The Final Sunset - A Reflection

What’s the most important thing when taking a photo of the sunset? The sunset itself or the surroundings that make up the frame? Maybe the white balance of the photo or the angle of the sun? This is a question I’ve spent the last two months trying to answer. It turns out it’s actually a trick question. On June 12, 2025, I began a journey that would alter the course of my life forever. Dramatic, I know. I let the intrusive thoughts win, threw the bare essentials into the back of Rhonda, my 2010 Honda Odyssey with 170,000 miles on it, and hit the road. Bald tires and all. I remember it like it was yesterday. The first day was one of the strangest days of my life. The open road in front of me with the entirety of the U.S waiting, and everything I needed to survive less than 10 feet away. Dreams of postcard worthy vistas and grueling summits lay ahead. My passenger seat was occupied by my camera, lenses, and tripod, waiting to be used. I was alone. And I would be alone, for a while if everything went well. I was scared shitless, sick, woefully unprepared, and incredibly anxious. But for once in my life the little voice in my head was quiet. The voice that screamed and pleaded with me every waking moment. Begging for me to realize that I didn’t belong. That there was more to life than I was allowing myself to live. Begging me to just… leave.

I had an inkling of a plan. A few major parks and mountains that I had dreamed of standing in (or on) that I had mapped out. Besides that, I had nothing. The plan was to figure it out. To go places I didn’t even know existed until I set eyes on them. The first night of the trip I slept in a Walmart parking lot in Luray, VA, just outside of Shenandoah National Park. It was a hot night, and I barely slept. The dreary, wet weather was a reflection of the mental place I was leaving, in search of sunnier skies. It was uncomfortable as all hell. I loved it. I had spent the last two years since graduating being, well, comfortable. I spent what little free time I had from the comfort of my 9 to 5 getting as uncomfortable as possible. Climbing Mt. Washington in -40 wind chill with no sleep. Packing as many miles and vertical feet into a weekend as one could, and making it home for dinner. Leaving my hiking bag in the car so I could get some peace of mind after a long day at work, even if it was dark out. Killing my body day after day in the climbing gym. I spent two weeks roadtripping New England last year, climbing the highest peak in every state. I slept in the fetal position in the back of my car because I was too tall to stretch out fully. I distinctly remember the first night I spent on that trip, too. It was equally as uncomfortable, anxiety inducing, and beautiful. In that moment I knew I couldn’t let this fire fade, and I would have to go bigger next year. And on the first night of this trip, I was already further West than I had ever driven in my life, with thousands of miles left in front of me, and nothing but me, my camera, and six honey buns. Quite literally all a man could ask for.

Over the next few days I logged more miles than legally allowed for a semi truck driver. The dense, wet forests I had called home for so long gradually faded, and eventually I found myself crossing wide open deserts. Of course, I had picked the hottest time of the year to drive through the hottest part of the country. Checking the weather app and seeing 115 degrees was an interesting feeling. Eager to not succumb to heat stroke, I booked it across the desert. I stopped in New Mexico to visit family, and after a few days I was out again, with California as the destination. It was at this point that the realization of what was to come truly set in. I had no obligations, no schedule, nothing to worry about besides where I was going to sleep tonight. In short, no bullshit. Blasting down I-10 with California Dreamin’ serenading my ears, I was free.

What followed was a blur. The days became weeks, and eventually the weeks became months. I made my way North, up the Western coast of the U.S, sniping peaks off of Google Maps that looked challenging, meeting some of the kindest, wisest, and most welcoming people I had ever met. Some of which I had followed on social media for months already. I exchanged stories, laughs, and even more contact information. I climbed mountains larger than I could have ever possibly imagined, and saw sights that put the photos to shame. The faint first rays of sunshine became my alarm. Each new sunrise was a chance to do something crazier than the day before. I spent most waking moments under the warm embrace of the sun, so much so that I have a permanent tan line from my sandals on my feet. I cooked against the backdrop of towering peaks bathed in alpenglow, and slept under skies that shone brighter than I thought possible. It was, to put it lightly, absolutely batshit insane. Every day was a new adventure waiting to be discovered. One day I would be sitting in a laundromat, editing photos, and the next I would be on a random cliff face, letting a man I had met in a town park lead a multipitch rock climb that I had absolutely no business being on. The world was my oyster, only limited by my imagination. It’s hard for me to encapsulate the sheer amount of fuckery I got up to on the road. It took me all of two days to ditch my sneakers and adapt the sandal lifestyle, and just a few days longer for the inside of my van to feel more like home than my home itself. I had found where I belonged. Out there, in the great American West, I discovered where my heart belonged.

However, it wasn’t always easy. In fact, it was never easy. Around every corner, something went wrong. Whether it be my exhaust detaching itself 20 miles down one of the roughest dirt roads I’ve ever driven, losing or breaking nearly a thousand dollars of camera equipment, getting rained on at the worst possible times, or forgetting a singular sneaker on the opposite coast of the U.S. And of course, it sucked. Bad. Why does this keep happening to me? I would think to myself. But as usual, I just kept going. It was all part of the plan. If it came easy, would it be worth it? And as it always seems to do with me, everything just worked out. Eventually I found myself realizing that I had exhibited more mental strength in the last week than I had in the last year. To realize just how much perseverance I have when the goal means that much to me was a privilege I am lucky to have experienced. I look back on these moments with pride, knowing that I can take whatever life throws at me when I want something that deeply. I often found that the hardest moments were followed by the greatest possible rewards. Despite this sense of determination, I found that the hardest moments of the trip came when I wasn’t dealing with another obstacle, but rather when I was faced with myself.

