Through a Different Lens
Toby Roney is a photographer and filmmaker whose work has taken him to remote and challenging environments around the world. After returning from Kyrgyzstan's remote mountains, he gives his unique perspective on expeditions, and doing his job in difficult places — "half-participant and half-observer."
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. We're in Kyrgyzstan with Ed Jackson on a 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 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.
Jake and I spent two full days just getting to basecamp. The first day was nine hours crammed in a rickety minibus from Bishkek. Day two was no better: another eight hours in a battered Russian GAZ 66 truck, a beast of a vehicle with tires that could roll over anything. 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.
Life at basecamp was 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. It was simple, and it was the best bread and jam I have ever had. Food shared this way had weight — hospitality offered plainly, with no need for words.
"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."
Being an expedition photographer means balancing art, story, and safety. I am lucky to work with guides like Paul and Ade who know far more about moving in these mountains than I do. 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.
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. Higher up the ridge pinched to a knife edge of wind-packed snow, with short rock steps. There was no beta, no fixed line, only Ade and Paul's judgment and our spacing.
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. 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 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 is the way we were welcomed in the valley. Belonging doesn't always come from familiar places or longtime friends. Sometimes it's found in a high mountain valley where strangers give you bread, laugh with you, and make you feel as though you were always meant to be there.
Photography and words by Toby Roney, on assignment for Coldhouse.
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