Crafted for Adventure

Words by Ryan Hitzel | Photos by Dean Bradshaw

I often wonder what constitutes a “cowboy.” Is it a state of mind, in the blood, just a job, or something learned? Probably all of the above. But we need more of them — they’re loyal, skilled, masochistic, independent and imperfect. In other words: Dylan Gordon.

I first got to know Dylan, or “Doggy,” as it were, on a trip to Northern Vietnam in 2014. He was a gifted photographer with a reckless abandon that fired me up. Born on a horse ranch in San Luis Obispo, California — just far enough away from the hoopla of Southern California to be grounded, but close enough to seek something more — Dylan is a rarity. That was something I admired about him from the get-go and sort of wished I had grown up  under similar circumstances, because it was clear very early that Doggy had a different playbook. Drink more, stay up later, ride faster, and still get the shot type stuff. And if we were real lucky, he’d try to fight someone, or perhaps console them. Cowboy shit.

Life on the ranch for Dylan wasn’t dull, though. His father was a classically trained tinkerer. Always curious, the senior Gordon was influential to Dylan, the kind of guy who could identify problems and solve them with little to no initial knowledge on the subject. From helping to develop the JPG to pioneering live video streaming tech online, his father’s collection of projects was eclectic, to say the least. 

In his teens as a renowned downhill skater, Dylan was was having gear problems, so his dad chipped away at some modifications to the downhill skateboard and started a company so that Dylan had the best equipment for his pursuit. But the family business was actually training and breaking horses, so Dylan learned the difference between independence and conformity; well-trained horses were both by nature. It was something that also connected him to the outdoors in more profound ways, as all good cowboys are. A connection that would guide him into surfing, motorcycles and adventurism. A landscape where he’d begin to take photos of his and his friends’ antics.

Dylan’s work is somewhat complex. It’s documentarian and honest, but dark and romantic.

It reminds me of Louis L’Amour novels. He seeks the truth relentlessly, but adds his own touch of narrative, enhancing the depth of each moment. His style is evident, whether the subject is a cactus at dusk, a surfer drawing a line somewhere between awkward and revolutionary, or the silence of friends surrounding a bonfire on a lonely beach. If you want something commercial, however — don’t hold your breath. “Making money is sorta lame, not my goal,” he has told me. We’ve spoken extensively on the subject and what it takes to be an uber-successful commercial photographer. Dylan’s take is unique. He’d rather forego the riches of large, prepackaged commercial shoots than abandon his own approach. And it’s not that he couldn’t be successful on a Ford shoot, but he’d be forced to compromise his vision. Indeed, the business of photography can’t break him, much like a wild horse. Because of it, his work is in high demand from the right clients, like his newest partnership with Firestone Walker. Surely, a big part of Dylan’s success can be traced to the sheer passion he has for the subject matter. In order to capture the moment honestly, you have to be part of it, virtually sewn into the fabric of what’s happening, unbeknownst to the cast. It’s the only way Dylan works.

It’s not surprising that he lives this way, too. Doggy resides in a proper warehouse in Ventura, essentially a massive space portioned into a gallery, darkroom, motorbike garage and living room. Save but a few walls, the space blends together seamlessly: art and photography mixed into a solid library of vinyl and books, a ’76 Triumph t140, a ’66 BSA 441, a KTM 450, a KTM 300 2smoke, a ’98 Harley 113cu, an old espresso machine and an eclectic quiver of surfboards. If you’re wondering, I haven’t skipped over the bedroom; it’s just that he banished it into his Airstream, which sits in the side yard under an avocado tree. Sure, his warehouse could fit the Airstream comfortably, but that would be far too easy and expected.

In some ways, his bikes have taken the place of horses from the days of yore.

He retrains old ones and breaks unwanted traits from new ones. They appear cobbled together and are often loyal only to him. There’s always a touch of Mad Max to his builds, but each bike is always fast and reliable – at least if he’s riding them. It’s hard to believe that Dylan doesn’t channel his Pops when he’s modifying his exhaust or re-skinning a seat with sheep’s wool. If anything, his work is a reflection of himself.

But after traveling with Dylan for a number of years, shooting in places like Vietnam, India, Argentina and Russia, I asked him if he’d like to become an ambassador for our company, Roark, and join the ranks of guys like Jamie Thomas, Jeff Johnson, Alex Andrews and Parker Coffin. On the road, but on both sides of the lens. Initially, his response was vintage D. Gordon, “Thanks, but ambassadors are fake, or at least I’d be, if I was in the shots.” After some convincing, I reminded him that our crew was pretty real, and that he wouldn’t be traveling all over the world shooting, drinking, crying and laughing with the gaggle if it weren’t authentic. It took a few attempts, but Dylan couldn’t be a more candid representative of the brand for such a reluctant ambassador. 

The thing is, Doggy isn’t a contrarian; he just has unwavering principles that steer the ship, even if they brush him up against dry reef every once in a while. He’s a mild masochist with a nose for the hard yards. A month ago, I asked him if he might be interested in joining me and a few friends on a rip from Tijuana to Cabo. Nothing too gnarly, more of a cruise to enjoy the scenery and fruits of the peninsula. He was all in until I revealed that there was a chase vehicle. “Oh dude, that’s pretty soft; I’m out,” he said. “Soft?” I replied. “A thousand miles in the desert on a motorcycle isn’t tough enough? You don’t even have to use the thing!”

Nope, he was out, it wasn’t remotely close enough to his waypoints. I finally had to agree with him, “Yeah, we’re soft.”

A few years ago, Dylan picked up a stray dog in Northern Baja and hasn’t looked back. Bruno travels almost everywhere with him. Riding shotgun, he’s seen more road time than most people I know. The little legend doesn’t leave Dylan’s side and is just as comfortable in the dirt as he is in the Airstream. The added responsibility seems serendipitous, as it paved the way for the birth of Dylan’s daughter, Lenora, last summer. I asked him if having a baby has changed his approach to life? Dylan says that he wants to show Lenora that life can be lived unconventionally and that one doesn’t have to conform to the norms. But he was quick to add that once she needs him to come off the gas, he’ll oblige.

Dylan was raised well, so his life’s direction is purpose-built and grounded. A few months back, I found a note from him in a jacket pocket that was written about a year ago. It came with a bottle of 20-year single-barrel Strathisla Scotch and thanked me for believing in him as a photographer and man. It reminds me that we’ve taken Dylan around the world 8 times over the years, and surprisingly, he’s the only one to have bought me a beer (or whisky) at the end of a trip. A small gesture indeed, but one that hasn’t gone unnoticed.

I’ve seen him pick fights with legends, surf better than the people he was shooting and cry in a lightning storm after missing a shot, just because he didn’t want to let us down. Dylan Gordon runs hot, but never stalls.

Some people draw outside the lines just to break the rules, but he finds beauty in the result.

You see, he’s a cowboy out there on the range just doing his job, but he does it while searching for something greater past the horizon — happy, lonesome and free.