“I have a $175,000 camera in my hands. We’re at the top of a half-pipe. Shaun White is there. It’s just me and him, and the president of NBC at the bottom. Shaun pulls out his phone and starts playing ‘Hells Bells.’ He puts it back in his pocket, and the song echoes through the pipe. That was it. That was the moment where I was like, ‘What the fuck is this? How did I get here?’”

Despite what he’d have you believe, Spencer Whiting—known to friends as Spenny, and his nearly 250,000 Instagram followers as Gimbal God—didn’t arrive here by accident. His story is not one of chance or fate, but a case study in convergence and discipline.

As a writer, invoking Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers in 2025 is embarrassing on multiple levels. It’s cliché, lazy, and according to my wife—who studied neuroscience in undergrad—the book is essentially written for idiots. So now that we’ve established my credentials, let’s make the obvious connection.

You can’t explain Spencer’s “Hells Bells” moment without first recognizing the confluence of events and relationships that led him there. In the space of 10 years, he’s gone from an unpaid professional snowboarder and college dropout to the world’s preeminent POV filmer, creating his own business model to rake in hundreds of thousands of followers and millions of dollars by the age of 30.

As Gladwell put it: “Success is not a random act. It arises out of a predictable and powerful set of circumstances and opportunities.”

After spending time with Spencer and chatting with some of his closest friends, the rise of Gimbal God not only makes sense—it was inevitable.

Consider the following factors through a Gladwellian lens: a mom who imposed high standards and an entrepreneurial spirit; a dad who imparted pragmatism; friends who were Olympic gold medalists; a brain that thrives on obsession. Throw in some athletic ability of his own, a personal relationship with GoPro’s creative director and Instagram’s perfectly-timed pivot to video and you’ve got everything required to create one of snowboarding’s hardest working, most broadly skilled and well-connected operators.

Despite the dominoes in place, none of this fell into Spencer’s lap. He didn’t grow up with a caviar bib. He’s slept on more couches than beds in the past 15 years (if he’s slept at all). And by the time you’ve read this article, he’s already found his next mountain—and charted a course to climb it.

Siri, play AC/DC.

“Day one on snow at the 2025 Monster Energy park shoot at Jackson, WY, this past spring. Once Spencer was done with his filming obligations from the day, he hiked up to hit the quarter-pipe a couple times. He hasn’t forgotten how to ride transition from his earlier competition days.” Photo: Jack Dawe

Spencer Whiting’s life began in New York, but his formative years took shape under San Diego’s infinite action sports sprawl.

When his parents split, an 8-year-old Spencer moved west with his sister, Ali, and mom, Mary. His dad, Charles, remained back east, running his printing business. Spencer would visit Charles semi-regularly but was effectively with his mom full time.

Originally a lawyer, Mary found herself in California with no bandwidth to retake the bar exam—juggling a day job and raising two kids can have that effect. As a result, the resources at Spencer’s disposal took more of an experiential bent, with world-class skateparks and surf breaks within 20 minutes of his home. It was the early 2000s, and Spencer found himself at the epicenter of a then-booming boardsports industry.

“I was mostly a skater when I was younger and grew up watching Tony Hawk,” Spencer says. “My first time at the Encinitas YMCA, I remember my mom dropping me off—I was like eight years old—and Shaun White and Tony Hawk were there. If you watch the White Album, when they’re doing the doubles in the vert ramp — I literally showed up and that was happening. I sat there on the benches for two hours. I didn’t even know if I was allowed to watch. But I was like, dude, this is it. I’ve arrived.”

Tyler Correll, a childhood friend, remembers Spencer’s innate, almost reckless drive from the moment he arrived in California: “Think of watching a 10-year-old not even check the 12-stair at Earl Warren Middle School, and just say, ‘Hey, I think I’m going to hit that.’ And then watching him disappear down this 12-stair and getting worked beyond belief. He should have broken multiple bones. Instead, he stood up, tried it again and landed it perfectly.”

This wasn’t just youthful exuberance; it was an early glimpse of the resilience and fearlessness that would come to define Spencer Whiting. Yet, this freedom to explore was balanced by a rigorous home environment. Spencer wasn’t just allowed to run wild; his mother instilled in him a formidable work ethic. “My mom had me writing 15-page research papers when my friends only had to do two-to-three-page papers in school,” Spencer says. “The rule was, if I got straight A’s, I could skate and snowboard. If I got a B, I couldn’t.

