Cowboy to Cockpit to Camera

My Journey

This web page is formatted for home computers and laptops. Formatting may not render properly on smart phones or tablets.

David Winegar | Founder, Park City Photography

Thank you for stopping by. My name is David Winegar, and I’m grateful you are here. What follows is a brief history of my life and photographic journey. You might need a pot of coffee for this one, or a bottle of Whiskey. Make it High West - Please! Or just skip this altogether.

My father was a powerful influence in my early life—and he loved photography. We spent countless days in the outdoors—hiking, fishing, hunting, and camping. Through him, I learned a deep reverence for nature. It was there I felt—and still feel—most alive and at peace.

When I was twelve, my father passed away from colon cancer, leaving my mother to raise five children on her own. To help ease the burden, I went to live with my uncle and aunt on their cattle ranch in Kalispell, Montana. My uncle had just lost his longtime ranch hand and needed help. My mother, now a widow, was working full-time as a nurse—and trying to raise five kids, the youngest just a year old.

To help out, and being the oldest (12), I went to life on my Uncles Hereford Cattle ranch. It was in that vast Montana country beneath the “big sky” that I learned the ropes of life—hard work, riding horses, and self-reliance. It’s also where I found some time to reconcile in my young mind, my father’s death.

Long days were often spent alone, doing ranch work, fence posting, splitting logs in the woods to heat the house through winter, checking fence lines, and riding horses on the range checking cattle. My go-to mount was Tinker Bell—a full-blooded Quarter Horse with a heady gait—or sometimes a fast Indian Paint my uncle bought from the Flathead Indians off the reservation. I always rode with a Winchester .30-30 in the scabbard, in the case of trouble. In the scene below I am riding Charlie, a big strong horse that could slow down a steer or cow when roped.

I drove tractors to mow hay, till fields, and bale the harvest hay, and I spent entire weeks clearing ditches with a shovel, keeping its blade sharp with a file. My aunt would pack a lunch pail, a gallon of water, and send me off in the morning, and I wouldn’t see her again until dinner.

On other days, I worked beside my uncle moving irrigation pipe, cutting and baling hay, bucking bales all summer with hired hands, and feeding livestock. I lived in a one-room bunkhouse formerly occupied by a hired ranch hand. The shack had a wood-burning stove for heat— until about 2 a.m., when the logs burned down to coals, and then it was into the deep freeze and deep covers until morning.

There was no plumbing. I washed with a tin bucketl filled with water filled up from spring-fed water piped into a cattle trough. I would pour what I needed into a tin bowl, and used an outhouse behind the shack. Somehow I survived before plastic water bottles and iPhones were invented.

It was wonderful—my own little home at age twelve. I grew up fast on that ranch, working shoulder to shoulder with men in their twenties and thirties. And I wouldn’t trade those years for anything.

Ranch life is work, work, and more work. And honestly, that work kept my mind off things. It kept me busy, and kept me off the streets, (not endless hours like todays kids on Tik Tok, Facebook, and Instagram) and probably kept me out of trouble.

My Uncle Bill was a tough man and about 6’1 and built like a bear. During World War II, he boxed other servicemen in the barracks to entertain the troops. That’s how he met his wife—my Aunt June, an Army nurse. They were serious people from the greatest generation. No bullshit, no-nonsense, and they didn’t put up with disrespect. To be truthful, I was intimidated by both of them and would never think to do anything wrong to avoid corporal punishment.

I remember one midnight when a group of teenagers drove up the dirt road that ran through our ranch, drinking beer and tossing cans out the window onto our property. As well they were shooting at who knows what with guns, and we had our cattle up there. Uncle Bill grabbed his rifle and I joined him in our ranch truck as we drove out into the dark to confront the drunk miscreants. When we found them, he "addressed" the issue in a way that made sure it never happened again. They left alive, but without there guns and maybe in need of some dental work. It was a different time.

When I finished high school, I discovered there was no avenue to take over the ranch or become a future owner. Sad for me—-A new chapter in life began.

As a yellow Hughes Airwest 737 descended into Kalispell—just a quiet country airport without even a control tower—I felt a wave of emotion. This would be my last trip home from the ranch. As the jet touched down, I was hit with a flashback: the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds roaring over the Salt Lake Airport when I was 10 or 11 years old with my dad before he died. The adrenaline I felt that day never left me. After the jet landed, I had a chance to speak with the pilots before the flight back to Salt Lake City, and I remember thinking, what a cool job—to fly for a living and get paid for it.

