The Art of the Shred: Finding Self Confidence on the Slopes

Picture this: an 8 year old, terrified of heights, crying at the base of a bunny hill, dreading the fact that her parents dropped her off at this frozen tundra of a mountain. Sounds like a blast, right? That was my first memory of skiing. A twig of a child, a giant lilac purple helmet, round glasses smushed under goggles, and one massive fear of eating shit and hurting myself. I didn’t like the risk. Wait, let me rephrase that… I HATED risk. I enjoyed the safety of a magic carpet over the danger of falling off a chair lift. I craved a cat track over the slightest pitch of a green run. And man was that embarrassing. My childhood best friend was KILLING it, nailing her pizzas and french fries, automatically getting put into the advanced groups. I stayed behind, reluctant to try something foreign to me. How could anyone think this sport is fun?

Where it all began: Sunapee Mountain, NH 2007

The cold, icy slopes in rural New Hampshire seemed to be a glorified death trap, and I refused to step foot at ski school ever again. I changed my winter sport to swimming, which in hindsight was a terrible idea for a stick of a third grader with 0% body fat, but life went on. The next time I found myself on a pair of skis was in eighth grade, but not the way you’re probably thinking. I unfortunately decided to make my life a bit harder, by nordic skiing.

What’s better than feeling the adrenaline and fear of eating it down a steep, icy slope? Skiing up a hill… duh! I found myself in a team of ten high school misfits, taking on the rural New Hampshire winters in a different way… in skin tight, spandex suits, torturing ourselves on cross country trails. However, there was no terrifying risk in the nordic world, when you fell, it never hurt because most of the time you were just on small, rolling hills. The skis were so skinny and light you could pick yourself up with ease. It was, of course, embarrassing to fall, especially in front of a bunch of bi-standers at a race, but at the same time it was so easy to brush yourself off. I fell in love with this idea that I was truly earning the reward of a small downhill after what feels like climbing a mountain in skis. Who needs the macho energy of alpine skiing when you were honestly kicking more ass beating a bunch of girls in a 5k race?

The race face of pain, 2015

I found such a safe haven gliding alone, peacefully through the woods, over the crowded energy at a mountain resort. It was almost meditative, below the tree-line in my thoughts, only hearing the occasional chickadee in the distance. There seemed to be such an exclusivity to the alpine skiing world, I felt like such an outsider looking into a culture that cared too deeply about external appearances, how fast they went, what lines made them look superior to others. Maybe I just resented alpine skiers because they managed to face fear head on as little kids in ski school unlike me. And my god, alpine skiing is EXPENSIVE.

Despite my high school stink eye to alpine skiing, when I entered college, my relationship to skiing drastically changed. If anyone knows about the lovely campus of St. Lawrence University, you know that you’re in the literal middle of nowhere. Out in the foothills of the Adirondacks, there wasn’t much to do in the town of Canton in the winter besides the weekly trip to the local bar or maybe the international trip over to Ottawa if you’re feeling adventurous. Outside of actual studying, most of us gravitated to explore nature. And the student body was always pulled to the magic of Whiteface, two hours away from campus, every goddamn winter. It was a literal pilgrimage every weekend, and I had to fit in, right?

The guy I dated at the time was an avid skier. He was the kid that immediately excelled in ski school as a kid and didn’t have any risk analysis, he just went for it. He was the guy that raced his whole life, lived for the adrenaline of downhill speed, and had the finances to do it. Trips to Utah, California, Chile… you name it. The kid had been everywhere and anywhere to “find the stoke”. It was honestly a running trend of the people I met on campus, there were so many students with lush backgrounds who found fulfillment in their craft of skiing.

Of course I gave into this glamorized idea, sounds like nordic skiing wasn’t cool enough. I wasn’t pushing myself hard enough, and I needed to fit in. I found my nearest ski swap and invested in my first real setup since elementary school. I dusted off my old snow pants and my mom’s ski jacket, and the transformation began. How embarrassing… not having the newest gear as my friends, but it’ll do with my budget.

When I first went to Whiteface it almost felt like my first day of middle school. Weirdly, I was afraid of being perceived so I got pointers from my boyfriend.

“Carry your skis and boots like this”

“Wear your neck warmer like that”

“Ooh! And pull those front strands of hair out, that’s what all the girls do these days”

There we go, transformation is almost complete. Most of the excelling in alpine skiing is confidence and looking the part, right? If people see you as a good skier, no one will realize how scared you really are to fail.

From those first few mountains back on the saddle, I lived by that motto: look the part, and the rest will come after. Fake it till you make it as they all say! And honestly, I was so frustrated feeling this way. Why did I care how I was being perceived by others? I didn’t care about my appearance, skiing up the hills in nordic. Why was I so afraid now? Maybe it was the little eight year old in me, scared at the ounce of something new and slightly dangerous. Ashamed that I couldn’t be like my friend who excelled. This activity should just be fun, right?

As my skis started to straighten out over time, as I began to carve into the corduroy, those fears of being judged started to fade, I was honestly just having fun at the end of the day. I started to feel incognito while on the mountain, and I loved it. Feeling the burn in my thighs, gliding down icy blues. I started to feel fulfilled in the small wins, laughed at the hilarious wipeouts, and of course, the celebratory burrito in downtown Lake Placid afterwards. Every March came Titus, our school’s annual retro ski themed party at a little family mountain where we dressed up like idiots and skied to the beat of the band in the lodge.