“She wasn’t the easiest mom,” Spencer continues, “but looking at my sister and even myself, it’s crazy how much your parents can shape you. My sister said it best: ‘You’re born with style—but you have to earn resilience.’ When you’ve gone through the shit enough times, and you’ve figured it out—that’s what forges someone’s character.”

Spencer sees himself as a blend of his parents’ natures (and nurtures). “I think my mom’s the dreamer and my dad’s the reality guy, and I’m kind of a mix of the two minds,” he says.

Spencer’s sister’s trajectory further underscores this theory: she is currently on a special operations trajectory for the US Navy.

“I always just think of it like, ‘Fuck, I have to hike up this hill—but at least I’ll get to snowboard down. Ali’s got to walk down,’” Spencer says. “She’s a huge inspiration for me.”

Spencer following Judd Henkes while filming “Greenhorn” in the Coast Mountains of British Columbia. The 18-month project brought the pair all over the world chasing snow and surf from BC to Wyoming, Alaska, Norway, Chile, Indonesia, Ireland and New Zealand. Photo: Mason Mashon

Spencer and I met at a mutual friend’s bachelor party in Costa Rica last year. The friend, Tyler (quoted above), surprised us with a boat trip to Roca Bruja—Witch’s Rock—a mythical beach known for its saltwater crocodiles, A-frame tubes and a volcanic monolith that towers over the lineup and howls like a witch in the offshore breeze. A snowboarder by trade, Spencer prefers to spend his leisure time “surfing empty beach breaks in warm places.”

Over the course of that day at Witch’s—and even more so at the wedding itself—I got to know Spencer: the man behind the deific Instagram handle. He was funny, charismatic, a little loud and incredibly friendly. Despite having the most interesting job of anyone in attendance, Spencer was more curious about others’ occupations and lives—the lawyers, the real estate agents, the lowly surf writers, but especially the Witch’s Rock boat drivers.

Of course, that might have something to do with his first real business venture.

“Most kids when they’re 18, 19, 20, are hanging out and living the dream—probably getting stoned or having a few drinks,” Tyler recounts. “Meanwhile, Spencer and I were writing plans for an international surf business in Costa Rica. At the time it was JST Surf—Jose, Spencer, Tyler Surf—and we put together a legitimate business that ran for two or three years.”

For Spencer, this entrepreneurial spirit wasn’t just a college-age whim; it was ingrained from childhood. “My dad ran his own businesses,” he says. “My mom ran her own businesses. I had duct tape wallet companies with friends in sixth grade, and I could make crappy little websites as well.”

Always tinkering, always looking for the next frontier, Spencer was an early adopter in every sense. “Early on, I was jailbreaking iPhones. I bought my first fake ID for a thousand Bitcoin, and there’s still a wallet out there in some old email with a thousand Bitcoin in it,” he pauses, half-joking, half-resigned. “I’ve probably spent four weeks trying to get into that thing. But I’m like, you know what? I’d probably hurt myself if I found that money.”

Spencer Whiting chases storms year-round—this time on a line called Gold Finger, an iconic descent in the Central Andes near Santiago, Chile. Photo: Héctor Silva Peralta

Spencer didn’t originally dream of filmmaking. From the age of 12, he was going to be a pro snowboarder. Despite living in San Diego, he made the 13-hour round-trip voyage to Mammoth each weekend to ride with the snow team, sleeping on couches and working at a local sushi spot to fund the lifestyle.

“He stays very, very humble in terms of his younger career as a snowboarder, but he got extremely good,” Tyler confirms.

Judd Henkes—another childhood friend, snowboard prodigy, and later, one of Spencer’s main film subjects—echoes this sentiment: “He was super good in the half-pipe. He was doing double corks and 1080s. I think he did maybe some 1260s as well.”

Still, Spencer’s moment of clarity came during a trip to Australia in 2015. “I went down there with a pretty solid trick list. I thought if I had these in my bag, I could easily make it,” Spencer recalls, the ambition still palpable. He spent 45 days and probably a “thousand-plus laps” on this jump line, but the reality of his situation slowly crept in.

