A Page from My Journal
A few pages from my journal describe the occasional difficult times when on the road
May 17th, 2025
Sometimes, solitude in nature can get glorified. As someone who’s spent plenty of time alone out there—from camping a month straight by myself in the middle of nowhere Alaska to several long road trips lasting 75 to 90 days—I’ll be the first to say it can take a toll. I’ve gotten better at handling it as I’ve grown older, but it never fully goes away. Sometimes it still sinks its teeth deep into your heart. And it makes sense. Humans are social creatures. We evolved to live in groups. When you starve yourself of that, things are bound to go awry.
Anyway, I want to share with you a short journal entry from May 17, 2025. It was during my most recent road trip: a month spent wandering around Utah.
I think we all carry loneliness, doubt, and moments of anxiety. Clearly we do. There’s no escaping them. You could say it’s all part of life’s adventure—that the rainy days allow us to appreciate the rainbows and golden hours. But what really matters is how you deal with them.
For me, I’ve learned to write them down verbatim, or to literally walk them out in the woods (I’m actually walking through the woods thinking right now). I get them out of my head and put them somewhere I can choose to look at or be. What I try to never do is react to them. Ever.
Because if you stop what you’re doing—if you lose faith in yourself, your future, or the process you’re walking—then to me that’s the only true way to fail. And that’s one trail I will never head down.
You might miss a sunrise here and there, but as long as you believe another morning will come; that the sun will rise again, you’ll have the chance to redeem yourself. It’s only when you stop believing in that—when you lose trust in the process or in yourself—that failure really takes hold.
Thanks for taking the time to read this little piece of my world. Hope it meets you wherever you are — and reminds you that the sun keeps rising, for us all.
See you out there,
Korey
Reflection Canyon — Terrifyingly Beautiful
An overnight adventure in one of Utah’s most otherworldly landscapes… and that’s saying something. This one is crazy.
“Reflecting”
May 15th, 2025
Two years ago, back in high school, when I was planning my first major road trip, I pinned down a bunch of incredible locations. A lot of them I never actually reached — Reflection Canyon was one of those places.
Last night, on a completely spontaneous whim, I decided: why not finally go hike Reflection Canyon? Honestly, it wasn’t until I pulled up the map that I realized I was already on the very road that led to the trailhead for this stunning view. Which was also kind of the problem.
This road? It’s hell. The trailhead sits about 50 miles down it. If it were paved — or even just decently grated — it wouldn’t be an issue. But it wasn’t. It was rocky, washboarded, and smack in the middle of absolute bumfuck nowhere.
A few days earlier, I’d already driven a couple miles down this same road to check out a slot canyon. I honestly thought my gas tank was going to fall off. So… 50 miles? Yikes.
But of course, with my beloved worn-down Subaru and a stubborn desire for adventure, I went for it.
After running a few errands and grabbing extra supplies (just in case I got stranded for a couple days), I started the long, tedious, slightly nerve-wracking drive. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I’d even make it. But after a “short” 2.5-hour crawl, a lot of finger-crossing, encouraging words to my car…
and unsettling noises, the constant fear of something important snapping off, endless flat boring landscape, dust clouds, and hands cramping from gripping the wheel so tight…
I made it. Easy peasy.
When I arrived, I packed my gear, ate a quick sandwich wrap, and set off down the trail.
Well, to be fair, it was more like a faint line of footprints winding through hardened sand than an actual trail. Easy enough to follow — only because there were no obstructions. The desert was beautiful. Redundant maybe, but still beautiful. A sprawling, desolate landscape. The route hugged the base of towering red cliffs, so I figured if I ever got lost, I could just follow those walls back to the road.
The sun was blazing, midday heat boiling my skin. Of course, I forgot sunscreen. (Eh — probably wouldn’t have used it anyway.)
Now and then, I passed flowering prickly pear. Their bright pink and magenta blooms stood out like gems in a cave. Absolutely stunning.
About four miles in, the “trail” dipped down into a rocky canyon. If I’d done even a shred of planning, I might’ve known what to expect. But of course, I didn’t. There were cairns marking the way, but they were small, spread out, and often hard to spot. Sometimes I stood there for minutes, scanning the landscape for the next stack — only to realize the actual cairne was fifty yards off, camouflaged by wind-carved rocks that tricked me again and again. Still, with patience, time, and a few peeks at my map, I kept on without getting lost.
