I began visiting the National Parks at the age of three. Over the past thirty years, my relationship to these places has become complicated.
I go because I want to photograph these landscapes.
I am excited to hike somewhere new, climb rock faces, and sit by a fire.
I delight at the wildlife, smile at the flowers, and breathe in the unique scent of each place.
and
I constantly question the ethicality of driving to remote locations and idling in lines of cars amidst a climate crisis.
I am angered by the broken treaties, forced removal, and murders of Indigenous people, that were perpetrated to create these boundaries.
I cringe at the gift shops full of cheap plastic souvenirs, and the privately run cafeterias and resorts that lay within the parks.
I question the borders of the wilderness and what it means to segment out plots of land to be protected while others are blighted.
I admire the work of the biologist, trail teams, and guides who strive to keep these diverse ecosystems alive. I wonder if they have housing for the season?
Every time I visit, I am reminded that the National Parks are manufactured, their borders are contrived, and imply the violence of their creation.
And yet, year after year, I return. Because this land was made for you and for me. These are public lands. They are imperfect, and they are ours to protect, or loose. The choices we make impact their future, who is allowed to enter and control them, and what will survive.
These photographs grapple with the duality of awe and horror that I encounter while roaming through the National Parks. A feeling of unease that I cannot fully shake off. A confrontation with the complex reality of their existence.