Titus, 2020

Yet when I moved out to Colorado after school, the childish fear returned. These Rockies are no joke and the resorts are astronomically large so it’s a different game out here. Denver thrives on its large ski culture, and what if I couldn’t keep up with my new friends? What if I’m perceived as that slow “Jerry” on the hill? What if? What if? What if? I want to be seen as enough. I want to belong here.

The first time I clicked into my skis was at Keystone in November. Not the best choice, but it’ll do. Two runs open, hundreds of people anxiously wanting their first session of the season. Terrifying? YES. Honestly, it was a little scarring skiing in a literal traffic jam on a slope, but hey, I’m still here to tell the tale.

Despite the chaos, it was eye opening. I saw skiers from all backgrounds: small kids with their pizzas, ex-racers, 70 year-old veterans with pom pom hats as their helmet, college bros in sports jerseys with GoPros strapped to their helmet. No one was judging each other, just trying to live out their little skiing fantasies without crashing into someone else.

Last winter I found myself facing my childhood fears more than I ever had before. Want to hike to the top of this peak and drop into this bowl? Sure. Ski these trees with us? Why not. Race down this empty blue to the base? Hell yeah!

Yet, I also started the confidence to say no when needed. Want to try and jump off this small ledge? Eh, not today. Want to follow me down this poorly covered trail? No way in hell. Follow us down this tree run? No thanks, going to take it easy, I’ll meet you guys at the bottom.

I started to embrace my limits, and told myself it was okay to go my speed and my speed only. I didn’t need to go someone else’s pace to prove that I was good enough to be there with them.

A couple days ago, I went skiing for the first time completely by myself and I was terrified. What am I going to do without the encouragement of my friends? Am I just going to revert into 8-year-old Kelsey? Call it quits early in the day? Well, thankfully, it didn’t turn out that way.

I found myself talking to strangers on the lift, people from all over the country, some locals and others far away from home on vacation. Everyone was equally excited for the sunny, bluebird day, and just having fun. I didn’t feel like an outsider looking into a completely different, macho culture, I was one with the pack.

It was almost meditative, alone again in my thoughts just like the nordic skier I used to be. Gliding down wide open trails, eating it and getting back up, being in silence. No external pressure of how to act, how to present myself.

Midday, I found myself doing something 8-year-old me would have an aneurysm about… I hiked up a peak, to ski down a steep bowl… alone. For the first time no one asked or peer pressured me to do it, I just clicked off my skis and went for it. It sure as hell wasn’t easy. While short, the hike was deceivingly steep and the summit was close to 13,000 ft. I felt my heart beating through my chest from the elevation, literally stopping every five steps to catch my breath. Why the hell did I do this? Whatever, ignore the pain, we’re almost there. When I eventually made it, I felt like Neil Armstrong. Planting my poles into the snow as if they were flags, it was one small step for myself and one massive leap for my confidence. You could see everything so clearly. Copper down to your left, Keystone far out to the right, and huge snow capped peaks in between. It all felt so similar to the fulfillment I felt when I completed a nordic race in high school, just a little more scenic.

Even though there were plenty of other skiers at the top, I felt blissfully alone in the sun and burning wind. In the chaos of nature, I was calm, listening to the beat of my heart soften as I regained my energy. As I made my way down the bowl, I didn’t worry about the perfect line, I focused on the burning power of my thighs as I practiced my slow turns in the weighted powder. When I made it to the end of the trail, I turned around and couldn’t believe what I just did. I did THAT. I can’t believe that I did it alone. I can’t believe I trusted my abilities and didn’t let the fear of risk pull me back.

Moral of the story? Definitely a cheesy one: never let the fear of perception and risk get in the way of moving you forward. There’s nothing wrong with failing, looking like an idiot, and eating shit, because it will ultimately lead you towards finding true magic.

Top of Peak 6 at Breckenridge, a few days ago

Let's Talk About Self Doubt

I’m going to be real here for a bit; self doubt has continually been my fatal flaw in my amateur career as a photographer. Honestly, I’ve been wanting to talk about this for a while. Yet every time I write these words down, I continually backspace. C’mon, has anyone heard of “fake it till you make it”? Why should I share a weakness I have? I really never thought I’d write about this in a career world of selling yourself but I had to share what raced through my head today.

On this fine Saturday, I woke up early and drove up to Boulder to meet the one and only Chris Burkard at the new Black Diamond store. This man has been a role model ever since I picked up a camera for the first time in high school. Not to hype him up too much and burst his ego… but his journey from amateur to professional gave me butterflies throughout my growth as a photographer. He’s a success story that shows you can make this creative outlet a full-time career. I knew since school that my life wasn’t meant to be strictly in a cubicle from 9 to 5 and man did he engrain that ideology in my head. He’s always popping up on my Instagram, sharing his insane life, pictures, expeditions, you name it. Yet, at the same time, he’s continually been this distant entity showcasing a dream life through my phone.

When I saw him today, it was the most surreal feeling. Not to sound weird but I literally had a realization that he was an actual human being. Okay, I was most definitely starstruck and had too much cold brew… but talking with him for that brief moment forced me to swallow too big ass pills:

1.) Yes Kelsey, this kind of career is real and attainable

2.) While attainable, how the hell are you going to be able to do it?

In this digital age, everyone can be a photographer. You can document your epic adventures all in 4K resolution on your phone with just a tap on the screen. But, what sets you apart from everyone? How do you stand out in an infinite sea of posts and hashtags? Outdoor/adventure photography currently has screwed point of view as well. Has anyone else noticed that it’s a prominently male dominated field? Not here to blame everything on the patriarchy but “Macho Man” energy is rampant the outdoor recreation space. Whenever I start editing after trips or posting finished photos on my social media outlets, there’s that little (okay maybe big) voice in my head that asks the almighty questions:

“Is it worth it?”