Around 3 p.m. — three hours in — I reached Reflection Canyon.
And… wow.
The dark water wound through the rust-red rock like a ribbon of ink, vanishing into distant cliffs. It was awesome. But daunting, too. When I looked out, it felt like staring into a bottomless void, funneled inward by sloping walls that seemed to dare me to slip. Eerie. Hellish, almost. But impossibly beautiful. I couldn’t look away. I’d never seen anything like it.
From a distance, navigating this terrain looked easy. Up close, you realized how steep and vast it really is — and how questionable your grip. One slip, and it was 500 feet straight down into that black water.
As I explored, looking for a good composition, I noticed a peninsula a little to the north. I imagined the scene opening up perfectly from there. So I approached.
A little closer, I noticed a 15 foot section that steepened. It didn’t look bad from ten feet back. But as I reached the obstacle, everything changed. The rock fell away at a harsh angle. That water below — impossibly far. My hands started sweating from the thought of going across. Probably not a good sign.
Still, I stepped forward. Then another. A few more and I was awkwardly on all fours, pack shifting on my back, palms pressed flat to gritty sandstone that felt sharp against my skin. I was angled steeper than 45 degrees.
Fuck.
I dared a glance down. That dark water. That void.
Fuck.
I lifted one leg to move forward, then froze — felt the instant tilt of my balance. Set it right back down, now in a worse position.
Shit. I’m stuck.
My chest tightened. I tried slow breaths, but each one caught halfway.
Oh fuck.
I could feel my heartbeat thundering in my fingertips, the tug of my pack subtly pulling me backward like some malicious force.
I tried leaning closer to the slope, hoping it would help. But it only slid my weight farther downhill. My foot slipped half an inch. A lightning bolt shot through my spine.
Shit. I was losing grip.
Frantically, I searched for a better handhold — something higher up. Nothing. My hands were wedged at awkward angles, cramped between my ribs and stone.
I perched there, muscles burning, every limb locked in desperate, trembling tension. Even the slightest shift felt like it might send me skidding into that black void 500 feet down.
My mind spun with curses and terrifying thoughts. A tornado.
For a couple endless seconds, I just clung there, forcing mental composure. Then somehow — instinct or sheer panic — in one motion, I twisted back toward my original foothold. A horrendous sensation ripped through my body, but I caught it. Now I was facing the way I’d come.
Deep breath. My legs would’ve been visibly shaking if they weren’t pinned under my own weight and pack. Carefully with the same footholds and hand placements, I backed up those last few feet until I finally crawled onto flatter rock.
I dropped my pack, sat right there on the stone, and exhaled. Let’s not try that again, I thought.
It wasn’t long before I regained my composure. I made my way back to a level spot along the rounded cliff’s edge — just wide enough for a tent. Fairly protected from the wind, flat, and only a few steps from an uncluttered view of Reflection Canyon.
I waited. It was still early, and the wind was going strong. The forecast promised it would calm down, so I just hung out, ate some food, and soaked in the view. Immaculate.
As evening set in, the wind eased a little. I decided to pitch camp anyway. With some patience and a bit of fumbling, I anchored the tent by tying it off to scattered boulders. Done. Man, I was excited. Perfect temps, no bugs, a stunning view, no need for shoes, and just enough breeze to keep things fresh.
The only downside was the sky. Completely clear. Incredible to take in, but honestly, a bit boring for photography. Still, I wandered down to a composition I’d picked out earlier and started shooting as the evening light deepened. It was beautiful — but nothing compared to what was coming…
11:30 p.m.
The night was otherworldly. I slipped out of my tent and padded down the sandstone in bare feet. The sky was alive with stars. The wind hadn’t fully settled like the forecast promised; it still swept through at a steady 10 mph. Every so often it stopped completely, and from where I perched on the edge, I could hear the faint flow of water echoing 500 feet below.
Standing here in daylight would’ve terrified me. But at night, I couldn’t see the danger. I set up my camera blindly, taking the first test shot. Not quite right. Adjusted a bit. Then a bit more. Finally — after several long exposures — I had the composition I wanted. Now… I waited.
