And now, from where I stand
Upon this hill
I plundered from the pool
I look around
I search the skies
I shade my eyes
So nearly blind
And I see signs of half remembered days
I hear bells that chime in strange familiar ways
I recognise…
The hope you kindle in your eyes

—Roger Waters, “5:06am (Every Strangers Eyes)”

Ace Kvale forwards a link to an article in the New Yorker. It’s about 7,000 words, not a single one of which mentions the Boulder, UT-based photographer. Nor are any of the images his. That this is what he sends along as insight into his current sense of place speaks volumes about Kvale. Notably, that when you ask Kvale to talk about himself, you most likely will end up hearing about someone else. 

In that spirit, this isn’t a profile about Kvale. This is a story about hitchhiking, an odyssey that begins with a teenager standing on the side of the highway in 1970s Rochester, MN, with dreams of big skies, open spaces and deep powder to the west. “I just picked a place on the map and hitched a ride to Steamboat, basically,” Kvale says… 

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