Latest news with #JodyMacdonald
National Geographic
03-07-2025
- National Geographic
The wild is a sanctuary
Stepping into remote places can shift your perspective—reminding you that the wild is as much a sanctuary as it is an escape. Photograph by Jody Macdonald Story and photographs by Jody MacDonald Bend, Oregon sits at the edge of the state's high desert, where Ponderosa pine forests meet volcanic buttes, ancient lava flows, and the vast, open spaces of the Great Basin. The elevation shifts quickly here. One moment you're walking through sagebrush and basalt, the next you're standing in alpine meadows beneath snow-dusted peaks. It's a landscape of contrasts and one I keep returning to when I need to reconnect with nature, with creativity, and with stillness. There's a moment that happens when I'm deep in the wild, far from pavement, phone signals, and human noise when everything inside me exhales. The static in my mind fades, and that endless to-do list finally loosens its grip. In those moments, the wild doesn't just surround me, it steadies me. It reminds me who I am when the world isn't watching. For as long as I can remember, I've chased solitude and raw beauty to the furthest corners of the world. I've train hopped across the Sahara, paraglided above the Himalayas, lived on a sailboat circumnavigating the remote areas of the globe for over a decade, and ridden motorcycles through the jagged peaks and backroads of the Indian subcontinent. And through it all, the wild has been more than a backdrop for adventure, it has been my sanctuary. From moss-covered lava rock to quiet waterfalls, Bend's landscape offers moments of peace and perspective—made accessible by the trail-ready capability of the Toyota 4Runner. Photograph by Jody Macdonald This time, it was central Oregon's wild terrain that called me back. I loaded up my Toyota 4Runner with everything I needed for a few days of backcountry exploration; camera gear, maps, hiking boots, and enough curiosity to follow whatever the land was ready to reveal. My focus was simple: hike, observe, and visit the waterfalls that breathe life into this arid landscape. My first serendipitous stop was at Steelhead Falls. I followed the trail along the canyon rim until the sound of rushing water drowned out everything but my breath. The Deschutes River cut powerfully through the rock, carving silence into something deeper. The air was cool, the trail dusty, the sun casting shadows across the canyon walls. I sat for a long time with my feet hanging over the edge, letting the sound of the falls replace the noise in my head. From there I drove South toward Fort Rock. The landscape shifted the further I went. Pine gave way to dry flats, the trees thinning into low brush. By the time I arrived, clouds were rolling overhead, turning the light soft and somber. A steady wind swept through the stone amphitheater, carrying with it the feeling of time layered in dust and shadow. I hiked slowly, letting the wind push against me, leaning into it. It wasn't the golden hour scene I'd hoped for, but it had its own gravity. A quiet austerity. An always welcomed reminder that beauty doesn't always come wrapped in perfect conditions. Still from National Geographic CreativeWorks These places don't just offer escape, they invite transformation. And with the 4Runner as my mobile basecamp, I was able to fully immerse myself in that process. Its quiet strength and rugged reliability let me push farther down dirt roads, find trailheads few ever see, and wake up in places where most people never fall asleep. Evenings were often spent quietly, cooking over a small stove, flipping through my notebook, reviewing the light and movement of the day. Sometimes I made a fire, sometimes I didn't. It depended more on mood than on temperature. I've learned that the most memorable parts of a trip aren't planned. They're felt. After a full week of playing outdoors I make one last stop of serenity at Tumalo Falls. It was midday and the light was hard, but there was still something magnetic about the place. The falls thundered into a pool of mist, the spray catching sunlight in unpredictable ways. The trail curved through a dense patch of forest, the scent of damp pine and earth grounding me with every step. I didn't get the photograph I imagined, but that didn't matter. The moment itself was the reward. In the wild, even force can feel grounding. The steady roar of a waterfall offers clarity—a moving symbol of how nature restores through motion as much as stillness. Out here, where everything is stripped down, I reconnect with the version of myself that isn't performing, producing, or posting. I'm just present. The wild becomes my sanctuary and I try to treat it with reverence. And more than anything, I'm reminded of how small I am in the face of it all. Not insignificant, but part of something vast. It's humbling in the best way. And when I return home, the sanctuary travels with me. It lives in the photographs, in the stories, in the stillness I carry back into a world that often moves too fast. This is what sanctuary means to me. Not escape. Not silence. But a deeper kind of listening. A way of being more fully here, in a world that too often asks us to be elsewhere.
