache to find a 400-calorie ProBar. We were at 18,800 feet.

I was still drained but wanted to help get the tent finished up, so I crawled inside and began laying out the sleeping gear trying to make a little order.

After a few minutes I knew something was still not right.

I pulled off my right glove and stared at my fingertips. Blue. Cyanosis. Hypoxia. I grabbed my med kit and pulled out a Diamox tab and swallowed it, but didn’t use my pulse-oximiter (measures blood 02 levels) for fear of what I’d see.

Cam was still busy outside the tent and a few silent moments passed along with the remaining sun behind the ridge. I immediately began shivering uncontrollably. I studied my situation: hypoxic, hypothermic, dehydrated, calorie-deficit, and slightly ataxic.

“Hey man I’m not doing so well in here.”

Cam got inside the tent and quickly instructed me to layer on clothes and get in my down sleeping bag. Even my toes were frozen – I worked my expedition mitts on to try and warm them.

He fired up our reactor stove and began melting snow for water, and in a few minutes I had some boiling tea in my hands. Greedily I sucked down the warmth and the shivering began to subside. We followed up the hot drink with a hot rehydrated meal – more calories means more heat produced.

I was in my base layer, trekking pants, ice-climbing soft-shell jacket, down parka, and 3 pairs of wool socks. Following a quick dinner Cam filled two canisters with boiling water to put in my sleeping bag – I was finally feeling warm again.

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The thing about climbing partners is you literally trust your life to them up on high. Find good ones and you can count on their unconditional dependability for life. Car break down? Call your partner who was catching your falls all weekend while rock climbing. Need help moving? You can probably count on the girl you belayed while shivering on steep ice.

Point is, these friendships are beyond normal context – what better test for trust is there than keeping your sorry ass alive all day?

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So it’s okay I am wide awake right now. I’m warm and alive. I’ll reassess my situation tomorrow, but I’m sure heading down to base camp for recovery is in the cards.

Camp One

Along the talus field.

Along the slabs.

Heading towards camp 1 in good weather.

APRIL 26

BASECAMP– 15000 FT/ADVANCED BASE CAMP 16250 FT

It’s amazing how fast normal takes on a new meaning. We’re probably a 2-day 20 mile walk from the nearest gas-powered vehicle – strange not hearing cars, trucks, and busses fly by at all hours of the day. I haven’t powered on my cell phone in 5 or 6 days, and have no idea and fading concern for the thousands of emails that await in my inbox.

I showered for the first time in nearly a week, and did my laundry in aluminum basins filled with soapy stream water. It’s drying now in the wind cycle. Toilets are simple stacks of rocks surrounding holes in the ground, and you’d be hard pressed to find high-fructose corn syrup, a reality tv show, or hair gel within a few hundred miles.

It’s day 5 at basecamp and we’ve done a few 10-mile 2500ft gain round trips to advanced base camp. Most of us are ready to start the first push up the mountain, leaving behind the cook staff and comfortable altitude of base camp in order to acclimatize a little further up. We should have either 3 or 4 camps, including ABC, by the time we are all set to go.

It’s a different world up on the mountain; most of us were happy to spend a little time up there, but the weather turns quickly from punishing sun to burning winds and snow flurries in a matter of minutes. Basecamp is admittedly plush, despite the lack of American amenities: fresh cooked meals, large meeting/meal tent, individual sleeping tents, glacial stream for a water source and good sun exposure. Amazing what becomes important at 15000 feet.

Life here is a mix of laid back “what day is it again?” and hard work of shuttling loads to ABC. Most of us are sick in one way or another, some worse than others with full-blown flu-like symptoms. For the majority of us it’s sore throats from breathing dusty and cold air at night, alpine coughs, and the occasional bout of traveler’s stomach. Homesickness is a big issue too – when the wind’s blowing hard and we still have 5 tiring miles to camp it is hard not to think of loved ones back home.

Yes the normal has shifted, and by cutting out all the distractions it is easy to see all the superfluous noise in daily life. I’ve often paraphrased a quote about rock climbing: “Monday mornings aren’t so bad when you spent the weekend keeping yourself alive.” From a weekend to a month, I look forward to adjusting normal a few steps back to reveal the important things in life again.