I sat there in complete awe. The stars hovered above, so pristine, so endless. Though I could only make out hints of the canyon, it was still one of the most incredible experiences I’ve ever had — maybe not for the view itself, but for the feeling. Like sitting in an ancient land under ancient lights. I wouldn’t have known if, for a brief moment, I’d slipped back thousands of years.
Moments like these always fill me with gratitude. Not just for the view, but for everything. For whatever reason, under the stars, I reflect. On family and friends, on my health, on having a home in this country, on the freedom to explore places like this. Even for the small bit of courage — shaky as it sometimes feels — to walk a different path than most. Nights like these, in old, silent places, make me grateful for it all: the good and bad, comfortable and uncomfortable, successes and failures. Life is such a rich thing. I rarely pause to see it as clearly as I do when I’m alone under the stars.
Then a chill ran through me. The wind. And just like that, my thoughts drifted back to the moment itself. I sat there, eager, waiting to slip into that strange liminal realm the moon conjures — a world caught between day and night, where nothing feels quite real.
Already, twenty minutes out, I saw its ambient light bloom along the rocky horizon. Its warm glow began to swallow the thousands of stars, snuffing them out all at once — like the universe was dying right before my eyes. It grew in size and intensity, overtaking the entire southern sky.
Even though I was trying to take it all in, it still took me a moment to notice the faint touch of moonlight on the peak behind me. Then across the canyon, another sliver of light. Once I saw it, I couldn’t stop watching. It moved quickly — almost an inch a second, it seemed.
The sky brightened, and the light crept closer and closer from behind until finally… I caught the first glimpse of the moon. I watched with anticipation, in awe, like some newcomer to this planet who had never witnessed such a thing.
From that first sliver to the moment it cleared the horizon seemed only seconds. I photographed it, but no picture could ever hold the feeling of that moment.
Soon after, I climbed back up to my little tent on the dome, crawled inside, and fell asleep in complete comfort and bliss. I felt at home on another world.
I slept well under the moonlit landscape. Every so often I’d wake up and get to appreciate the alien atmosphere that a place like this creates.
When morning came, I got up and headed down to the same spot I’d watched the moonrise, only this time it was the sun. The skies were still an empty canvas but, really, this might be one of those rare places where it just doesn’t matter.
I placed my camera back down in nearly the same spot and waited until that bright orb crested the eastern cliffs. Click. I took the photo. Shortly after, I ate breakfast and started my way back before the desert heat could squander my already parched body.
“Ancient Lights, Ancient Land”
Defeated and in Awe
I chased the perfect composition across the canyon rim… and nearly missed the shot that was right in front of me.
The alarm rang at 5:00 a.m.
I wasn’t going to get up. I hesitated. Looked out the window of my Subaru. Clear skies. I laid my head back down on my lumpy pillow.
Closed my eyes.
...Damnit!
I opened them again. It only took a few seconds for that nagging voice to speak up—the one that remembers every time I missed a great moment because I was lazy. Reluctantly, I twisted my body through the back seat door and crawled outside.
The air was clear. Last night’s storm had dumped a decent amount of rain, but now the sky was a deep blue, with a few dozen stars still lingering. I rounded to the front of the car, pulled the keys from my pocket, and started her up.
My plan was to photograph Mesa Arch at sunrise. I had pictured the same scene as everyone else’s, only… better. My version would have better light—and a unique composition thousands of others had somehow missed. (Yeah... a bit ambitious, I know.) But as I drove up the plateau, I spotted wispy striations of cloud clinging low on the eastern horizon—the exact opposite of what I needed for the famous shot.
I knew right away: if I headed to Mesa Arch, I’d be walking into an overdone composition with flat, boring light. If I was going to get flat light anyway, I at least wanted it to be on something original. So when the turnoff came, I passed it.
A few miles later, I entered a strange little pocket of fog. Just for a couple hundred feet. Then it cleared again. Interesting. I wound my way back to the area I’d witnessed a disappointing sunset the day before. There, I had found a blooming Claret Cup cactus perched on the edge of a vast overlook. The La Sal Mountains towered in the distance, and the canyon stretched wide and open below.