“Am I good enough?”

“You really think this is going to work out?”

It’s really just a spinning feedback loop of doom. I’m motivated to create by external forces then I doubt my own ability then I don’t do anything. Wonderful. But hey, at least I’m writing this blog post.

So what’s next? Will I just sit and stare at my new, signed Burkard print indefinitely? Maybe, but I probably shouldn’t do that.

It’s time to step forward without looking back. It’s time to push through the fears of failure and take every mistake with a grain of salt. It’s time to finally enjoy the journey I’m on even though I don’t know where I’ll end up.

How to Find a Girl Gang in the Wilderness

There’s something about being in the wilderness that is so novel every time you step into it. It’s like the first time you climbed a mountain as a little kid. Eyes wide open as the tree line thins to alpine ruggedness… finally sitting on the peak and seeing the world in an entirely new perspective. Honestly, it’s just like the first time you look out an airplane window and finally seeing how small and insignificant everything is. I know, super cheesy and Pinterest worthy inspirational but hey… it’s true.

Yet, I spent a lot of my time in college trying to be that hopeful, inner badass 8 year old New Hampshirite but always feeling like I failed. Not trying to blame my weakening confidence and self worth on the patriarchy but… it was if I was mansplained everything that I ‘needed’ to know about the wilderness. I started to lose trust in myself and my intuition.

Let me give you an example:

During my sophomore year of college, I went on a wee little hike… in February… in the Adirondacks. My boyfriend at the time was amped about this trek. He was aiming to become a Adirondack 46er, trying to conquer every single high peak in the park like a Roman emperor in Europe. I on the other hand, just wanted to escape the stress of school and was prone to accepting spontaneous adventures.

At the time my trust was solely placed on a 20 something guy from suburban Maryland. No offense to him at all, but he was also not as experienced in winter hiking as I originally hoped. The hike went as followed: getting lost on unmarked trails, not realizing that the hike was 24 miles and not 14, and to top it off, trekking through the snow in the dark because of a broken headlamp. Needless to say, there was no planning ahead or being prepared in my books.

I was so bloody scared that I sprinted and kissed the trail register when I finally saw it under the frigid moonlight.

I hopped in the car that evening, a little bit fearful of my life, extremely thankful for heated passenger seats and subpar takeout pizza, and honestly upset that I never placed any trust, faith… whatever you want to call it, in myself.

I spent that entire day questioning my own abilities, my intuition and judgment, all because I never thought I had the experience or knowledge as a guy just a year older than me.

And honestly, that’s how most of college felt. I found myself always going on weekend adventures with guys making decisions, setting up camp, leading the trails because I never really let myself feel like I was capable. And let’s be clear here, I’m not trying to roast guys for loving the outdoors too, but have you ever questioned your own ability to be in the wilderness? To be there, maybe even by yourself and feel safe and strong in the environment around you?

I continually resisted the notion that I could be independent doing the things I loved the most…. and it drove me absolutely crazy. Why did I have these thoughts? Why did I keep myself back? Why did I never want to speak up and take action for myself?

It really wasn’t until the summer after that winter mess where I saw some light in myself. In July, I volunteered for a girls’ leadership camp directed by one of my family friends. I had interned there as a camp counselor during high school, but they need some help with their outdoor education program. As the overly ambitious environmental studies major I was at the time, it felt like a calling.

I spent that week, mostly in the mosquito infested New Hampshire wilderness, camping and hiking with middle school aged girls. Each day a different age group would spend the night. From unenthusiastic incoming 9th graders to extremely enthusiastic 6th graders, I began to see this odd mirror of myself.

The youngest girls were never afraid, maybe even too excited to see every strange mushroom and insect we spotted on the trail. They rarely questioned themselves and their actions (which at times was… let’s just say hazardous), hiked up mountains like it was a challenge they were willing to face and set up camp like it was a jigsaw puzzle they were ready to solve. I saw that little girl in me who hiked up a mountain peak for the first time with my family.. just excited to be there, wanting to see the world in a different way.

The older girls on the other hand… didn’t really have that same excitement. I began to see a reflection of that girl on that infamous February trek. There was hesitation, fear, and worry in every step they took. Many of those girls didn’t want to be there at all. It was if they were trying to protect an image of what others wanted them to be.

This past weekend, embarrassingly enough was the first time I’ve ever backpacked with a group of girls. Just girls. EVER. And dare I say it, I felt like like a badass. Maybe this experience is so mundane to others, but it was eye-opening for me. For the first time in a while, I felt like this killer outdoorsperson, independent in a vast Colorado wilderness and supported by the other badass girls with me.

It was a weekend full of winter-like nights being a little too loud around a non-existent campfire (yay climate change for the abnormally dry weather), REI flasks of whisky and hot chocolate, and morning hikes to glacial lakes.

Who would’ve thought that a small weekend trip could be so empowering?

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Hey! Thanks for reading this post. To all the outdoorsy gals out there, I want to hear about your experiences being a woman in the outdoor community. Feel free to share your stories in the comments section below:

Yeah, it's the end.

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Hey! Wow, what a week… time for another disclaimer before you read:

On March 24th, my university decided to extend our remote learning period from April 13th to the rest of the semester given the severity of the COVID-19 outbreak and New York state’s robust measures to contain the virus. In turn, commencement practices have been postponed and a live-stream event will take place on the day we were supposed to graduate. Like my previous post, I’m not here to demote the severity of COVID-19, I just wanted to share my feelings (again) about the abrupt end of my college career. It feels weird and in all honesty, I don’t really know how to comprehend it.