A few of the closest people in my life have an idea of just how bad it got sometimes. But nobody knows the depths that I sunk to during this trip. While I spent a lot of time meeting incredible people, I spent even more time swimming in my own thoughts, not a human in sight or service to change that. Many days were full of nothing but self doubt, whether it be in the goals I had or if I even deserved to be doing what I was doing. I had more time than I ever had before to look inward instead of focusing on the people around me. I find it particularly easy to compartmentalize these feelings in my daily life, but faced with nothing but a reflection of myself in a silky smooth lake it’s hard to avoid the inevitable. I felt like I was living a lie. Like I wasn’t worthy of doing the things I was doing. Even after a big summit like Rainier, I found myself at a low point. I had achieved the goal I had told everyone was all I wanted, and I felt worse than before. The self-reflection in these moments was one of the hardest, but most necessary parts of the trip. I was forced to confront parts of my subconscious that I didn’t even know were there. Parts that had laid dormant while I neglected to challenge myself in a way that forced me to stand face to face with them. These were the moments where I discovered who I truly was. With every layer ripped away, I could only help but stare at the man that emerged on the other side. A better man.

It’s been a few days since I watched the final sunrise of the trip cast its golden glow on my hometown. A strangely beautiful sunrise, despite what it meant for me. In the last few minutes of the car ride I couldn’t quite place the feelings I had. I knew that in just a few turns my time would come to an end. This had been the focal point of my life for the better part of a year, and it was now about to be a distant memory. My goal that had seemed so far away just a few months ago was now accomplished. Soon I would be back in the swing of things, going about my daily life, taking an extra few seconds every time I walked past my van in the driveway to reminisce. But something was different this time. The pattern of the bumps in the road didn’t feel familiar. This building over there was painted, there was a new sign on that street corner. Maybe I was crazy. Or maybe I was right. For once, this town I had always called home no longer felt like home, but rather just a stop along the way. And that felt right. 

In the days since pulling back into my driveway, I’ve struggled. My clothes still sit in the van, waiting to be moved. My other belongings sit on my couch as if I’m visiting an old friend for a few days. My credit cards are past their limit. I open my laptop just to close it again. I long for a life that I lived just a week ago, yet I can’t even bring myself to do something with the photos I took of it. I’ve started writing this several times before giving up just a few sentences in and deleting it, because I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I had done. I’ve felt like I’ve failed. I didn’t climb enough mountains, or take enough photos, or talk to as many people as I wanted. I’ve felt like I spent a very large chunk of my savings with nothing to show for it, except some photos that I frankly don’t think are that special. It’s a feeling I’m all too familiar with. As someone who has the nerve to call himself a ‘creative,’ and a ‘climber’ (pretentious much?), I feel like I could have done a lot more of both of those things. I could have taken the extra effort to take the tripod out of the bag to capture a particularly beautiful scene. I could have spent a few extra minutes on color grading. I could have climbed the Grand instead of talking myself out of it at the last minute. I could have, I could have, I could have. I also could have woken up one day before I left and decided not to go. It would have been easy. Comforting even. But I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life. Others have climbed harder, taken better photos, and done more in all of the places I’ve visited, all while spending less money than me. But, many, many more have never even tried. I’ve spent far too much of my life being the man who doesn’t try. Who coasts his way through life, hoping that one day I’d magically make it. I may feel disappointed in what I got out of nearly three months with nothing to do except appreciate some of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever laid eyes on. But I’ve changed. After tasting a few bites of a life that I’ve longed to live for as long as I can remember, how would I be able to let myself coast? I’ve struggled since I’ve came back, but I’m the most determined I’ve ever been to chase the life that I now know is not just possible, but necessary.

On the final sunset of the trip, viewed from the plains of Ohio as we hurtled down the freeway, I found the answer to the question I had been asking for two months as my girlfriend picked up my camera and snapped a photo out the window. It wasn’t the prettiest sunset, or the best foreground. I would have used a different lens, and maybe set a different aperture. For all intents and purposes, I would not have taken a photo of this sunset. So, what’s the most important thing when taking a photo of the sunrise? It’s that you take the fucking photo. So I urge you. Whatever dreams stay locked away in the prison you call ‘tomorrow’. Let. Them. Out. Start today. Wake up and decide that you won’t stop until the dream is yours. The times I regret the most in life aren’t when I failed. It’s when I didn’t even try. From one chronic dreamer to another, it’s worth it. Whatever your sunset is, take the photo. Don’t let the light fade trying to make sure that sunset is perfect. It might just pass you by. 

To everyone that made this possible and encouraged me to chase the dream I’ve held for so long., you gave the little boy in me a shot at doing something special. I don’t know who I’d be without it. From the absolute bottom of my heart. Thank you.

Until next time.