Dalton had been in the industry for years. He’s the kind of guy who didn’t really know what YouTube was until he was 20, and steered clear of social media for years after. In a field where platforms like Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok are practically required to build momentum and feed the capitalism machine, Dalton managed to find success on his own terms.

We had a few things in common. Both of us were Division I collegiate athletes—same sport, same era. We may have played against each other once or twice, but this was the first time we’d actually met. And despite holding degrees that had nothing to do with photography or film, we both found ourselves in Bishop, cameras in hand, trying to make images that meant something—and maybe even make a dollar or two along the way.

It would be an understatement though to say Dalton had more experience than I did. And lucky for my keen ears, he had a lot to say about how he got here. He spoke about the people he looked up to—mentors and creators whose careers he studied like case studies, building his own path by learning from theirs.

We spent a few days climbing together at Happy Boulders and Owens River Gorge, trading stories, sharing a cold plunge, a run, and a few good meals. I learned a lot. Some of it I didn’t necessarily want to hear, but likely needed to.

The short version: passion projects take a lot more time, money, and support than I had. My passive income could support my travel, but not the kind of intentional, high-quality projects I had dreamed about. And finding people who not only believed in those projects but were willing to back them—financially or otherwise, in this on the move environment—wasn’t going to be easy.

This was the first hard reality check of trying to do photography and videography full-time.

I had this idea for a surf film along the Oregon coast—something mellow and beautiful, strung together with the song “I Need You” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. It would open with a black screen and the first heavy guitar strum, cutting into B-roll of long, windswept beaches and misty cliffs. I was going to use my DJI Osmo Action Cam, Mini 4 Pro drone, and Sony a7IV to build a moody visual narrative of solitude and movement—just for fun, just because it felt right.

A few weeks prior, I had friends lined up to come with me. It was going to be simple, low-budget, and satisfying. But the delays to my trip threw off the timing, and the window closed. I realized that coordinating people on the fly—especially on a solo trip like this—was going to be much harder than expected.

So I had to shift. Instead of building planned shoots, I’d have to pivot to moments of inspiration and opportunity. And those moments are harder to come by than you think. Chasing inspiration is a gamble. The best images usually come from either careful pre-planning… or those rare, organic moments when everything just clicks—the lighting, the mood, the composition, the emotion.

That meant I had to be faster with my camera, sharper with my instincts, and more confident in unfamiliar shooting conditions. There was no more time to hesitate or overthink—skills I hadn’t quite built up yet. It’s hard to grow in that way without practice. And it’s even harder without people willing to let you fumble through those imperfect attempts.

Luckily, Dalton—despite not being used to being in front of the lens—let me take a few portraits of him in the harsh lighting near the Happy Boulders. Looking back at those shots, I liked the composition, but I hated the edit. The lighting was off, and I felt out of my depth.

But honestly, that’s what I needed. It was uncomfortable, imperfect, and real. That session—flawed as it was—was one step closer to getting better. And that’s what this trip is really about.