Living just a few miles from the train tracks on Donner Summit, I’ve developed a fascination with one specific type of train: snow-fighting trains. Donner Summit, infamous for the Donner Party’s tragic history, is steeped in the past—and these machines are part of that story. For years, I’ve seen old photos of them carving through towering snowdrifts, their images framed on the walls of old lodges and even our local general store. If you’re tapped into the community, you might even hear whispers about when they’ll roll through and how to see them in action—each sighting like a portal into the past. It’s safe to say I’m a little obsessed. Not with trains in general, to be clear—just snow-fighting trains. Their rarity and purpose pull me in, aligning perfectly with the kind of photography I love: capturing moments and subjects that feel truly unique.
The next few photos I took with my phone of old photos hanging on the wall inside the bar at Rainbow Lodge.
My fascination with snow-fighting trains has led me down countless rabbit holes, spending hours researching how and when they operate. They’re a logistical marvel, clearing tracks through some of the harshest winter conditions to ensure vital rail lines remain open. The very few times I’ve spotted one in action, it’s felt like seeing a living piece of history in motion. After countless hours of watching, waiting, and learning, I was lucky enough to be invited onboard one of these trains. Standing inside a machine that feels part tank, part locomotive, while it battles the elements was an experience I’ll never forget.
There’s something about their mechanics that resonates deeply with me. Long before I picked up a camera, I was pretty into racecars. The sound of engines, the precision of design, and the sheer functionality of every moving part fascinated me, pair that with being able to drive one fast and it was a thrill I couldn't forget. That love for mechanics is what originally led me to photography—I wanted to capture the beauty of my 1990 Mazda Miata, which I still have today. Snow-fighting trains embody a fairly similar allure for me. They’re a perfect blend of raw power and purpose but operating in an environment that’s as challenging as it is breathtaking. Have you ever shoveled a deck covered in wet snow and couldn’t walk for a week from your “thrown out” back? Imagine doing miles of that but head high and in the middle of the night.
Checkout this graphic the Union Pacific put together to help visualize.
And a few images from my first night photographing the trains. I sat here for nearly 8 hours and a 6 pack of beer waiting.
Documenting these trains feels like an extension of my broader photography philosophy: seeking out rare moments we don’t often get. These trains only come out during historic snowfall years, making them especially elusive. A back injury forced me to pause my usual winter pursuits, giving me time to wait, watch, and learn everything I could about these machines.
I’m inspired by moments so uncommon they feel like a privilege to witness. These trains bridge my love for mechanics with my drive to tell untold stories. Every frame I capture feels like preserving a piece of history—maybe even inspiring someone else to see them with the same wonder I do.
Years later, at the Ski for the Love premiere, my friend Shugz interrupted our conversation, stepped outside, and returned with a beautifully detailed bronze belt buckle. It was #66 of a limited 300, cast with the image of a rotary snowplow—the very first train I ever photographed.
“This belongs to you now,” he said.
It blew my mind that someone would think of me in a moment like that. When I first picked up a camera, I never expected it would lead to sitting on the side of train tracks, drinking beers with my friend Naomi, waiting for a giant machine to roll by. But it’s moments like these that remind me why I do what I do—not just for the images, but for the unexpected connections they create along the way.