I’m sure there are a lot of seniors out there feel similarly to what I’m feeling. I hope that sharing some of my reflections can make you feel a little less alone in this time.

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Yesterday morning, I was starting a new reality of '“remote learning”. I really thought to myself that it was only going to be temporary, that normal life would continue in a matter of weeks. I already started making a set routine to cope: I worked out in the morning, changed into clothes I’d normally wear to class, listened to my lectures during the times we’d actually have class. I started to feel in control.

Yeah, I can do this. This is fine. Everything is fine. Deep self-reflection about not being on campus right now? Who is she? We don’t need negative energy ruining this vibe. I’m totally okay.

Yet, when I received the email from the university’s president in the afternoon about the rest of the semester remaining online as well as the complete uncertainty of graduation, I fell into complete shock.

It’s really over.

It feels like I’m in a bad rom com where you’re going through a tough break up, but in this case, it’s an entire university instead of an unapologetic guy. And quite honestly it feels like you confidently told the guy it’s over, but in reality you never really wanted him to leave the room.

I know that my classes aren’t technically over, but it really feels like the end. All those mundane moments I had on campus the week prior to spring break were actually my last.

I had worked so hard to see a big, glowing finish line everyone raves about. I’ve waited for that moment; getting all dressed up in my oversized cap and gown to stumble across the stage nervously awaiting my big ole diploma. Will I be able to do that now?

As soon as the email came out, the Class of 2020 Facebook group exploded. I read all of the posts and their comments, word by word. I saw the same sadness, fear, anger, and frustration I saw right before spring break. Yet, there was such a sense of togetherness, like we were all back in the Hoot Owl, crying through the pain with a bucket of Labatt Blues. But I weirdly felt guilty. Like I didn’t really belong… almost as if I wasn’t supposed to feel the way everyone else seemed to feel.

Your girl, deep self reflection, showed up once again.

My experiences in college were not completely rosy and picturesque like the ones quoted in the Facebook posts. I’m not here to tell you a sob story or throw a pity party (and social gatherings aren’t ideal at the moment anyways), but I wouldn’t consider it the best four years of my entire life.

College for me, in all honesty, was a time of incredible growth rather than one continuous, jam-packed party full of nostalgia and “good times”. It was a time where I realized that I needed to make decisions to better myself rather than to appease everyone around me. It was also a time when I realized that I wasn’t going to be liked by everyone. Moreover, it was a time where I realized that my decisions, my opinions, my actions, even my personality wasn’t going to be enjoyed by every person I’d meet. Even if it felt like I was doing everything right, some people were just not the right people to be around… and that was okay. College was a time where I learned what it meant to be a good friend, what it truly meant to look out for someone else and to accept what it meant when someone was trying to help you.

The weekend before we received news about the initial remote learning period, there was a moment where I felt closure and I didn’t even realize I did until I started writing this post.

It was at Titus.

Yeah, that’s right, Titus of all places. 54 miles away from campus.

That Saturday, the sun shined a little brighter than usual in the North Country. I woke up to make-shift mimosas in the townhouse, suited in the most ridiculous outfit I’d ever wear with a thick google spray-tan, and headed towards the buses. I spent most of that day singing, dancing, laughing, skiing (duh), connecting with new people. It was the first time in a while that I felt completely content about everything, and most importantly… myself. It was one of those days where you really didn’t want it to end.

That was my last extremely happy moment being a college student. It was a day where I wasn’t worried about the future and its unknowns.

So… what now? I guess keep singing, dancing, laughing, skiing, connecting like I did on party mountain.

Keep moving forward.

On College and Closure: Is This Really the End?

“This is fine”

Hey everyone! Just a quick little disclaimer before you read…

I have to be clear when I say that this blog post is not here to complain or dismiss that COVID-19 is a matter of concern. I am aware of the severity of the virus and the harsh implications it’s placed around the world. I am just here to express the feelings I had last week when we received news that the university I attend was transitioning to remote learning until April 13th with the possibility of no on-campus classes for the rest of the semester. It was a surreal couple of days that included lots of denial, frustration, stress, and sadness across campus. In turn, it led many seniors (including myself) to deeply reflect on our college careers.

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On Tuesday night, I was frantically finishing a lab report due the next day. I was stressed out of my mind. Senioritis was in full swing and my procrastination truly got the best of me. Under the florescent lights of the Madill Science Library my fingers aggressively tapped away on my laptop in a sweat. How could I leave this so last minute? As I finally submitted the report, I heard the delightful chime of a email notification. What I didn’t realize was that the single email I received was going to change everything that was going to happen in the week ahead of me.

I’m not here to over-dramatize or criticize President Fox’s email on St. Lawrence’s transition to remote learning, but I instantly felt defeated, lost, and most importantly unsure of my remaining time at St. Lawrence.

Was this really it?

My academic career was almost over anyways, but now I leave to a campus where I felt so safe so abruptly. I had spent a majority of my time at the university afraid to do anything. Afraid to stand up for myself, speak out, leave toxic relationships, and most importantly, just be my goddamn myself. Yet, my senior year showcased something very different from past semesters, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Yeah, I’m aware of how cliché this sounds but college was a time where I began to see through my own eyes and become invested in things I truly love. In all honesty, I began to see myself the way I thought any mature, self-sufficient adult would.

