OLE ANDERSEN, OCTOBER 2026

Lesser Roads began without much of a plan.

There was no list of sixteen photographs, no grand artistic thesis, and certainly no sensible itinerary. There was a truck, a camera, an unreasonable amount of driving, and the persistent belief that something worth seeing was probably happening somewhere I wasn't.

Two years later, I have sixteen photographs and enough stories to suggest that good judgment was rarely my modus operandi.

The photographs were made across mountains, forests, coastlines, and stretches of road that seemed to go on long after the rest of the world had called it a night. Some required weeks of preparation. Others happened because I took a wrong turn, changed my mind, or decided that whatever I was supposed to be doing could wait another day.

I have slept in places I wouldn't recommend, met people I will never forget, and spent an extraordinary amount of money on gasoline. I have been cold, hungry, frightened, drunk, hopelessly lost, and occasionally all five within the same twenty-four hours.

I have also been extraordinarily fortunate.

Somewhere along the way, the collection became something different from what I thought I was making.

I believed I was photographing wildlife. And I was. But when I began writing the stories behind the photographs, I realized how much of the work existed outside the frame.

The photograph might show a bear, a bison, or a moose. It doesn't show the person who let me sleep on their floor, the conversation I had in a bar the night before, the friend I was thinking about, or the several hundred miles of questionable decisions that put me there in the first place.

Those things became the writing.

And, quite unintentionally, Lesser Roads became an account of my own life.

I have thousands of photographs from those two years, but these sixteen tell the story I wanted to tell. Not necessarily of the greatest places I went or the finest photographs I made, but of everything that happened in between. The people, the mistakes, the things I lost, and the things I found worth keeping.

I suppose it's a strange thing to make a first collection about. Then again, I was figuring out what kind of artist I wanted to be at roughly the same time I was figuring out what kind of man I was going to be. I'm not entirely sure I've settled either question.

I don't believe every photograph needs an explanation. Nor do I believe that every experience becomes meaningful simply because someone bothers to write it down. Some things happened because I was young and stupid. Some happened because I was curious. Some happened because I couldn't imagine doing anything else.

A few of them changed me.

I have tried to tell those stories as faithfully as I remember them, including the parts that don't make me look particularly good. There is little point in writing about your own life if you're only going to include the flattering bits.

I don't know that these sixteen photographs have any single lesson to offer. I certainly didn't set out to teach one.

If anything, they are evidence of a particular period in my life, of the places I went, the things I saw, and the person I was while seeing them.

There will be other photographs. Other roads. Other collections.

But there will never be another first one.

Lesser Roads is complete.

I'm glad I went.

To Parks Canada and the United States National Park Service, and the rangers, wardens, and staff who dedicate their lives to protecting these extraordinary places. Thank you for the work you do, the knowledge you've shared, and the occasional patience required when dealing with people like me.

To the Inuit and Gwich'in communities of the North, who made their home feel like mine. I arrived a stranger and was treated like anything but one. I'll be back, and not just for work. There are people I'd like to see again, stories I'd like to hear, and I sincerely hope we get to tie one on together again.

To John, owner of the Whiskey Jack in Jasper, who was my gateway into Canada long before I had any idea how much of my life I'd end up spending there. What began with a bar became a country full of people, places, and stories I now consider part of my own life. I owe you more than a few drinks, John.

To the assortment of bartenders, strangers, travelers, mechanics, locals, and other characters who found their way into these stories. Some of you knew me for an evening. Others became friends. A few of you probably remember things rather differently than I do. Thank you for making the roads considerably less lonely.

To my peers and close friends, who accompanied me on various expeditions of questionable necessity and even more questionable planning. Thank you for the miles, the company, the laughs, and for continuing to answer the phone when I suggest going somewhere.

To my father, Shayne, who taught me conservation and storytelling. One taught me to care about the world I was looking at. The other taught me how to tell somebody what I'd seen.

To my mother, Shannon, who taught me kindness and curiosity. To ask questions, to listen to the answers, and to remember that there's usually more to a person than what you see at first glance.

Between the two of you, I suppose you gave me most of what I needed to make this collection. The rest I had to figure out somewhere along the road. Thank you. I love you both.

And finally, to Grey.

You never got to see where all those roads led. I wish you had.

You were there for more of them than you knew.