The idea of inner distance is a really powerful concept, and I think that with every adventure comes a lot of personal growth and change. I think that the physical distance and inner distance are not so different with the style of exploring that I do. There is an end goal, a starting point, and a big blur of in-betweens that reveal themselves along the way. They both require a full send into the unknown, driving the first mile or taking the first step when it could very well be heading towards a storm (and it usually is). Both have roadblocks, challenges, breakdowns, victories. Both can push you to your limit and also show you just how strong and capable you are. I think that over the course of this specific journey, the inner distance in my soul was equally as important as the rugged terrain under my tires, and I think that reflects in the art. Looking back, I think the smallest moments are the ones that speak the loudest, and therein lies the whole reason this project was born: “The In Betweens”


I think the most difficult emotion to capture was the contrast between how enormous, vast, and powerful the landscape around me was while feeling so incredibly small in comparison. The welcome discomfort of being painfully aware of just how tiny we all are in this enormous world. That discomfort can translate to helplessness or loneliness very easily, and that wasn’t what I felt when I was out there and I hope it hasn’t reflected in the art. On the contrary, the discomfort of our fleeting lives for me always gives a strong sense of purpose. It fuels my ambition to think about how big the well is compared to the puny drops we put in it. I think making sure the feeling of insignificance was translating into inspiration and not isolation was the most difficult part.

The most powerful part of Renaissance paintings, for me, is how the light spreads across every scene as if it came from some magical place beyond the viewer’s gaze. The light washes across everything in frame from some impossible angle that feels almost dreamlike, and that has always captivated me. In nature, of course, there is a very real and binding source of light but that doesn’t stop me from chasing moments where that light feels so perfect that it could almost be fabricated. I live for those moments when the clouds part, the rain stops, the sunlight washes over the landscape in a way that feels almost too good to be true. Fleeting, few and far between, those moments are what I seek in my work. I find them by putting myself out there in the field all day, every day, for months at a time. I think that when attempting to capture perfection, which of course doesn’t exist in nature, sheer stubbornness can get you pretty close sometimes.

For me, that’s all part of the beauty. The long days, the mechanical failures, the lost paths and landslides, it all becomes part of what makes the in betweens so precious. There is beauty in the mud. That doesn’t mean I’m always cheery when something goes terribly wrong, or when the exhaustion and isolation really sets in, but it’s certainly hard to complain when I’ve spent so much of my life dreaming of being able to do exactly what I’m doing today, exploring some of the most remote and stunning places on the planet with a vehicle I built myself. I relate the joy of those little moments that are, as you put it, neither triumph nor defeat but simply existence, to cooking yourself a delicious meal. If you only enjoy the eating of the meal itself and just put up with everything else to get to the food, you’re destined to have a pretty bad time. If you don’t find a way to enjoy making a list, shopping, prepping, cooking, and cleaning, the taste of the meal will fade pretty quickly. If I only found joy in my adventures at the top of the highest mountain looking at the most glorious sunset, the long days slogging through pouring rain and miserable cold would far outweigh those peaks. It’s all an important part of the adventure.

I do! I believe that to really experience nature in a meaningful way is not to take from it, but to be a part of it. I’m not there just to make my art and leave, crashing through places looking for pretty light and leaving as soon as I find it. It is a privilege to be able to travel through these wild places that are home to so many magnificent creatures. I am a guest togo the land, no matter where I go. I think the animals can sense that and I consider it a gift when they choose to cross my path. I don’t just travel through these places, I really live among them for as long as I can. I’ll spend days camped out in the woods just listening and feeling everything around me, even when I have nothing left to photograph. I couldn’t make the art I do if I didn’t also love being immersed in the wild first and foremost.

Home has always felt like a state of mind to me, more than anything. I don’t feel a need to stake my belonging to any place, but more to a feeling that I chase. I think living on the road has allowed me to always feel at home, as long as I feel free. I’ve had my moments of “settling down” and have attempted to live somewhere permanent several times along the way, and it never lasts more than a month or two before I’m craving the unknown again and feeling stuck in a routine that doesn’t suit me. Home is wherever I am at peace, wherever I feel free. And for many years now, I’ve only truly felt that way when I’m on the move.

This is a fascinating question, and I have to say I don’t believe you can really have one without the other. I think that’s partly why I love photography so much. Photography forces you to be aware of things you have no control of whatsoever and how those things make you feel, while also taking control of those moments with enough mechanical skill to capture what you’re seeing and feeling in a way that can be processed, edited, exported and enjoyed by others. The emotional experience of being in nature means everything to the eyes, but nothing to the camera. It’s only when the artist pours their soul into that photograph that it really comes to life.

I absolutely did. Some more obvious examples were passing through the Tsilhqot’in title land in British Columbia, where I had to meet with the native elders and receive a smoke blessing from their chief in order to enter their land. There were times that place felt truly ethereal, like I had gotten lost and transported to some other realm. There were times I was sure that the moment I left a place, it would be gone if I ever tried to return to it again. Another example was in the Hazelton mountains just south of the Yukon, a place that was rich in gold long ago but has long since been abandoned. I saw the crumbling remains of old cabins consumed by the elements, barely distinguishable roads that led straight into the clouds, flat spots of tundra near the alpine lakes that I could almost feel the presence of others even though I hadn’t seen human in days. It felt like the spirit of adventure, the yearning for something spectacular, the drive to seek and find a beautiful life no matter the cost was all around me in those moments. I often found that in my attempt to reclaim the intrepid style of adventure that has inspired me, I felt supported by the hopes and dreams of all who came before me.

I think we all get a little exhausted of the extremes sometimes. The constant desire for the best and biggest can also come across as anything else being insignificant or underwhelming and I just don’t believe that’s true. It’s like drinking out of a firehose and then being told that there’s no other way to quench your thirst. One time when visiting the Chicago Institute of Art, I saw a sketch of Liberty Leading the People by Delacroix that really inspired me. Not the painting itself, which lives at the Louvre, but just a small sketch of the idea. A rough draft that has its own wall in an art museum. That really made an impact on me and I’ve tried to share more and more of the smaller scenes that move me throughout my travels and not just the most unbelievably epic ones. I don’t want beauty to feel prescribed to the viewer, like unless the feeling is of a certain caliber that the feeling doesn’t matter. Feelings are feelings. Small moments matter too, and that small sketch of your enormous painting might also be in a museum someday. Don’t underestimate how impactful the quiet can be.

Every journey has its final day— don’t rush.