Sitting in the Hoot that Tuesday night, I sat around a group of hilarious friends I didn’t have months prior. I glanced around the crowded bar and saw my past. I saw my first-year floor-mates and old teammates, I saw people who I’d share all my secrets to in my little single in Lee-West, laugh and cry with in Sykes, who now all seem to be strangers to me now, passing by with different friends and personalities.

In those moments I’ve seen how much I’ve grown, how much I’ve changed. Sitting at the high-top, glancing down at countless seniors in tears, I had a feeling that this might be the last time I’d be enjoying these moments. This could be the last time we could jokingly talk about our futures. In the moments we knew that we had to leave campus, it felt so easy to talk about life beyond the safe bubble of campus. Getting a job and never having homework again was two months away, yet it felt like a distant reality. I thought that I was ready, but in all honesty I’m really not. The Class of 2020 lost closure in a situation that’s completely out of everyone’s hands.

While the surreality of the situation continued to increase, campus began to morph into absolute chaos. Out of frustration over the situation, students became destructive. I walked out of my house to see people destroying furniture and setting off fireworks in the townhouse quad. I understood being upset but I didn’t understand the madness.

I really had no idea how to feel. At some points I denied it and at others I was extremely frustrated and angry. I understood the whys, but I still felt on edge. No one really knows what’s going on at the moment. I sat in my Thursday morning class unsure if this was going to be the last time I’d be in a college classroom and checked out packages in the mail center Friday afternoon questioning if this would really be my last shift. Do I say “see you later” to my boss if I’m not even sure if I’ll see him again in the foreseeable future? Why can’t I grasp any sense of control over this situation?

On Saturday morning, I packed up my car. I stared back at my townhouse, questioning if the next time I’d see it I’d be collecting the rest of my belongings. As I drove away from campus, onto the dreary journey through the North Country and I-89, I felt numb. And right now, typing away at this post at home, I feel as though someone ripped out the pages in the last chapter of my college life. It’s a strange feeling knowing that my time at St. Lawrence was cut short. Will my graduation be in my backyard? Who knows. Uncertainty can be terrifying and not easy to overcome, but what I do know is comforting is that we are all in this together.

So… wash your hands, check in on the ones you love, practice some self-care, and be grateful for all the moments that we got to have St. Lawrence, big and small.

South Island Reflections

When I stepped onto the plane in Los Angeles, I had no idea what I was about to embark on. The plane painted itself with colorful lights, beautiful idyllic landscapes on the television screens, and Māori patterns painted across the uniforms of the flight attendants. I stepped into an idea of New Zealand I was constantly persuaded to believe. I spent the winter break scouring Instagram for beautiful pictures of hikes across the South Island, dreaming of being in those mystical mountains and fjords myself. I promptly read Dunedin’s Otago Daily Times to keep myself up to date on the local news before I arrived. I saw before me a peaceful country nestled in the South Pacific, culturally similar to the United States, where their biggest news stories covered disrespectful tourists.

When I landed in Dunedin, I walked off the plane into the bright sunlight of what seemingly was farmland. Carrying my cumbersome bags through the tiny airport, I made my way towards the shuttle and drove to the University. It was at that moment when I realized: culture shock can be as small as driving on the left side of the road.  

After franticly unpacking in my flat, I decided to walk over to the supermarket. I walked through the fluorescent aisles, basket in hand, and weirdly felt like I could be in the Price Chopper in Canton, but something seemed different. I was still in a “western” culture but every interaction I had was unlike any at home. People always had a smile on their face.  

When I stepped into my first lecture in Environmental Politics, my professor prompted us with a question: 

“What is the genesis of our environmental issues?”

Students began raising their hands left and rights, some claiming exponential growth of the human population, other prompting capitalism, and several even claiming the patriarchy as the catalyst to environmental degradation. No one could agree. It became a full-fledged debate on who was right and who was wrong.

She quieted the lecture hall and explained:

“There’s honestly no ‘wrong’ answer, like political ideologies, we all tend to become set on our beliefs which leaves us unwilling to listen to the perspectives of others. The key to understanding this question of the genesis of our environmental issues is to understand the different perspectives we all have…  even if you do not believe in it.”

When I left the lecture theatre, her words stuck to me.  

As I stepped into my sociology class later that day, I was bombarded by the harsh realities New Zealand faces with regard to race and class. I learned about a country that still struggles to manage income inequality and fair treatment of marginalized communities. I learned about historical actions by Pakeha New Zealanders to dismiss indigenous and immigrant values through the Treaty of Waitangi between the British and the Maori people and the Dawn Raids placed upon Pasifika New Zealanders in the 1970s.

I started to gain more and more context. I started to see that New Zealand wasn’t as “clean and green” as the Instagram posts showed. Māori cultural values seemed to be more commodified than actually appreciated.  

When the Christchurch terror attacks happened on March 15th, the student association at Otago orchestrated a massive vigil in Dunedin’s rugby stadium. Thousands of students funneled through campus in silence. Candles in hand, we marched into a crowded stadium with families, professors, students, and individuals from all walks of life. All religions had an opportunity to stand before thousands to not only share their condolences but to also spread love. Māori religion, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Confucianism, Christianity, Taoism, and Judaism all stood in unison to stand up against the bigotry and white supremacy that Christchurch terrorist was aiming to spread.