National Geographic
02-07-2025
- National Geographic
The wild is a playground
At Bend Whitewater Park, locals and visitors gather to surf, paddle, and watch the action—turning this stretch of the Deschutes into a shared space for outdoor community and connection. Photograph by Jody Macdonald Story and photographs by Jody MacDonald There's a misconception that play is frivolous. That it's something you grow out of when you get older and life gets more serious. But in the wild, play is essential. It's how we learn, how we adapt, how we connect with something far greater than ourselves. And for me, the wilderness has always been my playground not in the sense of ease or safety, but in the freedom it gives me to move, to test my limits, and to create without constraint. That's exactly what brought me to the wilderness around Bend, Oregon. This place sits at the crossroads of landscapes: desert, forest, river, and alpine. One moment, you're walking across lava rock shaped by ancient eruptions; the next you're paddling a glassy alpine lake with snow-dusted peaks towering above you. It's rare to find this much geographic variety so tightly packed into a single region. For someone like me who's constantly chasing light, stories, and moments in motion, it's one of my favorite playgrounds. As an adventure photographer, I've spent the better part of my life chasing wild, remote places. I've come to learn that wilderness isn't just where we escape, it's where we return to something essential. And in Bend, that essence isn't only about discovery, challenge and to disconnect but is also about play. Still from National Geographic CreativeWorks I came here to spend a week reconnecting with the land, with myself and with that instinct to play. I loaded up my Toyota 4Runner just before first light. Kayak strapped to the roof. Camera gear stowed in the back. A cup of coffee riding shotgun. I had a loose plan and a sharpened sense of curiosity, two things that have always served me better than a fixed itinerary. The first stop was Crane Prairie Lake. It's one of those quiet places that catches you off guard. There's something about paddling across still water before the wind picks up, before the day gets loud, that resets your internal pace. Mist hovered low across the surface, and the glassy water caught the first strokes of morning light. I paddled slowly, letting rhythm find me. My camera was tucked in a dry bag just in case the light turned dramatic. Calm mornings on Crane Prairie Lake offer the perfect contrast to high-adrenaline adventures—inviting a slower kind of play in Central Oregon's natural playground. A lone osprey circled overhead. The only sounds were my paddle cutting through water, the distant calls of geese, and the creak of the boat. Out here, I have the freedom to move at the pace of my curiosity. To observe. To respond. To wonder. Later in the morning, I pull my gear back into the 4Runner and hit the road again, switching out of lake mode and following a hunch back toward town. Bend isn't just surrounded by wilderness, it's woven into it. By noon, I was parking next to the Bend Whitewater Park, camera slung over my shoulder and board under my arm. Going from paddling across silence at sunrise to surfing a standing wave by lunch feels a bit surreal, but that's what makes this place so compelling. The river runs straight through town, and locals have carved out a kind of aquatic skatepark, engineered waves where people come to play, wipe out, and try again. At Bend Whitewater Park, the Deschutes River becomes a playground for surfers and kayakers alike—offering manmade waves and natural flow right in the heart of town. I watched for a while from the bank, kids, river rats, weekend warriors, all taking their turns. Laughing, crashing, cheering each other on when someone caught a wave. Then I got in. The water was colder than expected. Fast. Forceful. It knocked me down more times than I can count but that's the point. That's the joy of it. The freedom to experiment. The freedom to get it wrong. In between rides, I grabbed my camera and shot from the riverbank, spray in the air, sunlight bouncing off the water, laughter and expressions caught in that split-second balance between chaos and control. By late afternoon, I was back in the 4Runner, soaked, scraped up, grinning. I took a detour down a forest road and found a quiet pull-off overlooking the Cascades. The dust kicked up behind me and settled slowly as I unpacked gear and dinner, tailgate down, camera batteries charging off the built-in inverter. Still from National Geographic CreativeWorks That night, I pulled a sleeping bag and stretched out under the stars. South Sister glowed in the distance. The hum of a river echoed faintly below. And I just lay there, thinking about how rare it is to be in a place that lets you move like this, from silence to adrenaline, solitude to community, paddle to board, all in one day. That's what a true playground is. A space that invites unstructured, instinctive, joyful interaction with the world around you. No fixed rules. Just open-ended possibilities. The wild around Bend, Oregon, is that kind of space. And for me, play is everything. It's how I connect with the land. It's how I see. It's how I create. Whether I'm climbing, paddling, hiking or chasing light with my camera, the wilderness responds to my curiosity. It challenges me, surprises me and teaches me to adapt.
