Prose: Nicholas Pascarella
Photography: Nicholas Pascarella, James Woodard, Mike Henry, Sean Mitchell, Christopher Lohff, Sam Martinez, Kyle Okamoto, Rohan Patel

It was about Denver that we hit pretty significant, sustained turbulence. I happened to be watching Coyote lazy-roll his Rhino in g-LOC, and my early breakfast started making requests to punch out. I could have been sleeping comfortably in my bed, waking slowly over coffee, strolling around the frozen yard picking up sticks for fire kindling; yet I was sardined into a tylenol capsule, strapped to a too-small seat, pressed against an open-mouth snoring, armrest-stealing row-mate, hopelessly thinking smooth thoughts, and breathing slowly through as many layers of cloth as possible in a sad attempt to try and avoid row-mate's horrendous breath and keep my meager breakfast in my stomach. A refrain echoing from the past rushed to present itself in neon lighting, right in front of my thoughts: Why am I doing this again?

Years ago when I came out this way, it was for mental respite; a chance for my soul to breathe. Suffocated by a decade of city grind, the elixir had become the expanse of the high desert. That's all the reason I needed to come back. The return was heavy, having seen the other side of a pandemic that took my livelihood away and dispirited me to a very rocky bottom. I landed, scampered off the plane with a fervor, linked with James (@3.61media), and as we drove across the endless sand away from civilization, up the long, straight roads north, skirting towering, snow capped monstrosities, tears slid down my cheeks. This was no longer a desperate escape, this was a Mecca's pilgrimage.

The same desert welcomed the same me, but we had both changed since my last visit years ago. Like a time-lapse of dunes shifting, the lines on my face have deepend. More grays have appeared in a beard that has steadily gotten more haggard and thick. My hair, a little more unkempt. The youth that once inflated my cheeks and puffed out my chest has withdrawn into taut, pursed lips and a clicking jaw. A furrowed brow. Anxiety.

The miles passed, and the desert embraced us as she did years ago. But, as lovers do, she threw us some painful jabs this time. The surprise weather aside, she provided a peace all her own. The giant majesties rule here. As far as my thoughts flew, they were met with universal space to expand into, wholly free from restriction. Pieces of my being attached to the sand, traces of my hopes and fears scattered with the wind, leaving me with just...me. Nothing more, nothing less. A present from the present. It's a full-send Let Go; a sustained state of meditation - if one allows it.

Humbled by the planet doesn't begin to describe the feeling of smallness at the foot of the Sierras. The craggy peaks often jutted up into clouds, or created their own. They'd always catch light first in the mornings, and last in the evenings, creating otherworldly terrain bursting with light, while the entire valley or desert floor was chill with shadow. We battled our way west through heavy rainstorms, scud-running foothills under dark skies before finally popping out the other side into the bright clear. We set up shop on the ground in a favorable spot for the back half of the first afternoon, hoping for any low level action before sundown. It was not to be, although we heard plenty of noise echoing across the deep blue above us.

The next morning, we had the supreme good fortune to align our schedules with our friends Sam (@sactownavphoto), Sean (@ronritchell), Chris (@lohffingfoto) and Mike (@mykenry, our Canyon sherpa from Jedi), and off we went into the heavy, frozen mist, in search of the wild jets that inspire us to create the art that we do.

We drove for an hour and got hit with 'Washouts Ahead' and 'Road Closed' signs, so we promptly turned around, drove an hour back, and climbed a huge pile of rocks in the dense fog, ascending 1000 feet straight into a cloud. The rocks were loose, occasionally giving out under our feet or breaking off in our hands as we tried to hug the incredibly steep angle of the pile. Finding the line up was challenging, especially without any horizon or ground to refer to. My bearings were as loose as the rocks; I had to lean against the hill a number of times, focusing on the next 10 feet up in front of me just to keep from getting dizzy. Staring into the haze of nothingness on one side of me on a nearly vertical slope was a senses twister.

Up top was otherworldly: gigantic boulders often had perfect holes carved out of the center of them. They loomed like giants above us no matter where we stood, fading into the fog as we moved. Naturally occuring turquoise dotted the sand below our feet, some of it particularly deep in color. We crossed over to the other side of the pile in hopes of any clearing at all, and I had the distinct impression that this was someone's sci-fi, alternate planet movie set. Every breath was a steam vent. My beard became the keeper of the moisture and collected the fog in droplets that would drip down the front of my jacket. The cloud hung around for hours, canceling opportunity after opportunity as we heard fighter aircraft thunder just overhead and out of sight.

