(Editor’s Note: With the spread of COVID-19, our team has been distancing ourselves while working to remain connected and inspired. Something that’s provided comfort is looking back on the times we roamed free — and knowing that one day we’ll be able to get back to the places and people we love again. The film, photographs and words below are by Jeff Johnson, a freelance photographer, director and writer who lives on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. He has written three books: Bend to Baja, 180 Degrees South — which is also a documentary film — and Way High Kick Turn.)
The first time I met Ben Moon was at Smith Rock State Park back in 2005. I was on my first real assignment as a photographer, documenting a road trip from Bend, Oregon to the southern tip of Baja, Mexico.
Ben was also in the beginning stages of his career in photography. I'd heard his name in climbing circles and had seen his photos in print, but that was about it. Right before the trip, I was told he recently had been diagnosed with colorectal cancer. So, when he took off his shirt to climb Chain Reaction, I wasn’t surprised to see his chemo port protruding just below the skin on the upper left side of his chest.
We spent days climbing at Smith Rock and nights partying at a camping spot just outside the park’s boundaries. Instead of keeping quiet about the elephant in the room, Ben talked openly about his ordeal. But he was vague in regard to the details. Fair enough, I thought at the time; I couldn’t imagine a more personal and frightening thing than having cancer.
As our group left Oregon to drive south I kept thinking about Ben. He looked good. Healthy. He seemed strong and in good spirits. Little did I know that it was just the beginning for him. Hell, Ben didn’t even know. He was only 29 years old and starting a journey to a place from which he might never return.
"We climbed and surfed and partied at night — just like the old days. All the while, Ben was totally in his element: laughing with friends, taking pictures the entire time, and jumping around with his new dog, Nori."
Fast forward 15 years and Ben has written a memoir, Denali: A Man, a Dog, and the Friendship of a Lifetime. He is now a survivor and at the top end of a successful career as a photographer and film maker. He is living in his van at the construction site of his future home on the Oregon Coast.
In the years I've known Ben, I never truly understood what he had gone through with cancer. When he sent me an early manuscript of the book, I saw things more clearly. His memoir is both dark and beautiful, harrowing and heartfelt. I couldn’t put it down.
A few months ago, I received a serendipitous call from Larry Parker at Rivian. We talked about making a short film about Ben: a mini-documentary, a profile. We were open to let the project take its natural course. I was speechless. For me, this was an absolute honor.
We planned out a couple details, and I connected with Ben and his friends Daniel Norris, Anna Ehrgott, and Michael Swamer to do a proper road trip in Western Canada. We spent our days driving through heavily wooded roads that wind through coastal mountains. We climbed and surfed and partied at night — just like the old days. All the while, Ben was totally in his element: laughing with friends, taking pictures the entire time, and jumping around with his new dog, Nori. One day, while walking back from a bouldering session on the beach, Ben told me a quote he’d heard that really resonated with him. It was a conversation between two cancer patients where one said to the other, “You don’t know it yet but we are the lucky ones.”
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