Dylan Efron, Dog Dad

Los Angeles, California
Interview by Sheila Lam
Photographs by Justin Chung

Dylan Efron's home holds a quality of seeming both temporary and rooted. It's a duality that speaks to the nature of his lifestyle. "I like to live simply. To live somewhere that's peaceful for me, and I want to be outdoors," he tells me. His home is in the South Bay where most windows frame the distant Pacific. The walls hold few decorations and the furnishings appear chosen for function rather than statement. "I think I'm on the right path," he adds, and I believe him.

In the years after my own migrations, I have come to recognize that certain people carry their sense of home within themselves. Dylan seems to be one of these. His garage, which he enthusiastically shared, contains not status symbols but tools for experience: climbing gear, high-lining equipment, electric bicycles, and a van that serves as his mobile sanctuary. There is something earnest in this curation of possibility rather than possession, something that speaks to a fundamental truth about what constitutes a life well-lived.

"I live in a microcosm of LA by the beach, but I still live in the city," he explains. "To be able to hop into my van and drive an hour out to somewhere and lose all signal is incredible." There is something in his voice when he speaks of this transition between worlds. It’s a peaceful contentment that seems to settle around him like the California light. It is not merely escape he describes, but balance; a study of someone who has learned to inhabit different realms and draw sustenance from their contrast. His expression softens when he speaks of these passages between city and wilderness solitude, suggesting that the movement itself might be as essential to him as either destination.

When we discuss his work, particularly his documentary series about learning outdoor skills, I can see the intention behind his approach. "The conventional way of going about it was: you put something out on Instagram, and there's no context," he remarks. "You'll see someone rock climbing, and they're doing something really impressive but you don't see the work. I was learning all these new things and was okay showing that I'm not always good at this stuff at first."

As late morning light shifts across the floor, our conversation turns to persistence. "A lot of people will go out and try something one day, fail, and think, 'Oh, I'm never going to be good at it,'" he observes. "But I think if people stick to things, they're going to find a new passion and maybe fall in love with something they might want to live for."

When he speaks of his future ambitions, I hear echoes of the responsible traveler's ethos. "Authentic stories that tap into making an impact on people's lives or bettering the world," he says, describing his focus with quiet certainty. "I really do think the tourism industry can be amazing for the world. It brings so many jobs and opens up opportunities when people are willing to go to new places."

Yet he recognizes the impact of overtourism too: "Not many more people need to go to Machu Picchu, but for every Machu Picchu, there's a Guyana. A place that gets a thousand tourists a year. Travelling to destinations that don't get a lot of tourism and exposing audiences to new places is amazing. Doing this kind of storytelling, one that somehow helps make the world a better place or share new passions. That's my goal."

As Dylan continues to develop his voice as a storyteller, his greatest contribution may be this demonstration that a life well-lived requires neither excess nor isolation but rather a mindful balance. The ability to move purposefully between connection and solitude, between the known and the unexplored. His journey offers a compass for navigating the world, pointing toward the sustainable middle ground where authentic experience becomes both personal fulfilment and collective benefit. In a world increasingly defined by extremes, Dylan's middle path offers a quiet but compelling alternative, an invitation to reconsider what we deem essential. ●