The thing about taking a crew of climbers who live on a sandbar and exposing them to high altitude is the high risk for Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) and other medical nastiness. The air up here is pretty thin – light on oxygen pressure without getting too technical – as equally thin as our sea-level blood.

Even those among us who live at higher locales are beginning to feel the effects of altitude, and while the most effective approach is to acclimate slowly at about 1000ft of sleeping altitude at night, sometimes it simply comes down to drugs. Diamox is a common term among high-altitude mountaineers, and just about the whole team is starting to take the drug. It definitely helps quell the hypoxia and its related hyperventilation, ataxia, and exhaustion.

Diamox has its share of side effects, most notably is a tingling sensation of the fingertips. It almost feels like a spell brewing in the tips – hence Harry Potter fingers.

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Today we got our first glimpse of the peaks that sit in our climber vernacular like reality TV stars in the minds of TV junkies. A 1000ft acclimation hike from Namche Bazar set us atop a beautiful trail and offered views of Cholatse, Lohtse, Everest, and most importantly to us was our first view of Ama Dablam, our objective.

It was a silent moment of reverence, as we all took in our first in-in person glance of what we’ve poured over in maps, magazines, and online for nearly a year. Her flanks escaped the clouds and she offered us a long look before vanishing behind traversing cumulus; a long enough look to see much of our route. Not to say it was inviting, but not particularly foreboding either. A challenge, but it felt like a challenge we were invited to undertake.

Tomorrow we depart for our last stop in Tengboche where we’ll spend a day before heading up to basecamp.

Weather still looking good, and for the most part the team is healthy – keep the positive vibes flowing and next report will hopefully be full of good news about our safe return from Ama Dablam.

Namche Bazar from above.

On the hike up from Namche Bazar.

First views of Ama Dablam.

Overlooking the great Himalaya.

Sherpa women ferrying loads in the high hills.

Hiking the ridge above Namche Bazar.

NAMCHE BAZAR, NEPAL – 11,200 ft

Two days of trekking and 2000 feet in elevation gain finds our team resting in the Sherpa village of Namche Bazar. Perched at 11,500 feet in the Himalaya, this village is an improbable hub of  mountain life quite literally in the middle of nowhere. No roads, cars, or trains – anything in the terraced city is either grown local or imported on foot or by yak.

The trek began at the base of the Himalaya in Lukla, two days and about 9 miles ago. Our team was awoken at 4am and loaded up 700+ pounds of gear into an oversized van. The city streets of Kathmandu at 4am take on an almost apocalyptic quality: fires burning in the predawn slums, shady characters ambling through nearly deserted damp streets in a haze of dust.

We reached the airport and a frenzied weigh-in for all the gear, then boarded an older 12-seater that looked like it escaped some war or another, with the majority of our gear and a local Sherpa. It was a short flight, mercifully light on turbulence, although I’m not sure any of us would have noticed with our noses pressed to the windows, transfixed by giant peaks as kids into store windows at Christmastime. Our landing came as a shock, as the plane barely descended to meet the abbreviated runway built atop a mountain ledge.

After a short second breakfast around 8am we separated basecamp gear from gear to accompany us along the 5 day trek and set out for Phakding, our first overnight a few miles down the trail.

We were all relieved to be out of the overcrowded madness of Kathmandu, especially with all of our hearts in the mountains. Seven of us were granted a permit to climb Ama Dablam (6865m), and on my climbing team there are three of us: Cam, who brings mountain skills and strong ice climbing technique, Meryl whose determination and strength will carry us along, and myself, contributing strong rock climbing skills and team photography of course.

Our first overnight was at a teahouse in Phakding, from where we set out for Namche the following morning after a 7am breakfast. Our day to Namche was our first test of altitude gain, with steep and sustained sections of trail gaining significant altitude, and the pace was considerably slow to help keep altitude sickness at bay. At times the vertical gain had us barely at a shuffle, carrying our gear and water, and faces masked to keep out the dust and dried yak dung.

But the views along the way were worth it – we passed a few waterfalls I am certain must eclipse Yosemite Falls as the highest in the US, and mountains so big at one stop I sighted my camera to my eye and tried to zoom out; the zoom ring didn’t go any further, these behemoths are so deceptively large I was sure I had telescoped the zoom lens in from a wide angle.

Tomorrow we gain our first view of Mount Everest, as well as our objective Ama Dablam just 10 or so miles away as its neighbor.