1978–1982
Back in Salt Lake City and home with my family, I arranged an interview with Colonel Heiser, the Commandant of Cadets for the Air Force ROTC at the University of Utah. A silver-haired, highly decorated pilot, he had flown fighters—and the legendary SR-71 Blackbird spy plane. Now on a two-year non-flying assignment, he was heading the university’s ROTC program with the same precision and presence that had defined his flying career.

Sitting in his office, I was mesmerized by the photos on the walls—images of the aircraft he’d flown, each one more incredible than the last. I listened. I absorbed. And when I walked out of that office, I knew, without question, that I had found my future career.

In my senior year at the University of Utah, I was honored to be selected as the Student Commandant of Cadets. Upon graduation, I received my commission as a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force and was selected—out of a highly competitive field of peers—for jet pilot training.

The next chapter of my life—1983 to 1990—was spent in the cockpit of U.S. Air Force jets, flying missions around the world.
I began my military service flying KC-135 Stratotankers out of Robins Air Force Base in Georgia, where I pulled nuclear alert duty during the Cold War years. It was a sobering and demanding assignment, but one that shaped my discipline and precision as a pilot.

Later, I was honored to serve as the personal pilot for General George B. Crist, the four-star Marine Corps - Commander of U.S. Central Command. Alongside two fellow instructor pilots, we flew a specially configured EC-135Y, transporting the general and his battle staff throughout the Middle East during a pivotal time in regional geopolitics.

I then flew the mighty KC-10, a DC-10-30 wide body jumbo jet that did air refueling, troop and military equipment transport all over the world. I was proud to fly in “Operation Just Cause” (Panama Invasion) and “Operation Desert Shield” - the lead up to Gulf War I.

After completing my service, I traded one uniform for another—joining Delta Air Lines and beginning a 30-year journey as a commercial airline pilot. I was honored to serve as a supervisor of Pilots (1500) at the Salt Lake City Base, and manager of Delta Flight Operations. In the scene below is a favorite memory after landing at Dulles Airport, when a group of toddlers asked if I could fly “their plane” and their moms wanted a picture. Moments like that reminded me why I loved flying—connecting people, sparking dreams, and seeing the wonder in a child’s eyes.

While at Delta, when cockpit duties allowed, I often sat back and watched the earth unfold below—from the best seat in the house.

I witnessed the seasons change causing above the earth—golden autumn sweeping across New England, rivaled only by the fiery reds and oranges of Utah’s Wasatch Mountains. I watched winter descend on the Rockies, and saw the light of dawn and dusk stretch across cities around the world.

And the clouds—endless, shifting, mesmerizing—I never tired of them. Lenticular’s stacked like flying saucers over towering peaks. Thunderheads rising with summer storms. Mares' tails of cirrostratus, and wave clouds rolling like an ocean beneath my wings.

It was never just flying—it was wonder, written in light and air. What an incredible time to live. I would often tell my customers that it was only two generations ago that they would have undertaken this journey in a covered wagon taking months to complete with a myriad of dangers.

I remember flying through dark nights when massive thunderstorms lit up the sky—brief flashes revealing towering shafts of danger, their turbulence felt from over 150 miles away. Some of my favorite flights were across Canada into Alaska, watching glaciers flow like massive arteries through the land. On the East Coast, rippling ridge-lines breached thick white fog. In the Caribbean, the ocean glowed in shades of aquamarine—especially near Puerto Rico, Costa Rica, Panama, and the Dominican Republic.

I loved flying among the big mountain ranges—into Kalispell, Butte, Bozeman, Helena, Missoula, and Jackson Hole. I passed Mount Rainier hundreds of times—a solitary giant piercing the sky—and Denali’s summit often greeted me between Anchorage and Fairbanks. On overnight flights to the Lower 48, I was frequently gifted with the aurora borealis—charged particles dancing just outside the cockpit window. Each time, I was humbled and amazed.

One night, not long after 9/11, I was flying to Buffalo New York. As we neared Niagara Falls—the water was lit by floodlights in red, white, and blue—I received permission from Air Traffic Control to circle twice, so passengers on both sides could see it. A small act of defiance, respect for those who lost their lives, and remembrance. The flight attendants told me the cabin fell silent. There were tears. It was worth every extra drop of fuel—and we still landed on time.

I was blessed with decades of sunrises and sunsets from 30,000 feet—colors and hues beyond words. Many moments left me in awe, deepening my belief in something greater. Some scenes were so surreal, so breathtaking, that tears quietly rolled down my face, that’s when I put my sunglasses on.

Back side of the clock flying —after midnight—coast to coast under a blanket of stars. Mostly quiet. The hum of the engines, the occasional crackle of radio chatter, and the silence of night—punctuated by shooting stars —those are memories I’ll never forget. Photography wasn’t allowed in the cockpit, but I carry those scenes in my mind’s eye— retina recordings is what I like to call them. They became the spark behind my desire to capture life’s extraordinary moments once my feet were back on the ground.