That was the dream shot. Scarlet flowers lit by morning sun, a vast canyon dropping behind them, and a glowing sky above it all. But those clouds meant the light might not break through. Still, it was the only scene I knew in the area, and time was ticking.
About 10 minutes before sunrise, I was crouched tightly over the cactus when a wisp of fog floated through my composition. It caught the ambient glow. Beautiful. Fleeting. And I blew it—clunky setup, unbalanced frame. I fumbled. Nothing looked right. The composition was too tight, too chaotic, too distant, too messy. And just like that, the fog vanished.
Frustrated, I packed up and wandered the ledge, still hopeful I could find something. The canyon ledge was adorned with ancient junipers and desert flowers—there had to be something.
But everything I tried was off. Too wide. Too busy. Too far from the cliff. Not enough depth. Then, to cut deeper into my struggles, a radiant beam of sunlight shot across the belly of a cloud lingering about the distant peaks. The light was beginning to explode… and I had nothing.
I was frantically moving now. Trying one tree, then another. Trying to frame the canyon. The sun was about to crest. Nothing worked. I was missing it all.
Then I spotted a lower platform just off the edge of the plateau. I scrambled down 20 feet. A gnarled juniper curved around like a claw, perfectly framing the view. I set up fast. Composed. Took a few exposures.
Still not right! Egh! The light was beautiful but the canyon looked small. The frame wasn’t doing it justice. I bounced to another spot. The fog was thickening in places now—drifting and wrapping around cliffs and trees. Glowing. Haunting. Magical. I kept moving, trying different subjects, different angles.
Sunrise.
And I had nothing I was excited about.
I sat down on a sandstone slab, chest tight. Defeated and in awe all at once. The golden sun climbed above the La Sals bursting the dull red cliffs with vibrancy and life. The clouds, which had threatened to ruin the morning, now floated like watercolor across the sky. Fog spilled into the canyon in soft, glowing puffs. The rain-scented air was sweet and cool.
This was magic. Visceral. And I missed it. I failed to capture it—failed to do the one thing I was here to do.
But after a minute, I stood back up. "With all of this, there has to be something," I thought. "Even if it’s simple. Go simple. Forget the complex compositions. Forget trying to capture it all in one."
...Duh. Simplicity.
That was the answer all along.
I scrambled back up from the lower platform and found a clean, open view of the canyon. Nothing fancy—just the scene, as it was. I zoomed in to 105mm and stitched together a panorama. Just the land, the light, and the moment.
Simplicity.
And finally—finally—I captured something that felt right. A photograph I was proud of.
As the morning aged, it only got better. The fog thickened. The contrast deepened between gold sunlight and dark, looming clouds. And with a clear head and renewed perspective, I found several more images—some simple, some layered.
Landscape photography is hard. It humbles you. And sometimes, it tricks you into believing that complexity is the goal.
But sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is strip it all back and focus on what’s most important. In photography. In life.
The Soul of a Print: Why I Choose Fine Art Paper Over Metal
Today I wanted to share with you why more recently I’ve chosen to print my fine art work on archival papers versus metal.
“To Kingdom Come” X Fine Walnut | 24” x 36” Artist Edition
Photographs deserve to breathe—to have texture, depth, and soul. That’s why I choose fine art paper over metal.
There was a time when I thought metal prints were the pinnacle—sleek, modern, and ready to hang right out of the box. But something about them never felt quite right. The more time I spent studying light, texture, and the feeling a photograph can evoke, the more I realized: fine art paper carries a soul deep within its fibers that metal just can’t hold.
It draws you in.
It softens the light.
It invites you to pause—and feel the scene, not just see it.
For me, printing isn’t just a technical process. It’s about honoring the wilderness I work so hard to capture. That’s why every print I offer—whether it’s part of my Signature Edition or my Artist Edition series—is made using archival fine art paper. I didn’t land on this choice casually. I spent months doing side-by-side comparisons, test printing, experimenting. And eventually, it became clear.
It’s not that metal prints don’t have their place. They absolutely do. But for my work, fine art paper brings a tactile essence, a warmth, and a depth that ultra-smooth surfaces like metal just don’t deliver. It makes the photograph feel alive.
