Mr. Gould

His voice was scratchy.

    I'm not sure if he had chronic bronchitis, or if it was just worn out, tired from a lifetime of whispering and yelling and crying and laughing. I don't remember that bothering me. Maybe something about being a homeschooled kid of twelve who played by himself a lot insulated me from what the world considered cool. He was rich. I knew this because he had a pool. He lived with his wife in a nice house, nestled neatly within american suburbia. I remember his driveway being ridiculously steep. My mom would drop me off at his house once a week to learn things. Sometimes it was photography, sometimes is was building a model plane, sometimes it was how computers worked. He was smart. The kind of smart that made a kid's head spin with numbers and diagrams and terms that were hard to understand like "flying erase head" and "single lens reflex". He spent hours with me. I'm sure I wasn't the easiest kid to teach. I'm fairly convinced I had ADHD or ADD or one of those acronyms that keep people in boxes and tells them why they can't do things. That didn't seem to bother him. Every week I would show up, and every week he would invest his time and leave me a little bit smarter.
     Sometimes I wonder why he did it. He had worked hard all his life to reach the plane he stood upon; one of few responsibilities and ample resources. He would have been more than justified in spending those twilight years doing anything...or nothing. Instead, he spent time with a weird pre-teen boy who thought he wanted to make movies. Maybe he was lonely, but I don't think so. I think he chose to spend those hours investing in the next generation with his time and knowledge. I think he saw broken families and aimless kids and wanted to do something about it. I think maybe some of those families and kids were closer than I knew. But that's just what I think.
     I still visit him. Every year or so I'll drop by and we'll talk about where I live and how crazy technology is getting and if I'm married yet. He never looks any older, but I'm always worried that when I ring the doorbell, a young face will appear; one without fuzzy white hair or glasses falling off the end of it's nose. It reminds me to redeem the time, and invest it in the things that are really important.

Just like Mr. Gould.



"They lied, when they said the good die young..."

Fight for your joy

#honestyweek

It's no secret that social media isn't always the most honest representation of ourselves.

   And that's not always bad. I prefer to see inspiring, beautiful things rather than the alternative. However, this often results in a collective feeling that everyone else's lives are significantly awesomer than our own. Nobody posts their downers, right? Well I am. For one week, I'm proposing an international #honestyweek, posting all the things that make us human, the flat tires, bad hair days and failures. Not to whine, but to prove that we are not alone in our shortcomings and frustrations. Maybe it will catch on and maybe it'll just be a guy posting a bunch of lame pictures for a week. Either way, I hope it will encourage at least one person to continue the race, because no one's life is perfect.

Die Living,
Caleb W.

#winning.

I stood there, staring up at it.

A massive wall, over a thousand feet high, defying us.

  Disappointment drained the adrenaline from our veins as we stood on a rocky outcropping, 3/4 up North Maroon Peak in the White River National Forest. After several setbacks, we had managed to push high onto the peak, only to find a false summit and 1,200' of loose, near vertical scrambling standing in the way of our goal. It's a critical moment as we weigh the looming clouds, falling snow and slight water supply against our desire to reach the summit and not break a perfect summit/attempt ratio. It meant a lot to me that I had never failed to reach the peak of a mountain I attempted. It meant I had done the research, possessed the skill and had the physical strength and willpower to forge ahead when others had turned back.

But it meant more than that.
It meant I was a winner.
And being a winner means you're valuable.

We make the call: Turn back.
 Frustration rose high in me. We had already worked so hard. Arbitrary percentages ran through my head: "I mean, there's like a 90% chance everything would be perfectly fine." That was probably true. It's the 10% that will kill you, I guess.

Something was cemented in my mind that day. My struggle to prove my value compels me to perform. Climbing a big pile of rocks really doesn't mean anything, especially to people who climb bigger piles of rocks. Somehow I've taken things like riding a bike or a piece of fiberglass down a hill into a metric of my relevance in this world. Luckily I'm not that great at those things, otherwise I might have gone my whole life living in this lie.