After another rest day to aid in acclimation we set out for one more overnight at Tengboche and then to basecamp. We have no internet access there, so the next entry may be news of our completed attempt in a few weeks from now.

Weather looks good, the wind horse is in our favor with clearing storms. As always thanks to our supporters, friends, and loved ones. We all wouldn’t be here without you.

Namaste.

Lukla Air - our flight out of Kathmandu.

The trail to Phakding.

Local smiles in the land of Buddhism.

Our gear on its way to basecamp.

The Manju river in Phakding.

Local Sherpa children along the trek.

Suspension bridge crossing along the trek to Namche Bazar.

Nearing Namche.

Prayer Flags high in the Himalaya.

Gear loading

APRIL 16, 1150 pm
THAMEL, KATHMANDU

Kathmandu has the makings of any large global tourist city: street peddlers, huge ancient temple where said peddlers huddle in mass to rip off foreigners, and a shantytown that puts Brazil’s Favelas to shame.

Day two in the city, but with all the travel it feels like three and a half months.  Today we had some official business with Elizabeth Hawley, a huge name in mountaineering who is the in-situ steward of Himalayan climbing. She sought us out to meet and review our plans and team members, but is way better known for work with some of mountaineering’s finest. An honor to meet her and have her attention to our questions during a morning meeting.

Following that was a team meeting with our local agency, going over permit details and acclimation schedule. Their role is to get us and our gear to the mountain, and feed our weary souls while we’re sitting around basecamp between pushes up the peak.

Time after was spent fattening up for the trip – no shortage of great local curries and restaurant barkers trying to lure in the white devils and their deep pockets. At 405 rupees per full course (less than 5 bucks USD) we had no problem with that either.

I was happy to get out for some more street shooting, and happy that the sun came out to bring some of the local color to life. The 400 was a weapon of choice today, and a lot of locals are apt to leave this tourist be if it looks more like I’m working. A white lens that weighs 10 lbs and is normally reserved for sports shooting, it also let me look more focused than the rest of the out-of-towners with smaller cameras. Makes it easy to dismiss beggars when it’s apparent you have a more important task at hand than shuffling through their trinkets.

We set out for Lukla by plane the day after tomorrow, and begin the 5-day trek to basecamp. Until then we should have some more connectivity – hoping to post photos as we go.

Enjoy, and thanks again all for the support and comments.

Team meeting with Elizabeth Hawley.

Team with Elizabeth: Mark, Meryl, Cam, Chris, Elizabeth, Rob, Mark & JT.

Behind the scenes in the expedition office.

Local talking wildlife.

Nepalese traditional momo dumplings, with cashew/tomato curry.

In the Thamel area of Kathmandu, sadly a common site.

More from Thamel.

River crossing - I'm surprised they don't make a bridge out of all the trash damming the river.

We took a side tour through the slums outside of the Monkey Temple, Kathmandu's large temple atop a giant hill.

Local children out from school prove smiles break the language barrier.

Beggars from take every opportunity to head off tourists bound for the Monkey Temple.

More local wildlife. Kathmandu has an alarming number of stray animals, particularly dogs.

The Temple's namesake.

No cable car, elevator, escalator, taxi, funicular, or dumbwaiter will get you to the top. Thousands of steps made for some good pack training to reach the temple.

Tired local soles make their pilgrimage to the top of the temple, where hundreds of prayer wheels await.

Looking down on Kathmandu.

One of the devout in his service.

An older monk makes his slow and deliberate way through the temple area. Seems he has found his devotion.

Prayer flags high atop the temple dome.

APRIL 14, 0830am

BRUSSELS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

The details are beginning to matter.

Outside of the little euro symbol next to the coffee (and the accompanying price jack), there’s little difference between a US Starbucks and one in the EU. Well that and the curried Panini in the display case. Lest the comforts of home be to far forgotten along the way…

I’m one flight of three into my approach, having landed somewhere in the ether between midnight and dawn in Belgium, and 10 USD in coffee later I’ve a small base camp set up in a comfy corner of the airport.