“When you literally have Stale [Sandbech] and Sage [Kotsenburg] doing your trick list as their warmup runs, and every time you tried some of the gnarlier ones you felt like you were going to die…” Spencer trails off. “It’s like, all right, hold up. I have yet to make a dollar snowboarding. All my friends around me are fucking millionaires and have Olympics and X Games medals. In life, there’s goods and greats—and you better figure out which one you are before you chase yourself down a rabbit hole.”

Spencer’s rabbit hole wasn’t a delusion of ability—it came from his first time taking uppers.

“I literally spent 45 days lapping a T-bar, hitting jumps and getting no better than when I started,” Spencer continues. “After that, I went back to Boulder [University] where it was my sophomore year. Within 20 minutes, my girlfriend of four years breaks up with me. I was like, what the fuck? I had basically just given up on my dream of snowboarding, and now this. I felt like I had no idea where I was or what I was supposed to do.”

What he did next was clearly not the answer.

“I did cocaine for the first time, and it sent me on this crazy, manic, four-day spin where I got into some trouble,” he says.

To keep it brief, Spencer got pulled out of an airport for acting erratically. After completing a mental check, the authorities deemed he was not of a sound mind and sent him to a local hospital, which then turned into a mental ward. They kept him for 11 days.

“There are gnarly people, dude,” Spencer explained on the Bomb Hole podcast in 2021. “I saw full heroin addicts on withdrawal, clawing at the tile, and it was just like, what the fuck? Am I really supposed to be here?”

After further testing, Spencer was officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder. His takeaway was slightly different.

“This was literally my first time ever doing cocaine, and what I’ve learned is that my body has a natural upper,” he says. “So, if you add an upper to that, it makes me manic. But I don’t necessarily have the up-and-down depression that you would associate with bipolarity. Sure, when you come back from a crazy trip to Alaska, there may be a serotonin drop and you don’t really want to do anything for a week or two. But I certainly don’t feel that I have this mental condition that dictates my entire life. What I really learned from that experience is our healthcare system just wants to drug you up and make money on that.”

Following the incident, and with a career in pro snowboarding seemingly off the table, Spencer returned to school but poured the bulk of his talent and energy into an internship at Snowboarder Magazine, where he started to hone his talents as a photographer and filmer. While there, he also made invaluable relationships and connections in the industry, and perhaps most importantly, earned his future moniker.

“My nickname was ‘Gimbal God’ at Snowboarder—[filmmaker] Joe Carlino coined it because I was always going off jumps filming guys on this little gimbal rig,” Spencer says. He doesn’t claim to have invented the POV-style of filming that he’s now synonymous with—far from it. “Kirk Bereska is probably the most OG that I know of,” he says. “And all the guys in the Mack Dawg & Standard films like Kurt Heine. I would say even Jeremy Jones had the POV cameras in some of his older stuff.”

But Spencer took their party trick and turned it into a profession. His pro-adjacent snowboarding skills made this possible—along with a new, hyper-durable camera that had just hit the market, to which, of course, Spencer had uncommon access.

“Probably my closest mentor who got me into editing and photos and film was the creative director for GoPro,” Spencer reveals, referencing his long-standing relationship with former Major League Soccer player Davis Paul. “He gave me cameras from the beginning and encouraged me to get out there and create something with it.”

This connection provided not just guidance, but access to the very tools that would become central to Spencer’s craft. Then came the digital turning point that Spencer, with his innate tech-savviness and burgeoning POV skills, was uniquely positioned to capitalize upon. “Instagram came out with video,” he says. “Everyone was like, what the fuck is this? And I was like, well, that’s a place for my stuff.”

This timing was critical. Just as Spencer was refining his POV techniques with the GoPro, a global platform emerged, hungry for the very content he was creating. It was a Gladwellian moment: Bill Gates tinkering in his high school’s computer lab. Canadian hockey players being born in January. Spencer Whiting cracking the algorithm.

Now Spenny was missing just one thing: a subject worthy of his talents.

Enter Ståle Sandbech.