The Truth:
Winning does not make you valuable.
Or getting the girl.
Or landing that job.
Or stomping that trick.
Or knowing more than your buddy.
Or being faster, smarter, more determined, better dressed, wealthier, poorer, cleaner, dirtier, more compassionate, more socially conscious, more generous, blah, blah, blah.

It's all crap. We've (read: I have) turned our ability to do good things into a harsh god, raining down condescenance and condemnation on those who don't win at life. All of our righteousness is crap, including all the things that we think we can do to boost our value points.

"I am not a good man, it's good I seek to do. Heaven's gate is narrow, pray for me, I'll pray for you"  

If you click this I'll give you $100.

Sucker.

So.

Here I am, just another link asking for your attention. Another doorway into potential wasted time.  Worse yet, as you read this you'll slowly realize that I am asking for money...GAK!

Still with me?
Hooray!

This March, I'll be traveling to Ethiopia and Nigeria with Empty Bucket Ministries. While there, the ministry will be digging a well to provide clean water, doing service work helping renovate a hospital, providing feeding programs and establishing a farm to produce sustainable food and jobs.

Where do I fit into all of this?

I make videos. I also shoot photos. I'll be utilizing these skills to create promotional content to help represent this ministry to their donors and potential partners. My passion is to shout their story to the world, creating connections and opportunities for them, so that they can not only continue to serve, but thrive and increase their impact.

So money. Blah. Unfortunately doing this stuff takes it. A decent amount, it turns out. Most of my trip has been very graciously covered, however, shots and a plane ticket to Texas are not included. Shots are around $100 a piece and I need five of them. Plane tickets will be around $2-300. Any help would be greatly appreciated, as I am not filthy rich. If you are interested in helping support me, there are several ways you can do so:

Paypal:
Make a payment to me at straightedged.skibum@gmail.com:

Personal check:
You may send a personal check to:
Caleb Weaver
2854 Orchard Ave,
Grand Junction, Co
81501

Stocks and bonds:
Preferably of some Fortune 500 company. (Like I even know what that is)

Empty Bucket Ministries' site: emptybucketministries.org

Thank you so much for reading this all the way through, and in advance if you choose to support me. Below is a video providing some more information and a sample of my work:

 

The speed of time.

Wow.
Another year.

Teton.
Pterocactyl.
Alpenglow.
Beardcicles.
Swamp-crotch.
Ice.
19" of snow.
Flow.
Monster slopestyle comp.
Injury.
Chaco heel.
Taylor River.
Catharsis.
Imagine Dragons.
Loss.
Singletrack.
Berms.
Allegrippis.
Timelapses.
L-Lens.
Documentaries.
Managua.
Hot Chocolate.
Wet bivy.
Grand Junction.
Fear.
Redcloud.
Embarrassment.
El Diente Couloir.
Private property.
File loss.
Boardercross.
4th of July volleyball.
Family.
Spontaneous notes.
Confidence.
Peace.
Turmoil.
Hope.

Such is my life.
So blessed am I, to have the opportunity to live it.

"Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by a lack of meaning and purpose."
Here's to a meaningful 2014.

Caleb W.

Hot skier girls.

I'm slightly amused by this whole "women of skiing" objectification issue.

   I totally agree with those who take issue with women being portrayed more for their sex appeal than their skiing, but seriously people. Some of us have been saying this for a long time. People thought we were dumb and that women had the right to show off their bodies. Which is true, they do. They said that there was no harm and that we were old fuddy-duddy prudes who couldn't stand the sight of a girl's ankles.

  But noooowwww. Somebody finally got wise to why mom, grandma and your weird Christian friend frowned every time some girl's body was used to sell perfume, skis, or practically anything under the sun.

It's de-valuing and objectifying.

  So next time some outdated dude mentions how demeaning that Victoria's Secret poster is, just remember:
He's cool now.

Caleb W.