Growing up, Yosemite National Park wasn’t just a destination; it was a tradition. Every summer, my family orchestrated a finely tuned operation to secure campsites. It was like a military campaign – my parents had the date and time down to a science, gathering multiple families to log in and book sites all at once, ensuring we had a cluster of spots reserved for the same dates. It’s funny looking back now because that same system is what I use today for Burning Man—only this time, my girlfriend Jessica and I are the ones rallying the troops for tickets.
As much as I loved the anticipation of those Yosemite trips, there was one part I absolutely dreaded: sleeping in a tent on the ground out in nature. I was terrified of the dark as a kid, and I'm not going to lie, even now I don’t sleep well in a tent. But the days more than made up for the nights. Those two weeks every summer were my first taste of real freedom. I’d hop on my bike and disappear over to Curry Village, weaving through towering pines and soaking in the fresh air, without a care in the world, I’d skip rocks across the Merced river, and later in life I’d even find myself drinking beers with my closest friends after big adventures. Yosemite became my playground, where I learned to immerse myself in nature, exploring as many corners of the valley with endless curiosity.
It’s also where I tackled my first big hikes. One summer morning, when I was in 5th or 6th grade, my family and I had driven up to Glacier Point. I had the choice to join my brother and his friends on a hike from there to Half Dome and down to the valley floor.
For those who aren’t familiar, that’s a 19-mile day hike. I can still remember standing at the trailhead, staring across the valley at the massive granite face that is Half Dome and feeling both intimidated and excited. That hike stuck with me to this day – a mix of exhaustion, exhilaration, and living so fully in the moment that I became addicted to the feeling. It was the first big trek my brother and I had done together, and over time, the meaning of that experience has only grown.
There’s something special about sharing that kind of journey with a sibling, especially when it becomes a memory you both carry with you. Years later in college, Yosemite would challenge me again, this time with the biggest multipitch rock climb I’ve ever done: Crest Jewel, a 1200-ft, 14-pitch lead climb on North Dome with some of the most insane views of Half Dome. It’s pretty mind blowing to me when I look back and think about how the same granite that once seemed so daunting as a kid became the canvas for one of my proudest climbing achievements.
Looking back, it’s clear that Yosemite played a huge role in shaping who I am today. Those early experiences in the park ignited my love for beautiful landscapes, a passion that’s only grown stronger over the years. Even before I knew who Ansel Adams was, his work was quietly influencing me. His black-and-white images of Yosemite were everywhere in the park, and while I didn’t fully appreciate them as a kid, they planted a seed. I think it’s no coincidence that my own photography often feels like a way of reconnecting with those early moments of my own self discovery.
And then there’s the story of the Firefall. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a phenomenon where the setting sun hits Horsetail Fall just right, making it glow kinda like molten lava. Last winter, I decided to try and capture it for the first time. I was dealing with a herniated disk in my spine at the time, which made the hike up the southern side of the valley—a less crowded spot than the valley floor—a bit more of a challenge. But I couldn’t resist seeing something so rare in a place I feel so familiar. Every step of that hike was a reminder of why I do what I do: I like to take cameras where most people don’t go.
Yosemite has been many things to me over the years: a childhood playground, a proving ground for big adventures, and a constant source of inspiration. It’s a place where I’ve grown, struggled, and celebrated. And every time I return, it feels like coming home.