One of the biggest reasons I choose paper is control. There are so many different kinds of fine art papers, each with its own tone, surface, and response to light. That variety gives me the ability to hand-match each photo with the paper that brings out its character best. Sometimes that means using a subtle metallic paper to enhance shimmer and glow. Other times, it’s a thick cotton rag with heavy texture that draws out the quiet and detail of a misty forest. These choices aren’t random—they’re intentional. They let me translate the emotion I felt while taking the image into something you can hang on your wall.
It might be subtle. Most people won’t notice.
But I do.
And I’ve come to believe—how you do anything is how you do everything.
With paper, I can photograph cacti glowing in the desert sunrise and print it on a softly reflective metallic rag that enhances both the sharpness of the plant and the radiance of the light. Or I can take a photograph of a foggy woodland and use a matte textured paper that soaks up the shadows and builds atmosphere right into the print—texture meeting texture, light meeting feeling.
Metal, on the other hand, offers a one dimensional line of finishes—from glossy to satin. To me, it feels more like a digital screen than an artwork.
That said, metal still has its place. It’s incredibly durable. It can withstand the elements. It’s easy to clean and comes ready to hang without the need for a frame or glazing. In outdoor spaces, modern offices, or high-traffic public areas like hotels, metal is often the practical choice. And for things like astrophotography, where high contrast and vibrancy are key, metal can absolutely shine.
After intense work and research looking for the best solutions, I do believe I have found the best of both worlds.
I still use fine art paper, but I mount each print onto ACM (aluminum composite material), a thin, rigid panel made of aluminum with a polyethylene core. This gives me the strength and flatness of metal without sacrificing the soul of the paper. From there, I frame the piece by hand and protect it with museum-grade glazing. That extra effort gives me the freedom to treat every piece as a complete, intentional work of art.
It’s not the quickest or simplest method. But I didn’t get into this to cut corners. I got into this to create something incredible—something that brings the beauty and awe of the wild into your home with soul and authenticity.
For me, it’s not just printing a picture or taking a photo.
It’s building a story—layer by layer, choice by choice—until it lives and breathes like the moment I first captured it. The final result is a creation—something that didn’t exist before and now does… God that’s so cool.
“American Dream” X Rustic Oak | 16” x 22” Artist Edition
If you’re interested, feel free to check out my Fine Art print offerings!
Into the Wilderness, Alone.
The true story about my quickly developing passion of landscape photography and wilderness exploration. It’s a lonely ride.
A lonely sunrise in the Northern Great Plains.
The road stretches endlessly before me.
The sky, burning with the last light of day, feels vast and unforgiving. The weight of silence presses in on me. My fingers tighten around the wheel. I haven’t seen another car in miles. This isn’t how I pictured it. This isn’t what freedom was supposed to feel like. A lump rises in my throat. How did I get here?
Two Years Ago…
It’s Mother’s Day, 2021. The forest is alive with the gentle rustling of maple leaves, the scent of damp earth lingering in the late-spring air. My family walks ahead of me, their voices blending into the quiet hum of nature. I barely hear them. My mind is somewhere else.
I’m scared. My sophomore year of high school is coming to an end, and the future looms ahead, vast and uncertain. I have no plans. No roadmap. No clear next step—just a dream so big it feels impossible. I want to be a landscape photographer. But how? I’m 16. Stuck in school. Trapped in a life that feels too small for me. The thought of following the traditional path—college, a stable job, a predictable routine—frustrates me. There has to be another way. There has to be something more.
I start lagging behind on the trail, lost in thought. And a small patch of fresh yellow gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I run through every possibility. What can I do? How can I live my dream? Will I really just follow the same path as everybody else and live a life of, what I think will be unfulfilling? How can I do that? Surely there’s a way. There has to be a way! How do I make this real?
Then, it hits me. A single idea that feels like a door opening into a great plain full of possibilities: What if I take a road trip—I graduate highschool early and go see what I’m made of? Not a short trip. A long one. Six months on the road, traveling solely for landscape photography. I can go wherever I want, chase the light for as long as I please, build a portfolio, and most importantly—be free and start my life’s adventure.
