“Every ounce matters.”
That’s Trail Boss talking.
It’s what I affectionately call my husband, who has far more backpacking experience than I do. When everything you need to survive is strapped to your back, weight isn’t just a number—it’s energy, comfort, and sometimes the difference between enjoying the journey and simply enduring it.
So when I insisted on bringing my camera, he wasn’t exactly thrilled.
To be fair, I shoot with a mirrorless camera, so the body is relatively light. My lens choice, however, was another story.
I packed my Fuji 16–80mm.
It’s probably my least favorite lens, but it gave me the versatility I wanted. If I’m being completely honest, there was another reason. If something happened to it on the trail…well…there’s another lens I’ve had my eye on for quite some time.
That was my logic anyway.
By the time I packed my camera, my backpack weighed roughly twenty percent of my body weight.
Every ounce mattered.
We spent two days hiking Section 3 of the Colorado Trail, beginning at Cottonwood Pass and making our way through Colorado’s magnificent Collegiate Mountains. It quickly became apparent that the trail had only two settings: uphill and downhill.
Sixteen miles.
Nearly 6,000 feet of elevation gain and loss.
Beautiful.
Humbling.
Exhausting.
When we finally reached camp, pitched our ultralight tent, and organized our gear, I looked at Trail Boss and quoted Vince Vaughn from Wedding Crashers.
“I need to shut down the engines and return to neutral.”
Apparently, I meant it.
The afternoon sun warmed the tent just enough to make it feel cozy. My sleeping pad suddenly felt luxurious after carrying my pack all day. I slipped on my headphones, started listening to Wild Dark Shore—next week’s book club selection—and drifted into one of the deepest naps I can remember.
Sometimes returning to neutral looks like doing absolutely nothing.
When I finally emerged from the tent, Trail Boss was already heating water for dinner.
We’d made homemade beef stew before leaving home, dehydrated it ourselves, and packed it into lightweight bags. The recipe still needs a little work, but it beats the sodium-packed freeze-dried meals lining the shelves of most outdoor stores.
And yes…it weighs a little less.
Every ounce matters.
The evening’s entertainment consisted of watching two chipmunks dart around camp as though they’d had far too much caffeine.
Funny how, after climbing mountains all day, two chipmunks can become prime-time entertainment.
Eventually we crawled into our ultralight two-person tent.
We were asleep before darkness had completely settled over camp.
Morning arrived crisp and quiet.
As we heated water for coffee, another backpacker wandered through camp and asked,
“Did the marmots get into your stuff last night?”
We shook our heads.
“One got into my pack and stole my socks.”
Without missing a beat, Trail Boss offered him a clean pair.
The hiker laughed.
“I’m good. I’ve still got my sleeping socks.”
I smiled.
It’s the common language of backpackers.
Out here, conversations revolve around water sources, weather, sore knees…and apparently sock-stealing marmots.
After breakfast—granola and coffee—I wandered away from camp with my camera while Trail Boss enjoyed the quiet morning.
That’s what photographers do.
Morning light skimmed across the Collegiate Peaks.
Wildflowers somehow looked both impossibly delicate and incredibly resilient, thriving where few things can survive.
Then I noticed her.
A mama ptarmigan.
She stood perfectly still, keeping watch while her tiny chick bounced happily through the alpine grasses, completely unaware of the dangers surrounding it.
That single moment made carrying my camera worth every ounce.
The hike out somehow felt easier.
Maybe our legs had finally accepted their new job.
Or maybe we’d simply slowed down enough to appreciate the journey.
Along the trail we noticed something neither of us could explain.
A cluster of upright stones.
Not stacked like trail cairns.
Not scattered naturally.
Intentionally placed.
Headstones?
A miner’s resting place?
Early pioneers?
No sign.
No explanation.
Just stones quietly standing in one of the most beautiful, unforgiving landscapes I’ve ever experienced.
I found myself wondering who had stood exactly where I was standing.
What were they carrying?
What were they leaving behind?
As photographers, we’re often asked why we carry cameras into places like this.
Why not simply experience the moment?
For me, the camera has never been about proving I was there.
It’s about paying attention.
It reminds me to notice sunlight brushing across granite, the quiet resilience of alpine wildflowers, a mischievous marmot, a mother ptarmigan faithfully watching over her chick, or the simple beauty of my husband preparing dinner after a long day on the trail.
The photographs matter.
But the act of noticing matters even more.
I climbed a mountain.
Then I turned around.
Fleetwood Mac’s lyrics echoed through my mind as we made our way back toward the trailhead.
For two days my world had become wonderfully small.
A camera.
An audiobook.
Homemade stew.
Wildflowers.
Chipmunks.
A ptarmigan.
A handful of mysterious stones.
A husband who quietly reminds me that every ounce matters.
Maybe that’s what we’re all doing.
Leaving little markers behind that say,
I was here.
I noticed.
I loved this place.
The photographs are my stones.
Not to prove I climbed the mountain.
But to remember how it changed me.
I climbed a mountain.
Then I turned around.
But a landslide didn’t bring me down.
Somewhere between Cottonwood Pass and home, I realized not everything we carry belongs in our backpack.
I came home with photographs I’ll treasure.
But I also came home a little lighter.
