Through a Different Lens

Toby Roney is a photographer and filmmaker whose work has taken him to remote and challenging environments around the world. Documenting expeditions sees him occupy the self-styled position of “half-participant and half-observer.” After returning from Kyrgyzstan's remote mountains, he gives his unique perspective on expeditions, and doing his job in difficult places.

Morning Notes

It’s early morning, 07:15, and I’m sitting outside the mess tent. Ed sits across from me, coffee in hand, head back and eyes closed as the sun creeps down the valley onto his face. The serenity of it begs to be photographed: golden light catching the steam from his mug and the hint of a satisfied smile on his face. For now I just savour it. My own eyes are barely open, the caffeine only just starting to work its way in. I can feel my frown lines soften, easing back into my normal self.

We’re in Kyrgyzstan with Ed Jackson on world first climb: a virgin peak whose summit would mark the first ascent ever by a person with a disability. Our core team is small: I’m on stills and video; Jake is our on-location director who also doubles as a cameraman; Ed, of course, is the man at the center of the story; Ade is our lead guide; and Paul is a second guide dedicated to keeping the camera crew safe. Having a guide solely for us might sound excessive, but it means Paul can yank my distracted self away from a crevasse if I wander too close while fixating on a shot. At basecamp, Aisha keeps us fueled as cook, often with help from her young son Orozbek. Further up the valley we rely on Rayisbek, a local shepherd, along with his wife Eliza and their two daughters, the family whose hospitality has grounded us in this remote place.

The Road East

Jake and I spent two full days just getting to basecamp. The first day was nine hours crammed in a rickety minibus from Bishkek, the capital. Curtains drawn tight against unrelenting sun, sweat running down our backs. Day two was no better: another eight hours, this time in a battered Russian GAZ 66 truck, a beast of a vehicle with tires that could roll over anything. The ride was comically brutal. I was wedged in a pile of duffel bags and camera cases, clinging to a metal handle as the truck lurched and bounced like a canoe in rapids. For a while I tried to film the journey, sticking my lens through the dust-caked windows whenever the next epic peak appeared on the horizon, but every jolt sent me and my gear airborne. When I wasn’t doing this, I was focusing on not biting my tongue off.

Life at basecamp was a little more relaxing. Aisha made dough with Ed one morning, and we walked it up to Rayisbek’s house, a shepherd’s yurt further along the valley. Inside, his wife Eliza baked it into rounds of hot bread, the smell filling the small room. She handed us slices, still steaming, and we lathered on some jam across and tore it apart with our hands. It was simple, and it was the best bread and jam I have ever had.

Food shared this way had weight. It was not put on for show for us ‘tourists’ to see how they live, it was just life. Hospitality oﬀered plainly, with no need for words. I was mindful to keep my photography low-key during these exchanges - the goal was to document, not disrupt. This hospitality was genuine, not a performance to be captured and packaged. Sometimes I’d snap a quick shot of a smile or outstretched hand, and other times I left the camera in my lap and simply lived in the moment. In any case, the generosity spoke louder than words or pictures.

Moving Higher

The morning we were set to leave basecamp for Advanced Base Camp (ABC), a lightning storm rolled through the valley and pinned us down for a few extra hours. By now we’d adopted the local saying: “If you don’t like the weather, wait 20 minutes.” It held true that day, and soon the storm blew itself out, and we got the green light to move. I double-checked my camera kit, swapping in fresh batteries, checking drones and controllers were packed and secured hard drives in waterproof cases. Rayisbek arrived right on cue on horseback, with two more ponies in tow to carry the bulk of our gear. He stacked duffels, solar panels, ropes, and supplies onto the animals until the loads looked impossibly top-heavy. With a quiet nod, he set off up the valley, leading the little caravan. We followed on foot, shouldering our day packs. I kept my most critical equipment on my own back - no way was I risking my primary camera to an overburdened pony.

Almost immediately, we faced an obstacle: the summer melt had swollen the rivers, making them too deep and fast to ford on foot. Rayisbek, unfazed, simply motioned for us to take turns riding his spare horse across. I admit, I was less than graceful mounting the pony with my unwieldy camera bag, and sure enough, midstream on the very first crossing I felt myself teetering. The horse scrambled up a bank, and I started sliding backwards. I clung to Rayisbek as if giving him the heimlich maneuver. By some miracle (and the steadiness of that unflappable horse) I stayed on until we reached the far bank.

We carried on up the valley and made it to our ABC, a flat section just above a river that led directly to the glacier and ‘our’ summit. That night I photographed camp with the Milky Way stretching horizon to horizon. Silence, no light pollution, just the ink black outline of the surrounding summits set against the stars. It was as if the outside world no longer existed.

“Paul told me to put the cameras away and focus on my feet. I listened – I could only listen. Camera off. Eyes on the next step. There is no point reaching the top of an unclimbed peak if you do not return from it.”

Behind the Lens

Being an expedition photographer means balancing art, story, and safety. Jake and I were both carrying extra kit. Cameras, lenses, drones, batteries, and cards lived where we could reach them fast. Full cards went straight into a safe pocket. Everything was clipped or taped so nothing shook loose.

