ALPINIST magazine

I have been writing for Alpinist since 2012. In the winter of 2015, I spent three months interning at their Jeffersonville, Vermont headquarters. Below, you will see a collection of some (though not all) of the work I have done for them.


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                            "What am I doing with my life? What good is all this climbing? And what good is writing about it; or writing in general? Am I a good boyfriend, son, brother, friend? - all those questions that climbing pacifies and that come back up when I'm in the car, traveling from where I've been to where I'm going."                                

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What am I doing with my life? What good is all this climbing? And what good is writing about it; or writing in general? Am I a good boyfriend, son, brother, friend? - all those questions that climbing pacifies and that come back up when I'm in the car, traveling from where I've been to where I'm going."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      "To a seeker of granite big walls, it is clear that you have arrived at Valhalla, Heaven - whatever you want to call it. But for weary gauchos  and their hoofed charges, this place was little more than one more stop along the way - the last before the end of their journey."                                    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"To a seeker of granite big walls, it is clear that you have arrived at Valhalla, Heaven - whatever you want to call it. But for weary gauchos  and their hoofed charges, this place was little more than one more stop along the way - the last before the end of their journey."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                          "There are joggers here, and roses, and pug-nosed dogs on the leashes of people I'll never know. A million anonymous cars and their drivers, and the fading light of another day. Evening into night. Some clouds gather on the horizon, and I feel shamed and humbled by noticing all this beauty."                                  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"There are joggers here, and roses, and pug-nosed dogs on the leashes of people I'll never know. A million anonymous cars and their drivers, and the fading light of another day. Evening into night. Some clouds gather on the horizon, and I feel shamed and humbled by noticing all this beauty."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                            "The air chills. He is tired. He has no climbing gear, no jacket, no source of light except the setting sun and rising moon. He carries only the clothes he is wearing, the boots on his feet, and the "hard, durable crust" of bread he tied into his belt that morning. Back at the pine tree where he'd slept the night before, there's a small satchel with a cup, a notebook and more bread. No blanket, no tent and no stove. He is in the midst of a three-day journey across rugged terrain. And now he has to find his way down that same mountain by some other route than the harrowing one he just scrambled up. Whether such a route even exists, he does not know."                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The air chills. He is tired. He has no climbing gear, no jacket, no source of light except the setting sun and rising moon. He carries only the clothes he is wearing, the boots on his feet, and the "hard, durable crust" of bread he tied into his belt that morning. Back at the pine tree where he'd slept the night before, there's a small satchel with a cup, a notebook and more bread. No blanket, no tent and no stove. He is in the midst of a three-day journey across rugged terrain. And now he has to find his way down that same mountain by some other route than the harrowing one he just scrambled up. Whether such a route even exists, he does not know."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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