Struggles

I think anyone working in a creative field knows that making new work is never a straight line. It comes with incredible highs and deep lows. Moments of self-doubt, creative paralysis, overthinking, questioning your purpose, and even wondering whether it all makes sense.

Lately, I’ve found myself in one of those dips.

My project in Alaska started off with great energy and momentum. You’ve been able to read about breathtaking landscapes, unexpected encounters, and unforgettable adventures. It felt like I was exactly where I needed to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do.

But now, the doubt has started to creep in.
Are the photographs good enough? Did I stay long enough in each place?
Should I have returned under different weather or light conditions?
Did I even make enough work? These kinds of thoughts are not new to me. I’ve been through similar cycles in past projects, and I knew this phase would eventually come. But no matter how much experience you gain, you’re never really immune to it. The insecurity still hits.

At the same time, I feel incredibly grateful to be here. Grateful that the Mondriaan Fund believed in this project and gave me the financial freedom to pursue it. Their trust means the world to me. But with that trust also comes a sense of responsibility. I set the bar high for myself, maybe sometimes too high.

There’s so much that happens behind the scenes that never gets shared.
Throughout the day, I’m constantly alert, observing, noticing, paying attention to what stands out, who I meet, what might become part of the story. Some conversations grow into something meaningful, others fade out. Certain encounters have a big impact on the project, while others fall through completely. Meetings get cancelled, people don’t show up, or the timing just isn’t right. These are all part of the process, but they can be difficult when they pile up.

Still, I knew the struggles would come. And I also know, from experience, that I’ll find my way through. Sometimes, the only solution is to pause.
To take a deep breath, step away for a moment, and trust that it’s all part of the process. That’s what I did, taking a day or two to simply exist without chasing anything. Of course, I still carried my camera with me everywhere. It’s second nature. Even in the quiet moments, I’m looking, observing, just in a softer, more open way.

And interestingly enough, as I sit here writing this, it feels like some things begin to shift again. My final days in Alaska are approaching. I don’t know what they’ll bring but I know that there is still something that this place wants to show me.

The Dalton Highway: Mud, Silence, and Unexpected Gifts

After days of bouncing over gravel, dodging potholes, and being surrounded by in the silence of northern Alaska, I’ve made it safely to Fairbanks. The Dalton Highway is behind me, every mile of it. I pulled into town with my camper coated in layers of dried mud, inside and out. But finally, I’m connected to electricity again, and I can clean, recharge, and breathe.

One of the stops on this stretch was Manley Hot Springs, a tiny, end-of-the-road community. You wouldn't expect much from a place where the paved road just… stops. But it's often in the smallest places that the biggest stories live.There, I met locals who welcomed me into their world and shared parts of their lives with a sincerity that’s rare.

I met a young woman, just 25 years old, strong in spirit and presence. As she opened up about her story, I told her how honored I was that she trusted me enough to share it. Her response:
"I’m just thankful someone is finally listening."

That sentence cracked something open in me. We said our goodbyes with that emotional weight still hanging in the air. But about thirty minutes later, she returned. In her hand was a scarf, hers, a gift for me to keep me warm on the road. This truly moved me.

Traveling like this, especially through Alaska, gives me so much. I’m deeply grateful for the places I see and the people I meet. But it’s not always easy. Hearing people’s truths, some beautiful, others painful, can be confronting. Letting go after making real connections doesn’t come without emotion.

Even in the smaller villages around Fairbanks, I had unexpected, inspiring encounters. One person gave me a hand-drawn map, guiding me toward a house hidden away in the woods. Following that map became its own journey, one that gave me valuable input for my project.

What I’ve learned here is that moments like these never come when you expect them. In Alaska, you have to let go of planning too tightly. The weather, the road, and life itself will often ask you to adapt or turn around.On the way back from the Dalton, I heard I was incredibly lucky to even reach Prudhoe Bay. Just days earlier, a section of the road had washed out completely, cutting off all traffic for days.

I’m now entering the final stretch of the route, from Fairbanks down toward Homer, the symbolic end of the road. I had already started heading south when another appointment came up. So tomorrow, I’ll make a brief return to Fairbanks. Another twist, another detour.

