The year reset itself the moment my boots hit snow again.

One full year of adventures in the books—twelve months of chasing light, bad weather, good stories, and whatever strange corner of Oregon decided to reveal itself. That chapter closed quietly, no fireworks, just a sense of earned exhaustion. But the road doesn’t stay quiet for long. It never does. And before the ink was dry on last year’s final page, the next one was already clawing its way open.

So we pointed ourselves back toward the McKenzie River corridor—old familiar territory that still manages to feel feral and unpredictable if you approach it with the right mindset. This wasn’t a victory lap. This was a reminder. A recalibration. A test to see if the blood still moved the right way when the air got cold and the trail disappeared under snow.

Little Nash Sno-Park was first. Snowshoes strapped on like medieval contraptions designed to humble modern arrogance. Every step was a negotiation with gravity, balance, and lungs that hadn’t quite forgiven me yet. The forest stood tall and indifferent, black trunks punching through white silence. No politics. No noise. No algorithms screaming for attention. Just breath, crunch, pause. Breath, crunch, pause. The kind of rhythm that clears static from your skull whether you ask it to or not.

Somewhere out there, between the trees and the unbroken snow, the weight of the last year finally shifted. Not gone—but redistributed. Manageable. Honest.

Then Sahalie Falls—roaring like it had something urgent to say. Water doesn’t whisper out here; it preaches. It throws itself over basalt cliffs with zero concern for spectators, cameras, or meaning. Long exposures turned chaos into silk, time stretched thin enough to touch. The falls reminded me that movement doesn’t always look violent—sometimes it looks smooth because it never stopped moving in the first place.

Blue Pool loomed nearby, that unreal, chemically impossible shade of blue that feels like a prank played by the universe. We didn’t go far—just enough to feel the pull of it, enough to remember that some places don’t need you crawling all over them to leave an impression. There’s restraint in knowing when to stop. Took me years to learn that.

Belknap Hot Springs followed, quieter than expected. The lodge, the gardens, the ghosts of conversations soaked into the wood. Places like that always feel like they’re holding onto stories just out of reach—laughter from decades ago, exhaustion dissolving into steam, secrets whispered and forgotten. I wandered with the camera, hunting for those in-between moments where the place reveals itself accidentally.

And somewhere between snowshoe tracks, waterfalls, frozen trails, and steaming pools, it hit me: this wasn’t the start of something new.

It was the continuation of something necessary.

This isn’t about checking locations off a list or stacking miles like trophies. It’s about staying awake. About refusing to let routine anesthetize curiosity. About stepping back into the wild—not to escape life, but to remember how it’s supposed to feel.

The year rolled over. The calendar flipped. But the mission stayed the same.

Keep moving.

Keep looking.

Keep documenting the madness and the quiet in equal measure.

Because as long as there’s snow underfoot, water crashing through stone, and light worth chasing through trees—I’m not done yet.