During layovers, if time allowed, I enjoyed “street photography” with a camera in hand—capturing life unscripted. People in motion. Light and shadow. Beauty in the everyday. Sometimes I’d rent a car on layovers and set out to explore—visiting the Bighorn Battlefield from Billings, Glacier National Park from Kalispell, or Yellowstone from Bozeman. I’d often invite the copilot and flight attendants to join. A dream life. I’ve been so blessed.

My aviation career ended abruptly when flight operations nearly halted during the COVID-19 pandemic. I retired early at age 60 (normal retirement is 65), but that closing door opened another—allowing me to go full throttle with my photography business, Park City Photography LLC, which I founded in 2005.

Locations and Subject Matter

For over 25 years, the wildlife and scenic vistas of Park City and the surrounding wilderness have been at the heart of my work. Just up the road lies Mirror Lake Highway and Bald Mountain—a summit I’ve reached many times, both on foot and through the lens. I’m especially drawn to mountain goats.

Finding them isn’t easy. Reaching their high-altitude habitat takes grit, and few photographers are willing to put in the effort. Goats are elusive and skittish, and approaching without disturbing their natural behavior requires patience, humility, and a lot of hiking. But after many long climbs—and a few lucky days—I’ve managed to capture some of my favorite wildlife images high in the Uintas.

I'm honored that several of my photographs appear in the latest edition of Falcon Guides: Hiking the High Uintas—including featured placements on the back cover and the facing page of the introduction. While I receive no compensation, having my work included in such a respected guidebook is deeply meaningful. I highly recommend the book as a comprehensive resource for exploring the many adventures found in the Uinta Mountains—a designated wilderness area and one of America's hidden gems. You can get this book at outdoor stores such as REI in Salt Lake or maybe Jans Outfitters.

Beyond the Park City area, some of my favorite places to photograph include Moab, Arches and Canyonlands National Parks, Dead Horse Point, the La Sal Mountains, the Tetons, and Yellowstone. I return to Jackson Hole several times a year—rising before dawn with my camera in hand, moving quietly through the woods in search of moose, elk, bears, and that soft, golden light that gently touches the Tetons at first light.

One unforgettable morning north of Jackson Hole, the legendary photographer Thomas D. Mangelsen pulled up beside me. Together, we photographed the famed grizzly Bear 399 and her three cubs—perhaps the most iconic bear in the American West. She recently passed away after being struck by a vehicle. Rest in peace, 399. Your legacy lives on in wild places, in photographs, and in the hearts of those who were lucky enough to witness your story.

I’m also passionate about nightscape photography—astrophotography with a powerful foreground subject. One of my favorite places is the overlook at Dead Horse Point State Park, a certified dark sky area where the heavens remain unsullied by artificial light. On its cliff edge, I’ve stood alone beneath a canopy of stars, framing the Milky Way and my favorite ancient Bristlecone Pine over 800 years old as my foreground image.

At 6,000 feet and 18 degrees in February, the cold cuts deep. The silence is profound—broken only by the distant howl of a coyote or the low, echoing hoot of an owl. Sound carries across the canyon walls, riding the wind. It’s haunting. It’s humbling. And it’s unforgettable. Below, I stand alone—motionless for a 12-second exposure—having set the camera to trigger in 10 seconds, just enough time to slip into position beneath the stars.

Looking skyward—but also inward—asking the timeless questions:
Why? —-Why me?—- Why here?—- Am I alone? —-Is anyone out there?

I am listening

These are the places that ignite my passion to create—through the magic of photography, which can literally stop time. These scenes connect me to something far beyond myself. They fire the synapses in my brain, where inspiration floods in faster than I can process. These are the images I want to live with—to display on walls, ponder, and share—not just for a moment, but for a lifetime. Or someone else’s lifetime.

May I offer an idea —-Get outside and find yourself in the wilderness or a special place that connects with your soul…take time to turn off the noise of life.

Breath deeply—
And just listen—-
—-I hope the silence is deafening.

My story—and the images in my galleries—reflect more than two and a half decades behind the lens. They come from moments that touched me deeply and remind me why I continue this work, creating art, capturing fleeting moments that move my soul —- and celebrate the miracle of life on this earth.

If something here speaks to you, I’d be honored—humbly—to create an art piece for your home or business.

If you made it this far, thank you for visiting. And by all means call a cab for that ride home!

David James Winegar

Let’s Connect

Whether you’re a collector, designer, curator, or simply someone who connects with a piece you’ve seen—thank you for your interest in my work.

Warm regards,
David Winegar
Photographic Artist | Park City, Utah