Sometimes you arrive with clear expectations. Other times, things fall apart.
But in Alaska, I’ve learned that when you let go of what you thought you were looking for, you often find something far more meaningful. A plan was made, so it could be deviated from.
Eventually, I’ll get to the end. But for now, I’m taking the long way around.

Leaving the arctic circle

Prudhoe Bay is one of those rare places that stays with you long after you leave, a land of extremes where nature and industry collide in the far north of Alaska. Situated on the edge of the Arctic Ocean, Prudhoe Bay is the place for the oil industry, surrounded by endless tundra and sky. It’s a harsh, isolated environment.

During my visit, I was fortunate enough to share an evening meal with the people who work on the oil fields. Sitting among them, I heard firsthand what it’s like to live and work in a place where the sun disappears below the horizon for months at a time. They spoke of the endless darkness and the biting cold. Their resilience and dedication gave me a profound respect for the people who make life possible in such an unforgiving landscape.

Though I wished I could stay longer, I had to continue my journey along the legendary Dalton Highway, a road that slices through some of the most remote and stunning wilderness in North America. The drive back was every bit as breathtaking as the trip up. As night fell, the sky danced with the shimmering colors of the aurora borealis, painting the snow-covered land with light. But the beauty came with challenges: my pipes froze, and spending a night in -6 degrees Celsius felt like a true test of endurance.

Not everything went as planned on this trip. I had high hopes for certain destinations and connections that I believed would enrich my story and photographs. Yet, sometimes things just don’t line up the way you want. Feeling a bit disappointed, I found refuge in a small truckers’ café in Coldfoot, a remote stop along the highway. It was there I met ‘Hook,’ a man whose nickname comes from the hook replacing his left hand. Our conversations were a highlight of my trip, reminding me that sometimes, the people you meet leave the biggest mark on your journey.

The following day, Hook took me on an unforgettable airboat ride over some of Alaska’s shallowest rivers, into territories so remote they’re inaccessible by any road. We ventured deep into wilderness areas few people ever see. It was a rare glimpse into a world untouched by most travelers, a reminder of how unexpected encounters can lead to the most extraordinary experiences.

Sometimes, what you find when things don’t go according to plan is far more valuable than what you set out to discover.

At the end of the road

After three days on the road and roughly 20 hours of driving, I’ve finally made it to Deadhorse, the northernmost point in Alaska accessible by car. I traveled along the Dalton Highway, a rugged and challenging route stretching about 414 miles (667 kilometers) from Fairbanks all the way to Deadhorse. This highway is known for its harsh conditions, with rough gravel roads, extreme weather, and very limited services along the way.

Most of the time, you can only drive around 30 km/h here, and trust me, you’ll want a 4x4 because this road is no joke.

The journey was tough: extreme potholes (many quite deep), slow driving, speeding truckers passing by, snow, and a whole lot of mud. Now I completely understand why they call this the “mud season.” The road tested every ounce of my patience and skill, and there were moments when I seriously doubted if I should keep going. But after a meaningful conversation with a good friend and some valuable advice from a seasoned trucker, I found the courage to push forward.

Along the way, I was treated to breathtaking, untouched wilderness, met a helicopter pilot who shared story, camped under the northern lights in the mountains, and listened to the stories of an ice road trucker who’s been navigating these roads for a long time.

This trip is more than just a drive, it’s part of a larger journey. To tell the real stories of the people, the landscape, and the spirit of this land, I needed to immerse myself fully. Driving these endless stretches of road, to what truly feels like the edge of the world, gave me a firsthand look at the challenges and beauty of this place. I was confronted by the deep solitude of being alone for hours on end, surrounded by vast, silent wilderness, with nothing but my own thoughts. That kind of loneliness is both humbling and profound when you don’t see another soul for miles.

