This is a story about my dog. It's also a story about how and why I started photography.
In 2016 I came home from a rainy city
to a dog that was just rescued from a reservation in New Mexico.
We both had a lot of problems. He growled at everything he saw and I hated myself.
Leaving Seattle was, yes, leaving the reflections of the ferris wheel in the puddles I'd step in,
the late nights underneath the lights with a ball at my feet,
and the coffee shop I'd spend most of my school day at.
But I think it was less about leaving Seattle and a little more about choosing not to step off the roof.
I'd fallen in love (with soccer) and after 13 years all it took was one city and the only one (person) in my corner telling me it was okay - I didn't have to feel this way anymore.
In between breaks from listening to Frank Ocean's Blond album and self loathing,
We'd go for runs. Xavi and I.
Running had always been an ambivalence for me. I don't think I ever really enjoyed running, I just did it.
Sometimes I'd play (soccer) and there were small moments in between the let downs,
of brilliance.
I'd never figured out how to prolong those, and for some reason running just seemed like a sustained moment.
I think my mom and sister taught me that.
Growing up in Utah, we had no shortage of trails and my parents were avid hikers and campers—the real camping, where everywhere we travel is on foot and our only shelter was what we could carry on our back—so I spent most of my childhood somewhere between the red rocks and a leaf carpeted path towered by pines.
As I grew older, naturally, my experiences developed. My hiking boots were now trail runners and my only companion was Xavi. We frequently ran the canyon that was less than a quarter mile from my home. On average, we'd cover over 18 miles a week. Which isn’t much, but those runs became my refuge.
On one run in particular, I had decided to travel the long way, it would amount to three miles out, six miles total.
I’d stepped off of the sidewalk and onto the uneven trail. The entrance is easy to miss, unless you know it’s there. At one mile in, we were alone on a pathway that looked as though it led directly to the middle of the Salt Lake.
Yet this time, I was only a mile in and couldn’t wait to be a mile from finishing.
My mind wasn’t right.
Each step I took seemed to lead me into a darker hole. All I wanted to do was stop running, but somehow I began breathing harder, my watch told me I was moving quicker, the air felt colder, and then, I
stopped.
Where was Xavi?
He sprinted down the mountain side and slid into my legs. His eyes were ready for more. More running, faster climbs and a race to the three mile blaze. I forced my legs forward and kept my eyes on Xavi.
Have you ever observed a dog at its happiest? The best way I can describe it is that they make the details relevant.
The uneven terrain became a game of deciphering our next step.
The sticks that lay lifeless on the ground were suddenly rejuvenated.
The air that blew past us whispered secrets in his ears.
Through the boundaries of rocks, we became alpinists.
The sound of my heart beating in my head became the rhythm my feet followed. And every few seconds he turned just enough to make sure I was near.
As our pace increased, my desire to stop decreased. I appreciated the vegetation, the soil, the rustling trees. They were the same elements I’d passed on all the runs before, but this time Xavi was showing me them. I continued until I felt my shoes submerged in water. We’d made it to the stream. A brief smile forced itself across my face. The flow separated itself between Xavi’s legs, his deep chest, and sloshed from his tongue into his mouth. He awaited my move for us to begin our match of throwing and chasing rocks.
It was this moment, I picked up the rock and looked just beyond him--I realized just how significant all these details were that I’d missed before. It was also in this moment that I became aware of just how quickly these details were deteriorating.
One day, we will be up here and the air won’t be as easy to breathe, the trees less present and the pollution from crowds more pervasive.
I wanted to bottle this moment for him, in all its purity.
I wanted to protect the trees, the dirt, the air, I wanted to prevent the machines and the houses that would soon overtake this sanctuary.
I want to show people nature through the eyes I’d seen it through that day. For if they saw it this way, they’d want to protect it too.
This is where my desire and dedication to creating and promoting work that brings people outdoors truly began. Nature is an experience in itself. One is bound to connect to at least one aspect of it, and that is where, I believe, the development of responsibility evolves.
Xavi showed me these moments, these details. Through photography, I found a way to sort of prolong them. Bottle them. And to show them to you, too.