National Geographic
01-07-2025
- National Geographic
The wild is a proving ground
At Smith Rock State Park, climbers test their skills on some of the world's most iconic natural formations—proving that the wild is still the ultimate training ground. Photograph by Jody Macdonald Story and photographs by Jody MacDonald Located at the intersection of two major ecological zones—the eastern slopes of the Cascade Range and the western edge of the High Desert, Bend, Oregon offers an unusually diverse environment for challenging yourself in the outdoors. The region is characterized by a combination of alpine forests, volcanic rock fields, sagebrush steppe, and glacial rivers, often within a 30-mile radius. This geological and ecological diversity makes it one of the most varied outdoor recreation areas in the Pacific Northwest. The terrain in and around Bend presents a range of challenges that attract climbers, mountain bikers, trail runners, and endurance athletes. Areas like Smith Rock State Park, composed of volcanic rock and basalt cliffs, offer technical climbing routes. Just to the west, trail networks built into the Deschutes National Forest provide mountain bikers with access to hundreds of miles of singletrack, traversing everything from a pine forest to dry, rocky ridgelines. For this trip, I wanted to return to some of the places that had challenged me in the past. It had been a while since I'd been to Central Oregon, and I was excited to climb at Smith Rock again and explore new mountain biking trails I hadn't ridden before. I loaded the Toyota 4Runner with climbing gear, a mountain bike, camera equipment, and enough supplies to stay off-grid for the better part of a week. The 4Runner is ideal for trips like this, able to carry and organize everything I need while quietly handling the kinds of roads that don't always make it onto the map. Smith Rock was my first stop. I've climbed there before. It's one of Oregon's most iconic climbing areas, defined by sharp vertical walls and expansive desert views. This time, I met up with my longtime climbing partner, someone I hadn't climbed with in years. Returning here with her felt like coming full circle. Beneath those cathedral-like cliffs, we tied in and moved up a route we vaguely remembered. There was a quiet reverence to it, like returning to a language we used to speak fluently. Climbers travel to Smith Rock for its steep walls, varied terrain, and wide range of sport and traditional routes—making it a premier destination for testing both skill and endurance. Years ago, Smith Rock was one of the places where I tested myself. Now, it's not only a place where I return to challenge myself but also reflect and appreciate. The rhythm came back slowly, chalked hands and steady breathing. But the deeper rhythm, the unspoken trust, the muscle memory, the focus returned instantly. Out here, there's no room for distraction. Climbing again in this place, with someone who knew me before the mileage and the changes, was about more than movement. It was about reconnection. After climbing, with our arms and forearms exhausted, we returned to the 4Runner. Throwing our gear in the back I went in search of a different kind of proving ground to find some mountain bike trails. Bend's network of singletrack is dense, well-maintained, and full of variation. I chose some trails that were technical with some varied elevation gain. Loose pumice, embedded rock, and dry switchbacks kept me on my game. At one point, I stopped to photograph a few locals hitting jumps. Each person using the trail system in their own way to test limits. Driving between locations offered its own layer of testing. Many of the access roads were unpaved, narrow, or degraded from recent runoff. The 4Runner's high clearance and suspension allowed me to move through without needing to second guess route options. Its rear cargo setup kept my gear quickly accessible. A necessary feature when changing over from climbing to riding in unpredictable weather. Evenings were simple: trail notes, route prep, quiet meals at the edge of cell reception. But those moments off the wall, off the trail, alone with the rhythm of the day were just as much a part of the process. In a world that rewards speed and interruption, these physical, technical activities; climbing, riding, driving offered a rare kind of focus. You have to be present, in the moment and that's a novelty I keep searching for. The Toyota 4Runner's signature power rear window rolls down with the push of a button—making it easy to grab gear, air out the cabin, or let the breeze in. Still from National Geographic CreativeWorks By the end of the trip, there were no summits, no records, no stats—and that was exactly the point. A proving ground isn't about achievement; it's about honesty. The wild doesn't care who you are—it simply reflects how you move through it. The trail doesn't lie, the climb doesn't care, and the weather won't wait. In that clarity, something shifts. It's where edge and learning meet, where repetition becomes refinement, and where experience is earned by showing up and paying attention. Every time.