Banners plastered Otago’s campus throughout the semester reading:

“They Are Us” 

While New Zealand is still figuring out equality among its people, there is immense hope and beauty in the country it wants to become. After being historically banned in public schools, Māori languages are finally being appreciated and taught in order to both preserve the culture and educate non-Māori (Pakeha) New Zealanders. The country is beginning to see the value in protecting the rights and culture of the Māori people. During the last weeks of my environmental resource management course, my professor talked to us about the East Otago Taiapure, a Māori-protected coastal area acknowledged by the New Zealand government. He noted that the area was an example of positive social learning and collaborated management between Māori and non-Māori communities to better conserve natural resources such as paūa. Through the technical jargon my professor was stating about environmental resource management in New Zealand, I sat in my seat thinking about this shared bond between two communities.

I saw the taiapure as a clear example of the ways in which diversity enabled a country to forge stronger environmental protection and in general build a deeper sense of community. A homogenization of cultures does not make the world a utopia. Different perspectives and worldviews matter. Diversity means more than simply being different from one another, diversity is a fundamental part of being human. Having diversity allows us to think creatively, solve problems, and foster new ideas. Diversity allows us to build communities and generate a better future.

As I stepped back on the plane in Auckland at the end of June, I saw the same idyllic lights. I saw the same pretty pictures on the television screens. I saw the same Māori-inspired patterns on the flight attendants’ uniforms. Yet, there was something else I could now see. I saw Māori, Pasifika, Asian, and Pakeha New Zealanders sitting in their seats, talking about the cricket world cup. I saw supporters of the Labour and National party seated together already falling asleep on top of each other. I saw a farmer and climate activist laughing about the astonishing fact that this was a 12-hour flight.

I saw the New Zealand that wasn’t on the postcard.

Undocumented, Unnoticed: The Hidden World of Migrant Workers in New York Dairy Farms

This post is very different from what I normally talk about but considering our current political environment and the state of the U.S./Mexico border, I decided to share this project online because I believe it’s necessary.

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Current U.S. immigration policy was a topic I was increasingly learning more about in school. While taking a Caribbean and Latin American studies course during my sophomore year, I read Enrique’s Journey, a true story depicting the triumphs and hardships faced by Enrique, a 17-year-old boy from Honduras traveling to the United States in search for his mother.

Reading that story was one of the first times I learned about the “human face” to illegal immigration. The book showcased the desperate reality hidden behind the ambiguous data and statistics broadcasted on the news and media today.

The messages in Enrique’s Journey became ingrained in me and I wanted to know more… which lead me to open my eyes to my own backyard in New York.

Dairy farms dominate the landscape of the North Country in New York. Many of these places became fewer, larger, and more efficient in the 1990s. Milking work became an undesirable job for U.S. because it was stressful and exhausting. Due to this change, farmers began to turn to Latino immigrants to fill their numerous positions in their 24-hour milking parlors. Dairy farmworkers in New York are almost all undocumented, live in tremendous fear of detention by police or border patrol agents, and are often isolated from surrounding communities. As a major issue in politics, especially today, opinions on U.S. immigration policy have become more and more polarized.

Often unnoticed and hidden, many stories from these workers lie behind the exterior of farms we regularly pass by.

In December of 2018, I decided to do something completely out of my comfort zone.

I met Benito.

It was snowing outside and I was driving in the middle of nowhere. Worried that Google Maps had again failed me, I finally saw the farm in the flurry. Pulling up onto the snow covered driveway I paused and thought to myself, “This is crazy… I literally don’t even know how to speak Spanish”. I then entered the house and stepped into an invisible world.

When I met Benito, he had a huge smile on his face. Incredibly charismatic and positive, he guided me around his home where he and numerous other migrant workers lived describing his daily life in the limited English he knew.

When we sat down in the kitchen, I gave him a large piece of paper and a pen.

“Write down anything you want about your journey and goals” I said.

He began writing down his ideas. More importantly, he wrote about his dreams of generating a better life and home for himself and his family in Guatemala. He wrote about the reasons for why he traveled up to the North Country.

After he wrote down those thoughts, we laughed and chatted about his life, his love for cows, and more importantly, his hopes for the future.

When I walked out of the house to head back, he saw my family’s bright orange Jeep and said:

“I hope to have a car like yours one day.”

The next week, I met two more migrant workers who had darker stories to tell. I was nearly in tears listening to their depictions of their dangerous travels to make it to the United States to not being given adequate healthcare for serious injuries

I was seeing a face. I was seeing real life faces, who have real life stories and families and struggles that are continually being pushed under the rug for a more popular, negative, malicious, and violent depiction of a criminal, an alien, and an animal who just wants to “steal our jobs”.

After talking to all three migrant workers, I went to my laptop. I endlessly scoured through news article after news article to read how the media and the American people respond to illegal immigration.

The comments were shocking. Words of arrogance, bigotry, and hatred filled the responses.

There is such irony in the way that many Americans share their xenophobic opinions while hidden behind a computer screen of people that are forced to be invisible in society.

In this series, I combined both online comments in response to news stories about undocumented workers as well as actual stories from the dairy farmworkers I met. This work is intended not only to show the actual human face to the stories we read, but also to emphasize the opinions we share when we chose to ignore the reality of those words.  

*Out of respect for privacy, I have not included the photos of the two other migrant workers in this post.

The Art of Breaking a Bone and Finding Inspiration

Yes I know, it’s been a long hiatus from the blog…

But let me explain.

While this isn't a story about exotic outdoor adventures, it’ll sure be one hell of a rollercoaster to read.

Back in September I was in the midst of playing field hockey. It was three weeks since pre-season, and my body absolutely hated me. It was also my junior fall, my classes were difficult and I already felt drained.

I honestly can’t remember what I did that day before practice time. All I remember was that the sky was overcast and my head was in a fog. We were scrimmaging, and I began playing defense against my teammate when I felt my overused, almost disintegrated turf shoes stick into to the ground and propel my body forward.