When the fog finally started clearing, it happened remarkably fast. At first, the snow capped peaks materialized through the tops of the cloud, appearing significantly higher than I expected and making me dizzy all over again. It felt like they were on top of me as I stood amongst the gigantic boulders resting on the side of the hill. Eventually, it all moved out and revealed the desert floor, dotted with huge lakes of water from the catastrophic storms that had moved through just prior to our arrival. The colors appeared in smears of soft, cool gradients, the lakes reflecting the sky, and the sky filtering light across the scene in thin layers of textured clouds.

We did not have the pleasure of seeing a single pass on that day. As gorgeous as it would have been, it's just one of those things, chasing glory on the low level. Frustrating...but it's also what keeps one coming back; chasing one's personal money shot. Be it the perfect topside in the sunset shadows of the rocks, or head-on just below the snowy horizon, or maybe a banking front three-quarter, wide and showing the textures and layers of the desert beyond the aircraft, with jelly and vapor stretching out beyond the frame... from the rock pile, looking into this heavenly scene, it was not to be. On this trip, at least. We resigned to the skunking, and carefully picked our way down.

The following day we got up earlier and tried the spot from the day before, only to find the same 'Road Closed' sign, along with road crews that advised us not to disregard the sign. The storms earlier in the week had washed out part of the road; we had to take the long way, which we had even less information about. Meandering roads led us up and over passes and spilled us out into eternity-straight strips of asphalt, pointed like an arrow at the next set of mountains. They always seemed impossibly distant; like scale models set up across the room. But as far as they were, they came and went with the time, as light filtered in around us.

'Chains Required' one sign said, followed by a more permanent sign declaring a 'Single Lane Road Ahead' where two mountains seemed to connect ahead of us. Between the giants, a narrow, snow-covered pass revealed itself and we trekked it cautiously. The pass dumped us onto the other side, guiding us to yet even more distant, sunkissed peaks; a pathway beacon in the early morning hours. We finally exited the paved road into the sand, and that was when things took a turn.

Well, to be fair, the torrential river of runoff during the storms took a turn. And took the road with it.

In about seven places.

In certain spots off the road, the cut through the desert was human-sized - at least 6 feet in height. At the storm's peak, the amount of water moving through this area must have been truly terrifying. Despite the wild circumstances that caused these washouts just a day or two prior, there was no running water any longer, and the weather was safe for us to give it a shot. So, we did.

Each washout needed careful observation, judging the height of the cuts and the best angles of approach. We all grabbed rocks and built ramps from the dry river bed up to the road, shoveling, smashing and punk-stomping the hard-packed sand down into the washout to help the grade. The cuts were occasionally 18" from washout to road. We had a Jeep and a truck with knobby tires thankfully; our rental sedan would have gone belly up at the first washout, but even still, these mini-cliffs were no joke.

We were literally the first ones through the area after the storm - the California park authorities requested detailed information from us regarding the condition of the roads. Every few hundred yards, we'd follow the same pattern: everyone jumping out of the vehicles, calculating angles, communicating on the approach line, and getting to work beating, building, stacking, digging and swearing as we battled to make the roads passable, sweating in the dawn's early light. Each successful section traversed elicited cheers from the crew, and we hustled back into the vehicles for the next round.

After what felt like an entire morning of driving and road building, we finally made it into the sandy expanse we were after. We noticed makeshift signs for a stranded motorist, and Chris, Sean and Sam split off from us in an attempt to help the poor guy. After a period of time, they finally got his truck running and made their way to us; we had a head start. We mushed our way up a huge dune, taking three steps of work for every one step up, sucking wind in the higher elevation. The sun continued her upward trajectory and flushed our scene with morning light; the high desert laid out like a sand carpet for fairy tale giants. We filtered along the ridge and made ourselves comfortable, tamping down little areas for our gear and our butts, munching on granola and hydrating after soaking our coats in perspiration on the hike up.

When pushed off the ridgeline, the fine sand made itself into a film and slowly cruised down the slope in a sheet until it ran out of steam, creating random patterns on the dunes. Little yellow birds chirped and flew around in small flocks, landing on the dune slopes and creating little funny disturbances in the sand. Shadows moved across the scene with time-lapse speed.