The idea rushes through me like a tidal wave, clearing all the thoughts I had prior. This is it. The way out. The way forward. The way to prove—to myself, to everyone—that this isn’t just a fantasy. I nearly trip over a root, barely covered by the yellow gravel. The idea consumes me.
I should be here, present, enjoying this day with my family; talking with them. But my mind is already gone. Lost in the future. Lost in a dream.
Back in School…
When school reopens in the fall, it’s not the same. We’re part-time in person, part-time online. The school building feels soulless—a brick box with white walls and gray carpets, not much decoration at all. It’s uninspiring to the point of absurdity. I don’t remember it being so dull. Last year we were in lockdown and I was stuck at home—it sucked, but this isn’t much better.
I feel trapped. Not just in school, but in my own head. Every day feels like waiting. Waiting for the bell, waiting for my life to start. I can’t focus in class because all I can think about is out there—the mountains, the deserts, the coast. While my classmates take notes, I’m on Google Earth, tracing the rugged ridges of the Rockies, following rivers through rainforest canyons, zooming in on the endless landscapes I need to see with my own eyes. It’s more interesting than logarithmic functions or trigonometry. Way more interesting.
I don’t care about what’s being taught. I don’t care about college. I don’t care about anything except making this dream real. So, I do just enough schoolwork to get by—to keep my plan intact, to graduate early.
——
When the bell finally rings, my day isn’t over. Not yet.
At 4 p.m., I clock in. Seven-hour shifts, sometimes four, five days a week, dragging on until 11 p.m. I barely have time to eat before I crash into bed, only to wake up and do it all over again. School. Work. Sleep. Repeat. It’s wearing me down, turning me into a zombie, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Because every hour, every shift, every exhausted drive home at midnight means I’m one step closer to the road trip.
——
Somewhere in the middle of all this, without noticing, I start slipping away from everyone around me.
It’s not that I’m rude. I still show up but I’m not really there. I don’t ask how people are doing. I’m never invested in conversations. I answer in short sentences, and end interactions as quickly as possible. It’s not intentional—I’m just obsessed with this dream and I can’t take my mind off of it. I don’t care about anything else… graduation can’t come soon enough.
January 24th, 2023…
Holy cow, I just did it. I just graduated. That’s the last time I’ll walk out of that building. Hopefully.
I drive home in a daze, still trying to process it. Today is January 24th, 2023. In just eight days, I’ll hit the road—the trip I’ve been planning for nearly two years. The trip I’ve sacrificed for and obsessed over. I should be ecstatic. And I am. But it’s daunting, too.
The nerves creep in, weaving through the excitement. I tell myself it’s natural. I tell myself it’s just the anticipation. But there’s something else, too—a heaviness I can’t name. I try not to dwell on it. There’s no time for second thoughts. I need to get out of this town.
February 1st, 2023…
The highway stretches ahead, a perfect, straight line through the open plains of Colorado. Twelve hours from home. My first stop—Estes Park—is still hours away. The sun has just set behind the distant Rockies, leaving a fierce orange glow on the horizon, fading into the deep, icy blue of night. The sky is massive, open, and endless. It should feel exhilarating. It should feel like freedom. But it doesn’t. I feel claustrophobic; trapped in an idled position hurdling 70 miles-per-hour down a road so uncertain. I tell myself this is just the beginning—that the excitement will come. That this is what I wanted.
The sunset is beautiful, but I can’t enjoy it. I try to play music, but every song feels wrong. I reach for my phone to call someone, just to hear a familiar voice—but I don’t call. The silence presses in. And then, slowly, it settles in, heavy and absolute.
I imagined freedom. But I never imagined the loneliness.
A deep sense of dread creeps up my spine. My expectations crack, then shatter. I thought this moment would feel different. That I would feel different. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this. But my pride won’t let me turn around.
Night falls completely, swallowing the last traces of warmth from the sky. My headlights carve through the darkness, illuminating nothing but the endless road ahead. My hands grip the wheel, but I feel detached, like I’m watching myself from the outside. I start to tear up. Not just because I’m overwhelmed. Not just because I’m scared. But because I finally see it. All of it. The people I love. The friends. The family. The ones I dismissed, brushed off, ignored—so consumed by this dream that I let them drift away. I told myself I didn’t need anyone. But I do. And now, here I am, alone. How could I do that? What was I thinking? The road hums beneath my tires, the occasional crack in the pavement jolting through the silence. I am motionless. Petrified.