My head hit the ground first, then my left shoulder. When I opened my eyes I could see my teammates looking down at me, confused on how I managed to trip over my own feet. Then I realized I couldn’t get up. When the trainer managed to pull me inside her eyes were wide and informed me I needed to get x-rays.

The journey to the ER was literally the most comical and absolutely PAINFUL experience. I’ve always loved driving my family’s bright orange Jeep Wrangler, but that night, being in the passenger’s seat was a death trap. In that car, you felt every bump, crack, and minuscule pebble on the road pulsating through your whole body.

When I arrived and the ER, the nurse guided me towards the X-Ray room and as he looked down at my file, he read my birth date and sarcastically said:

“Happy Early Birthday”

“Thanks, I got such a great present today”, I smirked, clenching my limp arm firmly to my chest.

The X-ray said it all; my left collarbone is definitely, 100%, broken. From there, they fitted me in a toddler-sized sling and off I went, quickly realizing that I broke my left collarbone and I was left-handed.

Perfect.

When I returned from the hospital, I needed to change and quickly realized I couldn’t take my sports bra off. The multitude of intertwined straps criss-crossed my body so tightly that it was too painful to pry it off.

Is it weird to love an article of clothing as much as I loved that sports bra? That Nike blue sports bra was my best friend; I’d where that thing every day. Yet, I took my scissors, gulped, and started snipping away.

Afterwards, I sobbed.

Why? I have no idea. Did I cry when the nurse at the ER said I broke my collarbone? For some reason not at all! But when I cut off my favorite sports bra, it was like I was my middle-school self watching the end of Titanic for the first time.

For some reason I didn’t throw it away in the trash, like a sane human-being, but I held onto it. After I cut it off, I stared down at it all withered and tangled on the floor. Grieving my loss, I delicately picked it up and placed it across my desk like a prized artifact.

The week after that night was an absolute mess. Sitting in my research methods class for three hours straight while not being able to write was surprisingly the worst thing ever. The class was already difficult and pure lecture, but having to sit there and not even have the pleasure of writing notes or doodling?! Not fun.

What was even worse was not being able to shower because I couldn’t move my left arm without being in incredible pain. So… let’s just say I looked (and smelled) absolutely amazing.

Though I was a hot mess, there was actually a silver-lining.

Particularly, in my photography class. For my early projects, I shuffled around campus one handed, juggling my camera equipment and tripod, trying to find interesting shots in a place photographed hundreds of times. I was frustrated because I physically couldn’t go drive out into the Adirondacks, take a hike, and find my inspiration there. However, I found a new muse.

People.

I began to see hidden stories by photographing my friends and other students, local members of the community, and even myself. These were all subjects I was never comfortable shooting before. I began to see how material objects define ourselves as individuals. I even starting reaching out and actually having conservations with others, taking photographs that portrayed their voice. I started realizing that there was real, tangible meaning behind my work. They were not just pretty pictures of distant landscapes, they were their own hidden novel waiting to be read.

Today, I’m pretty much back to how I felt before I decided to trip over my own feet. Besides doing some physical therapy and being incredibly out of shape, I can move my left arm with ease. The Nike blue sports bra and toddler-sized sling are in the trash.

Through all the frustration and complaining, I came out with a different perception of how I see the world around, both in a broad sense and through the lens.

I know that’s very cheesy to say, but it’s true.

10 Lessons from Traveling on the Ring Road

Going to Iceland for the second time was a dream come true. Since returning home in 2015, my heart was set on returning again someday. However, I was eager to make this trip totally different from the last. I wanted to be truly independent and do so with spending as little money as possible. I wanted to experience the Iceland through a different lens.

So this May Jessie and I rented a car and drove around the Ring Road and into the Westfjords, camping as much as possible as we tried to divert from the common tourist's path. Like any adventure, there were bumps in the road (literally and figuratively). 

Here were some lessons we learned along our way: 

1.) Take as many pit stops as you can (in moderation)

When you see something beautiful during the drive, STOP! Many of the photographs I took were right off the side of the road. However, limit yourself. Soak in every moment when you do decide to pull over but don't stop every ten minutes. Never turn a one hour drive into three...

2.) RELAX, the unknown isn't as scary as you may think

Never over plan. Some of the best days were when we only knew where point B was and nothing in between. Let the road take you. 

There is freedom in having no reservations to abide by. There is an exciting rush of energy when making last minute decisions. I find that the most spontaneous adventures are the most memorable. 

3.) It's OK if something doesn't turn out the way you thought it would

That's why back up plans are helpful (not required though). 

Sometimes booking a one night stay at a guesthouse is a lot smarter than paying for a campsite in the pouring rain. Yes guesthouses are more expensive, but braving the elements is really not worth it after a long day. 

4.) Get to the campsite before dinner time. Always. 

Never get to the campsite late. It leaves you scrambling to set up and make dinner, ultimately leading you to eat at 10pm still needing to clean dishes afterwards. Getting there earlier allows you to relax and enjoy the area (and get to bed at a reasonable hour). 

Side note: never make stir fry when you get to a campsite late, especially if you decide to camp at the base of a glacier. It's really cold. Making stir fry takes a lot longer than you think. It's a bad combination. 

5.) Eat before anything. Literally anything. 

Hangry is a real emotion. Roadside snacking is crucial to surviving a long car ride. 

6.) Speaking of food, Icelandic hot dogs and Netto are truly a traveler's best friend.