I am lucky to work with guides like Paul and Ade. They know far more about moving in these mountains than I do. Standing on the shoulders of giants is not a metaphor here. It is how we get up and how we get home. Paul told me to put the cameras away and focus on my feet. I listened – I could only listen. Camera off. Eyes on the next step. There is no point reaching the top of an unclimbed peak if you do not return from it.

There were a hundred angles I wanted to get, but this was not the time for ego. It was time to follow instructions and work as a team. Jake has more mountain experience than me. He was not roped to Paul and me, so he had the freedom to move and shoot. I accepted that, swallowed my pride and cracked on.

Safety comes first, even when the scene is unreal. You do not shoot while edging across a soft snow bridge or swinging an ice axe. I have missed shots because both hands were on the rope, and that’s fine.

There are no replays on a summit push. Ed’s climb was a one time event. If focus slipped or a drone failed, the moment was gone. The pressure is real, but the privilege is bigger. I get a front row seat to something rare and I try to bottle the feeling as much as the action. It is a strange split, half participant and half observer. When the light lands, the frame is clean and the story breathes, every extra kilogram on my back is worth it.

Summit Day

Alarms went at 04:30. We ate by headlamp, checked boots, crampons, ropes and cameras, then stepped onto the glacier. The ice was hard and glassy, each crampon bite felt like striking flint. Crevasses opened on both sides, some obvious, others skinned over by thin bridges.

The angle steepened into firm snow and old ice. We front pointed in rhythm, kick kick, plant, step. A small bergschrund got an ice screw and tight belay, and we gave the wind-sculpted cornices a wide berth. The air thinned and the moves lengthened. Ed managed it with deliberate cadence, pole, step, breathe, placing each foot carefully and keeping his head. Not fast, but solid.

Higher up the ridge pinched to a knife edge of wind-packed snow, with short rock steps that forced quick switches from kicking steps to brief scrambles. There was no beta, no fixed line, only Ade and Paul’s judgment and our spacing. The year before we’d been on the Matterhorn - a 22 hour epic. It was brutal, but it was mapped, with known anchors, queues at cruxes, and a rhythm you could settle into. Here there were no footprints to follow. Every crest was a question. It felt wilder and lonelier, and it asked more of our decision making.

At a small shoulder below the top, Jake and I held position to fly drones for the final push so we could frame Ed on the skyline. Ade stayed just behind him. From our perch I could see Ed’s cautious shoulders and the tiny adjustments he made to protect his weaker side. He topped out. As he raised his arms in triumph, a golden eagle lifted out of the valley and began to circle above the summit. It felt unreal and somehow perfect, a quiet crown on a hard won moment.

We did not linger. Clouds built, the snow softened, and we retraced the ridge, jumping the same crevasse on a tight rope before working back across the glacier. We stopped at Camp 1 to collect our cache and carried on to ABC. By the time the tents came into view it was raining. I dropped my pack, half crawled into my bag with boots still on, and let the day finally catch up with me.

Back to the Valley

By morning the storm has cleared and a cool dawn light filters into camp. We pack up our remaining kit at ABC, moving slowly with stiff limbs and aching backs. Right on cue, Rayisbek appears, trotting up the valley on horseback with two ponies trailing behind, a scene that could have been lifted straight from a Silk Road travelogue film. He’s come to help carry everything back down. We load the horses with our gear, carefully securing bags of cameras and the precious hard drives full of footage and then follow him down the valley, retracing our path through the same river crossings, alpine meadows, and moraine fields that we had ascended days before. I steal a glance upward whenever the valley bends and offers a view of the high peaks behind us. In the clear morning sky I can just make out “our” summit far in the distance. It already feels a bit dreamlike that we were all standing up there less than 24 hours ago. Each step away from the mountain, the enormity of what we did sinks in a little more.

By late afternoon we’re back at Rayisbek’s homestead, tired and hungry. As soon as we dismount and unload, we’re ushered inside for a celebratory meal. Fresh flatbread appears again. Bowls of rich, tangy yak yoghurt, plates of beetroot salad, and endless cups of hot chai follow. We all crowd around on the floor, legs crossed, and dig in gratefully. Between mouthfuls of bread and sips of chai, we attempt to convey what happened on the mountain.

None of us speak Kyrgyz, and our hosts speak no English. The universal language of gestures and laughter seems to work.

We came to Kyrgyzstan to climb a new peak and document a world first – and we did. But what stays with me more than the summit itself, or even the spectacular photos and video we captured, is the way we were welcomed here in the valley. As a photographer and videographer, I’m keenly aware that some experiences simply can’t be done justice by a picture or film. Bread handed straight from the fire by a stranger who treats you like family; a place at a table that was not ours; the warmth of people who had no reason at all to offer it.

Those are the moments that imprint deepest on my memory. Belonging doesn’t always come from familiar places or longtime friends. Sometimes it’s found in a high mountain valley, twenty miles from the most landlocked point on earth, where strangers give you bread, laugh with you, and make you feel as though you were always meant to be there.

Toby Roney is an award-winning photographer, videographer, and entrepreneur focused on adventure in the outdoors, and the people drawn to it. He has worked with numerous outdoor brands, and his work has been featured in publications such as The Red Bull Bulletin, The New York Times, and Topo Journal, among others.

Toby is experienced documenting expeditions in harsh environments. Whether it’s client work or one of his own projects, he constantly pushes himself creatively, mentally, and physically.

Photography and words by Toby Roney, on assignment for Coldhouse.