First flight was pretty uneventful, although I can report a glowing recommendation for Jet Airways – super comfortable and very accommodating. I’m no stranger to long-haul travel, but I’ve forgotten just how far the American carriers fall short of their international counterparts. Cattle-call boardings, overstuffed seats, and battles for overhead storage are replaced by cleanliness, efficiency, and warmth. We’ll see if that sentiment holds upon landing in Kathmandu, or even better the flight to Lukla.

The rule when hopping timezones is to try and act according to your destination; I’ve learned just how effective this is, especially on eastbound flights to Africa and Asia. Tough when boarding a redeye out of JFK over the Atlantic, but a kindly stewardess who keeps my travel mug filled with coffee tends to help. It usually ends up in a 36-hour day somewhere along the trip, but it is worth it to ward off jetlag, especially when having to handle so many other cultural adjustments along the way.

Up to this point, the trip was still a blend of grey – a haze of the unknown combined with scattered details. An expedition this big is strangely similar to planning for a big photo gig, the ones requiring months of planning executed by a photo team called into service from across the country. Long lists and hundreds of pounds in equipment, months of scheduling and revising, and a commitment to a week or so of a demanding schedule are paramount to both. Except in this case the cameras are replaced by expedition gear, and the planning expands into a month of living in a less-hospitable environment than moving into a 5-star resort on the Vegas strip.

APRIL 14, 7.10pm

39000 ft somewhere above Uzbekistan

The travel has been pretty smooth so far. I’m about 2 hrs outside of India where I’ll meet up with a few expedition members to spend the night in Dehli airport. About 12 or so hours in the air so far, of which I’ve slept only four, should set me up to crash pretty hard at the airport and wake up early for tomorrow morning’s flight to Kathmandu.

Once the coffee ceases to lose effect a good method I’ve discovered to push through when the body wants sleep is to start writing: I’ve a few dozen completely illegible and equally nonsensical pages of a return flight from Kenya.

This go round the time has offered a chance to examine my motivations and emotions towards the expedition. Spoiler alert: no tech talk here, camera or climbing – just some musings on just how the hell I got myself on a flight bound for the earth’s great range.

An earlier blog entry goes over my commitment, but behind the scenes of the last 9 months has been some heavy duty physical conditioning (6 days a week of strength, endurance and cardio training), medical and sponsorship research, nutritional planning, and gear testing.

Just trying to process the whole scope of the expedition has been an exercise in focus. Small details such as picking the proper power gels (18 lbs of them) took 2 weeks of tasting and testing out on the trail. I learned the ones not to eat – trying to choke down fruit and honey based gels while in the middle of trail runs leads to a good chance of throwing up little piles of blue-colored foam on the trail.

But most of that stuff is by the books – seeking out the lightest and warmest gear, proper meds, and training plans. One thing that stands apart however has been the mental conditioning. It’s easy to get your back strong for pack carrying: hit the training machines with an additional 30-70 lbs strapped to your back. The brain, well not so much.

Experience certainly helps – treading near the edge with hobbies that stare consequence in the eyes hardens the fear response and develops critical focus in moments of stress.

The unknown is a big stress factor as well, and plenty of that awaits, but knowing you’ve faced unknowns in the past tends to thicken the armor a little. Our present unknown may not be the same as dropping into a blank Alaskan wall on a snowboard or making an irreversible climbing move above your protection, but trusting your intuition to make the right decision, to be strong at assessing, processing, and executing with commitment, and confidence in a tuned body to react to the physical challenges in tow helps cut the head off of fearing the unknown.

Being able to identify your fears helps control and use them to your benefit, but that’s no rationalization for being fearless. It is fear that keeps us alive – but knowing when to cut the fear loose allows all the mental energy to be redirected towards the task at hand, greatly increasing your chances of achievement.

Preparing for the emotions of being separated and out of contact with my loved ones has been hard – but their unflinching support and encouragement is as critical as our expedition-weight tent in the unforgiving conditions at altitude. Phone calls and messages help keep the team going and I am grateful for all of those who have cheered us on so far.

For all those following, we’re hoping to remain in contact for as much as possible – connectivity at basecamp is questionable, but at least we’ll be able to make updates to and from.

As always thanks to our sponsors: Petzl USA, Eastern Mountain Sports, Clif Bars, Superfeet, MSR, Cascade Designs, and Cilogear.

