A Nomadic Life Through Travel & Adventure

From Miami to the Mountains

Based between Seattle and South Florida, Mike's path has wound from learning to climb in Miami to summiting glaciated peaks in the Pacific Northwest. Along the way, he's documented helicopter tours of Alaskan glaciers, canoe trips through the Everglades, and first surfing sessions at Deerfield Beach.

• Summited Rainier — September 2014
• Alaska glacier helicopter tour — October 2012
• Everglades canoe adventure — May 2012
• First surf at Deerfield Beach — August 2012

The backcountry doesn't care about your plans. It rewards patience, punishes ego, and teaches lessons that can't be learned anywhere else. Skiing remote lines in the North Cascades means reading snowpack like a language, understanding how wind and temperature shape the surface over days and weeks. Every descent is earned through hours of skinning, route-finding, and constant observation. The mountain gives you exactly what you put in — and sometimes it gives you something unexpected, something that changes how you see risk, reward, and your own limits.

Living a nomadic life means carrying your home in a duffel bag and your purpose in your head. One week you're navigating glacial terrain in Alaska, the next you're threading through red-rock canyons in the Utah desert. The thread that ties it all together is movement — not just physical movement across landscapes, but the internal shift that happens when you commit to a life untethered from conventional expectations. It's not about running away from something. It's about running toward everything.

Injury is a topic most adventure blogs gloss over, but it's part of the story whether you like it or not. A torn ligament or a bad fall doesn't just sideline your body — it messes with your identity. When you define yourself by what you do outdoors, being stuck indoors feels like losing a piece of yourself. Recovery becomes its own kind of expedition, demanding the same patience and incremental progress as any big objective. Mental health and physical health aren't separate conversations; they're the same trail.

Climbing a standard route like Grays Peak or something deeper in the Rockies isn't just about ticking a summit. It's about the hours before dawn when you're questioning every decision that led you there, the moment the sun hits the ridgeline, and the strange calm that settles in once you accept the exposure. Alpine climbing strips away the noise. You're left with breath, movement, and a very clear sense of what matters. That clarity is addictive, and it follows you long after you descend.

Travel advice in the outdoor industry often focuses on gear lists and itineraries, but the real skill is learning how to stay calm when things go sideways. Flights get missed, weather windows close, and plans unravel. Adaptability isn't a personality trait — it's a practice. The more time you spend in unfamiliar places, the more comfortable you become with uncertainty. That comfort zone expansion is the whole point. It's why a wrong turn can become the best part of the trip.

Filmmaking in the mountains adds another layer to an already complex equation. You're not just managing your own safety and movement — you're composing shots, monitoring light, and capturing a story that feels true to the experience. The camera forces you to slow down and see details you'd otherwise blow past: the way snow crystals catch morning light, the expression on a partner's face after a tough pitch. Good adventure storytelling isn't about hero shots. It's about honesty.

There's a quiet epidemic of abandoned ski resorts scattered across the country — places that once buzzed with lifts and lodge chatter, now reclaimed by forest and silence. Hidden Valley in Rocky Mountain National Park is one of those ghosts. Skiing there feels like touching a piece of history, a reminder that nothing in the outdoor industry is permanent. Resorts rise and fall, but the mountains remain. That perspective keeps the ego in check and the stoke genuine.