Right now, the temperatures have dropped below freezing. I can barely turn on the heater in my camper because it runs on both propane and electricity. And along these hundreds of kilometers, there are no hookups anywhere. But somehow, I’m managing to survive: wrapped in three blankets and wearing a warm winter jacket lent to me by that same ice road trucker I met. It’s rough, but it’s all part of the project,

After a long, exhausting day, I arrived in Deadhorse, a small, rugged town built around the oil industry, often seen as the gateway to the Arctic. It’s a harsh, industrial outpost standing in stark contrast to the wildness surrounding it. Standing here now, in this completely different and raw landscape, I’m reminded just how immense and wild this part of the world really is.

Looking ahead, I hope the journey back will be just as smooth, but I won’t lie, I’m feeling a bit nervous. Winter is closing in fast, bringing colder temperatures, ice, and unpredictable weather. Still, I’m confident that I’m prepared and capable of handling whatever the road throws my way.

I’ve Arrived in Fairbanks

I’ve made it to Fairbanks! The past two days, I traveled from McCarthy all the way up here, passing through breathtaking landscapes. Along the way, I had some incredible wildlife encounters. I spotted both a caribou and a moose in the wild.

I spent the night in my camper on a mountain, and the temperature really started to drop, it was just 4°C (39°F) by evening. Wrapped up in a blanket with two fleece throws on top, I managed to stay warm enough. But it’s making me wonder what things will be like as I head even further north.

When I woke up, the temperature had fallen even more. Then I heard a dull tapping on my roof, snow. Quite unexpected, but it made for a magical view out over the landscape.

Today was all about prepping for the Dalton Highway, a 667-kilometer (414-mile) road that stretches deep into northern Alaska. The Dalton Highway is known as one of the most dangerous roads in the U.S. due to its remote location and long unpaved stretches. It was built in 1974 to support the construction of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline all the way to Deadhorse, near the Arctic Ocean.

There’s a stretch of over 380 kilometers (236 miles) with no gas stations, no towns, not even a single building. If something happens to your vehicle, you're on your own until another car or truck comes by and there’s no cell service out there.

Right now, my camper is charging on electricity. I’ll fill the water tank in the morning. The gas and propane are topped off, and I’ve got an extra jerrycan with 2 gallons of backup fuel. I also picked up some snow chains. Locals have warned me that the road is in extremely bad shape at the moment, worse than they’ve seen in years. And winter has already arrived, much earlier than I expected.

Because of all that, I honestly don’t know if I’ll make it to the end of the Dalton Highway. Maybe I have to go back halfway. But I’ve done everything I can to be prepared: stocked up on water, soup, fuel, you name it. I’m also expecting little to no cell service out there. (Sorry, Mom.)

But for now, the highlight of my evening is the fact that I get to take a real shower. The camper has a 4-minute hot water supply, which is manageable, but washing your hair in that kind of cold? Not ideal. So I’m beyond excited for this little luxury tonight.

Sign of Life

I just spent the past few days in McCarthy, a tiny, remote village tucked deep into the Alaskan wilderness. It’s only about 60 miles from the Alaska Highway, but getting there takes over three hours. One endless gravel road. No turn-offs. No houses. No signs of life, until the very end, where McCarthy quietly waits.

Completely off the grid. That’s how it felt. My phone was useless. Even my new iPhone with satellite capabilities couldn’t find a signal. No running water. No RV hookups. No electricity. But in return: wild, untamed nature. Towering glaciers. Meaningful conversations. And progress in my project.

The road into McCarthy is more than just physically long, it’s mentally confronting. The isolation hits you. The vastness of the world sinks in. You feel small. Insignificant, in the best possible way.

On the second day, I crossed a glacier in heavy rain, definitely not recommended without crampons. There, on that slick, ancient ice, I realized just how dangerous the wilderness can be. Not just the risk of slipping, but moments later, a landslide unfolded before my eyes. Someone had to run for their life. It was a sobering reminder: out here, nature doesn’t ask permission.

People in McCarthy live with the wild. They adapt to it. Their senses sharpen. The silence gets deeper, and then suddenly louder, as you notice every sound. The rustle of leaves. The distant crunch of gravel. You’re no longer just looking at nature, you’re part of it.

On day three, I took a flight in a small plane. We soared over endless glaciers. The view from above was beyond breathtaking. It gave me perspective, not just literally, but emotionally. The scale of the landscape made everything else feel small.