“Before he was Gimbal God, he was Spencer Whiting, the insanely talented snowboarder. Handpicked by Snowboarder Magazine staff for the coveted, invite-only sunset and sunrise sessions at events like The Launch and Superpark, he always delivered—seen here at the Superpark event at Seven Springs, PA, in 2013.” Photo: Jeff Baker

“My dream was to figure out a way to travel and keep snowboarding. But looking at the state of the industry, it didn’t seem realistic,” Spencer recalls. He had completed three and a half years of a finance degree and—despite a successful internship at Snowboarder—was on the cusp of accepting a job in New York City. “And then Ståle comes out of nowhere at a party and offers me a trip to Europe as I might be the guy for his next project.”

The transition was not subtle.

“In five days, I went from taking six classes and preparing for an office job, to not doing my finals week,” Spencer says. “Then a month and a half later I’m living in Norway making YouTube videos—Ståle and I didn’t even really know each other in the beginning.”

At that moment, all the individual pieces of the puzzle fell into place, revealing the newfound trajectory of Spencer’s life. “In the span of eight months, my Instagram account went from 8,000 to 100,000—which was significantly more than most snowboarders at the time,” he says.

This growth came at a cost, however. “Between shooting for Ståle during the day, editing whenever I could, and being in my mid-20s and not wanting to miss a night out with my friends… I think I slept an average of four hours a night for about four years,” Spencer says.

Judd acknowledges the impact of this partnership: “Spenny started making Ståle’s YouTube and it took off from there. I want to say that Ståle was the major catalyst for his career.”

Another reason for Spencer’s success? He wasn’t afraid to lean into his own mythology.

“When I started with Ståle, my Instagram account was @spencerwhiting,” Spencer explains. “But I wanted to change it. I had a list of 50 other names that I was considering, then when I posted my first ever shot of Ståle, Mia Danielle from Snowboarder commented #gimbalgod. I saw that and I changed my handle on the spot.”

Despite an initial setback—“I actually lost 4,000 followers off the bat”—the name quickly became synonymous with groundbreaking POV. But fame, especially within the niche world of action sports, comes with its own complexities.

“I think I had a lot more friends when I had no followers,” Spencer reflects. “Having success sometimes brings crazy energy that you never planned on. And then learning how to navigate that energy in as small of a space as snowboarding was really tricky for me.”

When everything became too much, Spencer could always lean back into the work.

“I definitely am my best version of myself when I’m busy with a mission,” he says.

Judd, who has witnessed Spencer’s work ethic firsthand, describes it vividly: “He’d be up all night editing until 4:00 a.m. and then get up at seven and be up on the hill filming everyone again all day. That’s just how he is and how he works.”

Spencer filming doors off with Alaska Backcountry Guides in Valdez, AK. On this trip, he spent 28 days at the local Best Western waiting for weather windows. Photo: Jack Dawe

Spencer’s ambition, however, often scales beyond what could be considered normal. “He’s insane at logistics,” Judd says, a note of admiration mixed with slight apprehension. “Maybe too insane sometimes. The scale that he is trying to work at is a little bit crazy.”

This “insane” logistical ambition was fully unleashed on Judd’s first-of-its-kind surf/snowboarding film, Greenhorn.

“I wanted Greenhorn to be my business card,” Spencer explains. “Like, ‘Hey, I don’t just film GoPro’.”

Such ambition comes with a steep price tag—a reality Spencer has learned the hard way.

“For Judd’s project, just to go to Alaska, I fronted $145,000. Monster probably paid $40,000 of it. Another party paid $25,000, another party paid $10,000, and then I got the insurance money back on the rest of it… All up, I think it was a $345,000 project. Judd and I each ended up paying around $50,000 out of pocket.”

The flip side of Spencer’s relentless pursuit of quality is that he inadvertently holds others to the same high standards he sets for himself—which, especially in the realm of mixing friends and business, isn’t always conducive to relationships.

“We’ve had our fair share of butting heads and things like that,” Judd admits. “Maybe sometimes he is a bit too aggressive about it. And his style of working isn’t for every athlete. It doesn’t happen as much snowboarding, but surfing I’d come in from sessions and he’d be like, ‘Fuck, just delete the card, dude. I don’t even want to see it.’”