I’m sorry.
Something Real…
This road trip gave me everything I wanted—and everything I wasn’t ready for. It opened the door to adventure, but it also led me down a lonesome path, one I’m only now finding my way out of.
But I don’t regret it. If anything, I needed it. It stripped away the fantasy, the illusion of a perfect life on the road, and left me with something real. The struggles, the solitude, the setbacks—they didn’t kill the dream. The fire has only grown stronger. Adventure has not only made life more potent, more visceral, but it has also matured me. I used to think I needed nothing but the open road and endless wilderness. But somewhere between the empty highways and silent nights, I caught myself reaching for my phone—nearly every night, I’d call up a good friend just to hear a familiar voice. And that’s when I knew: I didn’t just want adventure. I wanted a connection. I needed people. And that’s something I’m grateful to have learned.
I didn’t last six months on the road. Instead, something else called me forward—Alaska. A new challenge. A new risk. And this time, I wasn’t chasing a fantasy. This time, I knew what I was walking into… sort of. And I walked into it anyway.
Learning From My Failures
The true story behind my first ever limited edition print release. I was delusional in the beginning.
Korey Hart
I'm sitting at one of the many round tables in the warehouse break room, scrolling on my phone. Normally, I’d be watching YouTube or browsing Instagram while I eat my sandwich, but today, I’m glued to my emails. My phone is slick with sweat, my leg won’t stop bouncing, and at this point, people were starting to look at me like, "I wonder what this kid's on...".
Please. Please. Please!
The page loads a little slower this time. My heart jumps. I hold my breath.
Nothing.
Break’s over. Time for work.
One hour. Two hours. Three hours.
I check my phone every chance I get, but it’s the same empty inbox staring back at me. The weight in my chest grows heavier as the day drags on—did I seriously waste three thousand dollars and 5 months on nothing? I feel anxious but disappointed; sad but also frustrated. Then—just as my shift comes to a close—my phone buzzes.
I glance down with a gulp. I fumble around trying to quickly grab my phone. I grab it and open up the email.
A sale. A real sale. My first ever print.
I did it. This is the start. This is just the start! Soon, I’ll be running a thriving business, seeing my work on walls across the world, and living the dream I’ve chased for years. It’s all happening. Let’s go!
The next morning, another sale.
At 4:30 AM, I’m out the door, heading to the gym, feeling unstoppable. While I’m working, another notification pops up. Another order. Another print sold. This is it. It's all coming together.
But after a few more hours working in the warehouse, I'm starting to feel some doubt. I expected it to be slow at first—I told myself to prepare for that—but deep down, I thought this thing would explode. Like, ‘shut-down-the-website-due-to-overwhelming-demand’ explode. Instead… the internet still remains fully operational and I’m celebrating three sales. It’s good. It's nice. It’s just... not what I imagined.
But I have a plan. Tomorrow, I’m launching my Facebook ads and dropping off my flyers at the post office. I spent months designing these flyers and a thousand dollars to develop and distribute them. I go to bed picturing a flooded inbox with a little red bubble saying “99+ notifications”. They will work. They have to.
But when I wake up—silence. It’s okay, it’s still early. I’ll give it some time.
Later, two more sales come in. For the next few days, orders trickle in—one here, one there—but it’s nothing close to what I hoped. And then, one day, the notifications stop. The sale is over. And I’m left sitting in the silence.
I really thought this would work. I told myself it might not and I tried to convince myself to leave room for high expectations and the lack of knowledge, but if I’m being honest, I didn’t do that really, at all. I clung to the idea of success. I could see it happening. But now, it’s just... gone.
Disappointed and frustrated, I walk away from photography for a while. I tell myself it’s a break, but it feels more like a period of mourning. Five months of planning, preparing, and executing—all for a result I can’t stomach. I didn't even make back the money I invested in this short-lived venture. I shift my focus to other things: fitness, reading, expanding my mind in different ways. I need space from this. I need to breathe. I feel burnt out.