I’ve spent nearly a decade and a half shooting on assignment around the US, and have found no other city to come close to the cultural well of New Orleans. The Crescent City gushes with pride – and with sights, sounds, and smells that can be minted nowhere but within its districts. Its language is a buttery cross between southern drawl and French Patois, befitting of the culinary masterpieces of the French Quarter.

Those who call it home do so with fierce ethnocentricity, armed with fleur-de-lis in one hand and cups of steaming Cafe au Lait in the other.  They celebrate funerals with stomping jazz parades, brass blazing in the Louisiana sun. It’s a city of acceptance, and as long as you’re okay with them they’re okay with you.

I was called back to the city for a big client’s involvement in the NCAA Final Four – and between events and stock work have ripped through over a thousand frames in less than 24 hours. A big part of the gig so far has been bulking up the company’s stock library, a common request for big event sponsors.  Fortunately for me this means channeling Robert Frank and wandering the streets with my camera in hand, capturing the city as it breathes.

Shooting street scenes can be incredibly challenging, and requires a lot more work than most people would consider. Composition and light are the two most important elements, and often interfere with one another. You’re at the mercy of the great big ball in the sky, and camera settings can be pretty tricky with the contrast – not like you can just throw on a flash and start blasting people and still remain anonymous.

However there are some pretty useful tricks in street shooting:

See the other person first.

Here’s a good way to play voyeur, and also a good exercise in patience. By resisting the urge to shoot when you discover a scene it allows you to compose and address lighting considerations. This can be tricky if you’re stalking a moving target, for example a grungy-looking homeless dude ambling down the street.  But by pre-composing you can scan the street ahead looking for angles and backgrounds, then work your way to position ahead of your subject. Once in position, raise your camera and pretend to shoot as he walks by, and keep it raised after he passes through the frame. This gives you a chance to test lighting, and are if you’re noticed he’ll think you are shooting just the background. It’s an art in stalking, but one that’s fun to master.

Good hiding places are also key – unfortunately phone booths have been extinct in most cities but anything that you can blend in with helps. Not necessarily color, either. If a walking person sees a human-shaped blob in their periphery you will be noticed, but if their periphery sees a mailbox/flowerpot/railing/telephone-pole/human blob, chances are you will not call any attention to yourself.

Change angles.

Part of the composition challenge is getting the backgrounds the way you want – either adding interest or cutting the clutter. One good trick is to get low towards the ground and tilt a little high, which works towards isolating your subjects in the sky. Conversely, if possible to get above your subjects, you do two things: show depth (of crowds) and isolate subjects against the ground. Difficult part here is gaining the altitude – I’ve gone as far as to climb poles and trees or even wedge my body between walls and pillars. Last ditch effort is to hoist your camera high – using a monopod with a self-timer can get you some good height, but you can also hold the camera and use your live-view on the viewfinder.

Decent Exposure.

I try and shoot manual mostly but some situations on the street are just too hard to get quickly.

First scenario is shooting from the hip. Unless the light is super flat you’re going to have some pretty hefty shifts in exposure, and not looking through the viewfinder traps you to an auto mode. I always go with shutter-priority (Tv or S) to ensure my frames won’t be blurry from camera shake or moving subjects.

Second is mottled light or subjects walking in and out of your ambient. To try and expose manually, especially with fast moving (walking) subjects of different exposure values (different skin types and colored clothes), can be frustrating. In times of highly varying exposure I use the shutter mode, then shift the exposure compensation if needed.

When in doubt, you can set the camera to auto-bracket, where it will shift the exposure of consecutive frames, and blast off a few shots in quick sequence.

Another good lighting trick is to find the good light, then camp out and wait for your shot.

Tell a story.

Really make that composition work for you. For example try putting some signs behind the subject that may help illustrate what you’re trying to say with the image.  Or use other foreground elements to help crop and narrate your image.

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Regardless of your technique, those who are rewarded most in street shooting are those who work. Get out on your feet, and get dirty – street shooting is about suffering for your art. And most importantly, don’t even think of trying this from your car:

“Do not jump into your automobile next June and rush out to the canyon country hoping to see some of that which I have attempted to evoke in these pages. In the first place you can’t see anything from a car; you’ve got to get out of the goddamned contraption and walk, better yet crawl, on hands and knees, over the sandstone and through the thornbush and cactus. When traces of blood begin to mark your trail you’ll see something, maybe.”
-Edward Abbey