And then, at long last, came what we were after: "Jet!"

Approaching through a gap in the mountains some 10 miles distant, a single fighter aircraft floated into our scene. Maneuvering below the mountain ranges, entirely silent, we all fired little bursts as the aircraft approached. Without a visual, something could creep up on you mighty quick if you're caught sleeping out here. This part of the low level route is unpredictable and wide, so the aircraft that came this way didn't always go the way we wanted them to; this one went belly-up and roared behind the dunes, slipping out of sight.

Occasionally, however, they'd follow the dirt road over to us, racing their shadows across the desert floor, and peering at us through their canopy as they passed, no doubt curious who these maniacs were on top of a pile of sand in the middle of nowhere. They'd follow the valleys in the far mountains and disappear behind the ones closer to us, leaving only the rumbling of their engines and occasionally vapor vortices for us to savor.

Despite the previous few days, the weather on this day was perfect. Perched up high, any jet we were lucky enough to have come our way usually stayed below the bacon-colored rocks in front of us, and we even had a few of my dream-scheme blue 64th Aggressors' jets rip through our scene, ripe with hot and cold-war colors. At the end of the day, coming down off the sand was much easier than the rocks the day prior, and much safer at that, although we all had inadvertently taken a few scoops of sand home in our boots. We traveled the 'Closed' road home and found no major issues thankfully, wearing exhausted smiles with cards full of photos.

The next morning, we got up very early one more time, and drove south under purple haze skies. Tucking between mountain ranges, the landscape ranged from night-dark to glowing pink with each turn. The lake revealed herself to us as we rounded bends in the pre-dawn light, flooding me with nostalgia. Then the river; flashbacks of my last trip here resurfaced - the warmth of cold memories flowing back into my mind as I created new ones simultaneously. Rediscovering those pieces of myself I left behind on my last trip was a powerful reminder: things change, no matter how permanent something seems. I was struggling the last time I was here.

On this day, however, the only thing struggling was our patience, as multiple jets entered the valley high, well above the horizon. Once again; just another one of those things. But, despite the high clouds, the weather was pleasant. We had split off from the crew and watched them through our telescopes climbing a massive hill; tiny specs on an endless vertical plane dotted with boulders, making seemingly no progress as they toiled with their gear, up and up - another stark reminder of the sheer immensity of this place.

Not everything was too high. The Flying Jennies came by with a few C-130s, fantastically low and slow, the turboprops whining and grinding as they cruised the valley, and a Rhino pilot came by mid-morning with an absolutely show-stopping rager of a pass. Quite a punctuation mark at the end of our western journey.

As we headed out, we saw tiny figures humping it down the hill, coming from a different area than our other buddies. As enormous as this area is, it was difficult to see them on the slopes before they got even halfway down; just miniature humanoid shapes with elongated appendages (walking sticks) and hunchbacks (loads of photography gear) lost amongst the trees and boulders dotting the hillside. We slowed as they approached, and as they got closer they revealed themselves to be Rohan (@photo_rohan) and Kyle (@photographyish) - we got to finally meet in person and chatted for a few minutes before we officially hit the road.

Off into the naked desert we flew. The setting sun threw bruise-purples and reds along the horizon as she slipped under the last cloud layer, drawing the shade-line up the distant mountains while everything else darkened with shadow. First in the mornings, last in the evenings: the glowing mountains seemed to always lead us home - wherever home happened to be that day.

The infinity-straight roads, now heavy with dusk, were illuminated by a string of sparkling diamonds laid against the desert floor. The flickering red shine of brake lights increased in ferocity as we reached our destination, and a wave of tiredness dropped on me like an anvil. After another sleepless night with a snoring flight neighbor, a few miserably long train rides, digestive problems ending in foul-smelling public toilets while juggling all of my gear, and forcing down poor-tasting, overpriced food, my wife pulled me out of the spin, and took me home.

Home always feels like so much more with the richness of experience and friends from places afar. The effort and sacrifice is always worth it in the end; the pain fades. The zen-stripping of unnecessary thoughts boiled the fat off the bone, and healed fractures aside, the core shines just a little brighter than before. Even with such successes as this, there will always be a pull; back to the sandy infinity, chasing that desert high.