These high-pressure situations have, at times, led to friction with friends and partners alike. Judd mentions “Mayhem Projects,” an early project involving Brandon Davis, Kyle Mack, Nik Baden and Drew Hastings, that supposedly led to a rift between close friends. Even Spencer’s pivotal partnership with Ståle Sandbech, the catalyst for his rise, eventually hit a rough patch. Such is the nature of intense creative collaboration, especially when money is involved.

“I think a lot of life is just human and ego management,” Spencer explains. “The better you are at communicating with people and thinking about what you say before you say it, the more success you’re going to have in any sort of situation. The thing that’s been hard for me is, snowboarders—or any athletes really—often don’t understand the risks I’m taking financially to make these projects happen. They’re not used to paying for anything to go do their job, really.”

Significant financial setbacks have punctuated Spencer’s recent career, often due to circumstances beyond his control. He recounts a harrowing experience in Alaska last year: “My idea was for a backcountry training camp with the Monster team in Alaska, and riders were getting hurt. On top of that, we ended up only being able to fly four of the 14 days of our heli window. So, we lost about $110,000 in prepaid heli time. And then the insurance company fucked us, and we didn’t get the money back.”

These are not just abstract numbers; they are real-world hits that would cripple most individuals and small businesses. “From 2022 to 2025, I really grew up as a man…financially,” Spencer says, reflecting on a period of real-world education. “In the last four years, I’ve made $3 million and spent 3.1. That’s definitely not sustainable.”

Spencer’s financial model, much like an athlete’s, relies on retainers and additional incentive-based fees. “Since 2019, I’ve been paid by Monster Energy, Oakley, GoPro, and Bataleon Snowboards to use their products and share them on my channel—just a basic athlete/influencer setup,” he says. “Then if they want me to make something for them—say an edit or film with one of their other riders—there’s typically an additional fee on top of that.”

Spencer admits that from a monetary standpoint, his choices have been unconventional. “If you were looking at this from a financial growth and success model, I would never have looked at a RED camera. I would’ve just done what I was told and just gone the GoPro route,” he says. But for Spencer, it was never about maximizing immediate profit—it was about investing in his craft long-term. “I look at all of that as start-up capital to get me as good as I can be,” he says.

Gladwell’s theory on mastery hinges on the 10,000-hour principle. It’s safe to say Spencer has surpassed that benchmark—along with whatever financial investment is required to reach one’s potential.

“I’ve put everything I’ve had into creating snowboarding content,” he states. “Going forward, I’m still going to give it the same, if not more—but with a better framework to keep myself insulated from financial risk.”

That means not only getting smarter about how he approaches film productions but also diversifying his portfolio.

“I actually made a GoPro masterclass, which is going to be available to purchase on my website as of September,” Spencer says. “I’m hoping to share everything I’ve learned about these cameras over the past 10 years—settings, lenses, editing and so on. And that will apply to every type of filming, not just snowboard.”

Spencer Whiting’s journey, from an 8-year-old mesmerized by Tony Hawk at the YMCA, to Gimbal God trailing Shaun White in the “Hells Bells” halfpipe, is a story of innate talent fostered by rigorous discipline. Of fortuitous connections amplifying unique skills. Of a relentless work ethic meeting opportune timing. As a true outlier, Gimbal God’s legacy has already been forged into history.

But what about Spencer—the plucky, fearless kid from New York/San Diego who leapt blindly off 12-stairs and jailbroke iPhones for fun?

“My favorite thing in the world is to facilitate greatness in snowboarding,” he says. “When I’m in Alaska, and it’s pink light, and Mason Lemery and John Jackson are on two of the most psycho ridges I’ve ever seen—that’s what I live for. For moments like the one on March 17th, 2025 at 7:48 a.m. It only lasted for 10 minutes. But when you think about all the planning, logistics and luck it took to get there—honestly, I wouldn’t trade that morning for a million dollars.”

While Spencer chases priceless moments, the rest of us can learn from how he’s gotten here. If you haven’t already, go give @gimbalgod a follow. It’s the best $0 you’ll spend today.

On Norway’s west coast at the iconic Folgefonna glacier in 2018, Spencer follows Ståle Sandbech into the sunset. Photo: Petter Foshaug

TOTAL TRASH

TECHNICALLY DOING IT ALL OVER THE WORLD

MELLOW IS A MOUNTAIN

MAYBE TOO INSANE

MASASHI NISHINA’S INTENTIONAL LINES

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