That night, I found myself at a spontaneous local party. One thing led to another, and I was invited for tea the next morning. With no phone signal, I left early, following a hand-drawn map, walking 2–3 miles through the forest in search of someone’s home. Somehow, it all felt completely normal.

It’s incredible how quickly you begin to adapt. I’ve only been in Alaska for seven days. A week ago, everything felt foreign; America, Alaska, living in a camper, bear country, and the intense solitude. But each day, your body and mind adjust, piece by piece. You start to sync with the environment. You listen more. You slow down.

Molly

As I write this, I’m enjoying my very first breakfast in my camper, about 100 miles outside Anchorage. Yesterday, I got the keys to Molly, my new home on wheels for the next month. It’s a bit of an adjustment since I’ve never driven a camper before, but so far, I’m managing just fine.

The first day was mostly about getting organized: making sure I have plenty of extra blankets for when it gets colder, stocking up on groceries, including lots of water and long-lasting food and getting used to the camper itself. Driving, unpacking, finding a rhythm.

This morning, it’s a bit chillier, around 11 degrees with some rain. As I try to get this down, I’m also battling with a barely-there internet signal that keeps cutting out. The connection gets weaker the deeper I head into the wilderness. Soon, I’ll be continuing my route east of Anchorage, excited to see where the road takes me next.

Welcome to Alaska

I’ve arrived in Anchorage!

After a long but smooth flight, I’ve officially landed in Alaska. The journey was tiring, but the views more than made up for it . I even spotted my very first glacier from the airplane window. A surreal start to what promises to be an unforgettable adventure.

Once I landed, it was just a short five-minute taxi ride to my Airbnb. But even in those first few minutes on the ground, Alaska wasted no time in reminding me where I was.

As we pulled up to my stay, the taxi driver turned to me with a serious look and said, “You know you’re in bear country now, right? You’ve got to be able to protect yourself.” Before I could even respond, he popped the trunk and pulled out not one, but two massive knives, which he proceeded to hand to me, a gift, for safety.

Thoughtful? Sure. Slightly terrifying? Absolutely.

I immediately looked up whether it’s even legal to carry something like that as a tourist. It turns out it is in Alaska. But still, I’m not sure how I feel about strolling around with a small sword on my belt.

Welcome to Alaska

Almost time to go

Three days to go

In just three days, I’ll fly to Anchorage, Alaska, where my project At Road’s End will officially begin.

It still feels a little surreal to type that out. Months of planning, researching, doubting, dreaming, and now the countdown is very real.

I used to think I hadn’t made anything yet. The trip hadn’t started, no photos taken, no stories captured. But I’ve come to realize: preparation is creation. The research, the thinking, the late-night reading. But also choosing gear, imagining conversations, picturing the end of the road before I’ve even seen it. That’s all part of the process. Knowing why you leave shapes what you’ll see when you get there.

It's about solitude, wild places, and what draws someone to the edge of the world. And maybe, what we find when we go there ourselves.

I’ll be traveling solo for a month through unpredictable landscapes, carrying everything from my Fuji camera to a Starlink dish to stay connected, at least when possible.

Almost time to go

Launching the Story

a new project: At road's end

In Alaska, the end of the road is as much a state of mind as it is a physical place on the map where civilization dissolves into wilderness. It draws the solitary, the restless, and those seeking distance from their past. Here, the line between being lost and choosing to be unseen blurs. Snowstorms erase tracks, daylight disappears for months, and silence stretches for hundreds of miles. For some, this isolation offers peace; for others, it becomes a place of reckoning.

This project follows the road from Prudhoe Bay to Homer, two endpoints on Alaska’s only north-south route, the Dalton Highway. The route passes through the oil fields of the far north, where infrastructure is minimal and darkness lasts half the year, and continues toward Homer Spit, a narrow strip of gravel extending into the ocean, often referred to as the end of the road.

On September 4th, the journey to Alaska begins. Along the way, more updates will be shared to document how the project unfolds.

How much does the wilderness shape the fate of those who arrive?