Two months later, I come across a new course on Peterson Academy entitled: Successful Mistakes in Business. It’s the first business course they’ve offered, and even though I stepped away from photography, I haven’t let go of the dream. If I still want to make this work, maybe this will help me understand where I went wrong.
I start watching. The lecturer quotes Socrates: “All that I know is that I know nothing.” I nod along, thinking, That’s… that’s humility. That’s admitting when you don’t know something so you can actually learn it.
Then, the lecturer says something that makes me think: “Growth requires honest analysis of failure—claiming ‘I did my best’ often becomes a shield against learning from mistakes.” I pause the video. My chest tightens as I, for the first time, realize the mistakes I had made. I open a blank document and start typing. I reflect…
"I know this is true in my own experience. Deep down, I didn’t do my best. I wasn’t proud of my offerings. I tried, I put effort in, but I rushed it. The prints weren’t where they should have been. I wasn’t excited about them, not fully. I told myself I was, but in some ways, I felt embarrassed—like I’d sold something to people that I wasn't entirely confident in. I felt sick about it. Ashamed."
And then it hits me.
“No wonder the sale didn’t work. How do you sell something you’re not proud of? How do you convince people it’s worth buying when you don’t believe that yourself? Thank God it wasn't a success, I didn't give it my best effort!"
My entire perspective starts to shift…
"I thought this failure was proof I wasn’t cut out for this. That I’d given it my all and still come up short. But now, I see it for what it really is: proof that I didn’t give it my all. And if that’s true… then maybe, just maybe, if I actually do my best next time, I’ll see a different result.
Maybe this failure wasn’t a dead end. Maybe it was a lesson."
The fog in my mind starts to clear. For the first time in months, I feel hope and inspiration.
I finish the lecture, eyes glued to the screen the whole time. Then, I sit back in my chair and start looking things up.
First, I buy a monitor calibrator. If I’m going to print my work, I need to do it right—no cutting corners. I’m going to learn everything: the technical side, the artistic side, the business side. I’m going to create a process I believe in.
Then, I start researching paper. I think I want to try a luster paper this time, maybe dabble with a little metallic paper as well.
Now, all I have to do is figure out the first batch of photos I want to test print.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the research in front of me. The calibrator. The paper. The test prints. This time, I’m not guessing. I’m not hoping. I’m building. I crack a grin and whisper the words every protagonist before a redemption arc has said—I’m back, baby.
Mistakes and failures suck. They hurt like hell sometimes. They drag you down and leave you feeling hopeless. But they’re inevitable. If you have the courage to face them head-on, to look at them honestly and openly, you will find something valuable—a small but powerful piece of knowledge. And when you carry that knowledge out of the darkness, past the doubt and disappointment, you don’t just get wiser—you get stronger. And maybe, just maybe, you find the courage to try again.
Reflection
Several months have passed since I wrote the story about my first real attempt—and failure—in business. Looking back now, I’m grateful for it. That first limited edition print sale in December 2024 was humbling. I rushed. I cut corners. I gave myself a deadline I couldn’t realistically meet if I wanted to do things with care and excellence. It was a good first attempt, and I’m glad it’s behind me.
Because now, I don’t cut corners.
That failure taught me one of the most important lessons I’ve learned so far: if you’re going to put your name on something, it better be something you believe in. Every part of it—from the paper, to the process, to the story behind the image—deserves to be done with intention and heart.
I’ve come a long way since then. The work I’m creating now is work I’m proud of. I’ve spent half a year of intense work refining every step—from test prints and calibrated monitors to building frames with my own two hands. Every print I offer today reflects not just the beauty of the wild places I’ve explored, but the care and craftsmanship I’ve fought to bring into my art. These new Artist and Signature Edition prints aren’t just products—they’re stories, they’re effort, and they’re me giving it my all.
I’m proud to stand behind that.
“Leave Me To Dream” X Figured Cherry | 30” x 45” — My first artist edition piece. Bliss.
Korey Hart looking at Artist Edition — “To Kingdom Come” X Fine Walnut | 24” x 36”
Korey Hart holding Artist Edition: “Healed” X Rustic Oak | 16” x 20” — A stunning Arizona scene of sunset, with a garden of cacti under a magenta rainbow.