And skyr of course. The hot dogs are the cheapest food to buy. At 450 ISK (around $4.21 USD), they're both delicious and easy on your wallet. 

Netto is a holy land. Because eating out at restaurants in Iceland is very expensive, buying food at grocery stores is a great way to save money during the trip. Many travelers recommend going to Bonus but Netto has more selection and is low cost (in my opinion).   

Just remember a lot grocery stores open at 10am... so don't try to get there early. 

7.) Sometimes you may think your car is broken... but keep driving because it'll probably fix itself

Yeah maybe don't listen to this one. However, sometimes rocks get stuck in funny places in your car and makes terrifying noises.

Sometimes those noises are so absurd that it sounds like you ruined the suspension of the car.

Sometimes you freak out because you don't own this vehicle and you think you severely damaged it.

And sometimes you'll hear the rock plop back onto the road and the car sound completely normal again.

So be sure to take it slow on the roads, especially when they aren't paved... 

8.) Keep your mind open to others

Yes this sounds very cliché, however, never be afraid to talk to a local or fellow tourist and ask about how their lives and ideas might differ from yours. '

Opening your mind allows you to connect more with the place your visiting. Conversations from locals led Jessie and I to learn about Icelandic views on tourism and about the elves and hidden people that are embedded in the country's culture. 

9.) There are many more adventures on roads beyond Route 1

AKA the Westfjords and the Snæfellsnes Peninsula are absolutely magical. The Ring Road is amazing but don't be afraid to journey off of it. You need to travel off to an entirely different region, even traveling off to quaint towns such as Seydisfjordur are equally exciting. 

10.) Don't let cost make decisions for you

You don't have to book a guided tour to truly experience a place. You don't have to buy an Icelandic sweater at the gift shop to establish that you visited Iceland. Taking out your map and doing your own thing is probably the best way to experience Iceland (or any other destination). There is no need to book fancy hotels or eat at extravagant restaurants to enjoy your time in Iceland.

A rental car and tent is all you really need.

One Week in Acadia

Sunrise on Boulder Beach

When Jessie and I were driving up I-95 amidst the rain, our chatter filled the car with excitement. Although I've grown up in the New England, Mount Desert Island, home to Acadia National Park, seemed like an entirely different world to me. The island is a destination that's a combination of my favorite kind of places, the mountains and the sea. While I had spent a single day in the park a year prior, I was itching to return to a photographer's paradise.

As we reached the island, mist embedded the pines along the coast. The weather made the land mystical, the overcast sky was like a blank canvas, ready for us to paint the journey we'd endure the next days. Once we reached Bar Harbor, we settled in and sketched a plan for our week. 

When I woke up the next morning, I instantly regretted cramming too many activities into our first full day. 

It was 3:50am. 

Somewhat half sleep, I fastened my headlamp and stumbled to the car. When we reached Acadia after the short drive, the park was completely empty (for obvious reasons). Camera by my side, we walked to Boulder Beach. By my sleepy judgement, I thought that wearing bright blue crocs would be suitable shoe to traverse over the slippery rocks.

After successfully reaching an optimal spot on the beach, we waited eagerly for the sun to rise over the water. The ocean was calm that morning, the subtle waves gently crashed onto the shore. Once the sun rose from the horizon, Otter Cliffs illuminated to a rose gold glow. It was 5am now, I sat on the rocks as the golden light became yellow. Seals swam playfully off the beach as I put my camera down trying to soak in the last moments of the early morning sunshine. 

Once I took a quick nap during the drive back to Bar Harbor for breakfast, I began to feel like I wasn't in a sleepy daze. More adventures began to unfold as we began hiking later on in the day.  

The best part about hiking in Acadia is that every trail isn't too long and every mountain isn't too tall. That inevitably led to us to traverse multiple hikes in a one day. Every single trail we embarked on had instant rewards. After a brief period of "gaining altitude", the trees shortened to reveal stunning views of rolling granite mountain tops gracefully tapering into water. 

There is a feeling I can never really describe when I'm hiking. It is truly a combination of positive mental clarity and self doubt. It is your body telling you that you can't do it while your mind pushes you forward. It is a feeling that encapsulates your whole self. Worries on my mind fade away and I'm only left to focus on stepping one foot in front of the other. 

From climbing Dorr and Beech mountain to exploring the Great Head Trail that first day, we were beyond tired. However, we were giddy for the days yet to come. 

After hiking Acadia Mountain the next day, we decided that it was a necessity to have a Maine delicacy, good ol' fashioned lobster rolls. Seated by the water of Southwest Harbor, we gazed at the boats delicately placed on the expanse. Enjoying the warmth of the sun hitting our skin in the early afternoon light, Jessie and I were eager to see more. 

On our final full day, we checked out Bass Harbor and relaxed on the beach. Later, we decided to take an afternoon hike on the Bubbles that overlooked Jordan Pond. Sitting on the granite edge at the summit, the wind howled violently, however, it felt surprisingly soothing. I unclipped my oversized backpack (that is definitely not needed for a three mile hike) and pulled out the two glass bottles of root beer. Jessie and I clinked the root beers in celebration, both in excitement for what we accomplished in the days we were here and also in sadness for having to leave so soon. 

When we started to drive home the next day, the weather returned to the raining gloom we encountered when we first arrived. Pines hiding in the clouds, the sky was as white as canvas once again. As we drove down Route 3, exiting the island, I looked over my shoulder to see the land one last time. Raindrops dragged alongside the window as my head started to lean against the cold glass. The mist covered island was a mirror to my feelings of leaving. 

I was never ready to say goodbye to paradise.