Around the Lens - Beyond the Tide

The sea creatures out here like it cold, rough, and salty - just what the North Pacific is constantly dishing out.  As distant wave energy expends itself on the sharp, black volcanic shelves of reef - hundreds of varieties of mussels, clams, urchins, barnacles, and anemones (to name only a fraction) are shot with this clean, cold, nutrient dense water.  Eel grass hypnotically obscures colourful orange and purple starfish, shy crabs, and psychedelic rainbow anemones.  Gooseneck barnacles extend their heads from vast mussel beds millions strong like slimy, fire engine red lipstick while octopus, salmon, and translucent blue jellyfish occupy the deeper and more distant places.  The biodiversity both above and below the water is intense.

Below the tide line is a place which most people will never know.  Seeing literally hundreds of forms of life in small tide pools is an amazing experience.  My goal with this photo - which is becoming a part of a larger series - is to show what a rich and complex world lives just below the shiny surface of sparkling waves dancing away from the setting sun.

All of these creatures are delicate and fragile, yet amazingly tough to be able to stand up to the legendary ferocity of a proper winter storm above the 49th parallel.  They are built to ebb and flow with the storms and the tides - but not against foreign substances like stray crude oil, industrial sludge, and soil choked runoff.  In the face of proposed oil tankers, pipelines, and industrial permits, it’s unsettling to think of what would happen to this coast if something went wrong.  Especially given the fact that with a long enough timeline - something always goes wrong.

A lot of Canadians see the west as a natural savings account to drive our country’s economy.  We see things a little differently in BC because we surf in these uninviting waters, walk through stands of ancient moss cloaked giants, and gaze out across an immense landscape that is worth holding on to.  We see and experience things that the rest of the country doesn’t and need to advocate for lands which cannot speak.  

I chose to depict a surfer gazing out into the setting sun with beautiful wild creatures at her feet because we who love and recreate in these places know them more intimately than anyone else and need to be the ones educating and showing how special they really are.  That they’re worth protecting - not purely for economic value, but for the fact that these small creatures, clean waters, and diverse forests are what make where we live special.

- April 2016

Around the Lens - Bloodstained Smiles

It’s a rare site to witness a mother Polar bear and two cubs gorging themselves on a fresh Beluga whale carcass - especially with a large male dangerously close by.  The mother keeps a watchful eye constantly fixed on the male bear as she tears flesh from bone with aggressive canine teeth.  The cubs look like they're smiling through blood stained muzzles every time they come up for air.  

Given the opportunity, male polar bears will kill any cubs they come across as it sends the mother bear into heat and has the added bonus of a small meal.  A strange fetish indeed, but as the male bear naps peacefully in the sun, deep in a meat coma, his thoughts are elsewhere - his belly so full of meat it almost looks like he’s standing while lying on his stomach.  

The shallow gravel expanse of Conningham Bay has been known to both Polar bears and Inuit hunters for centuries.  Large pods of Beluga whales enter a small channel into the bay which has the perfect exfoliating properties the whales have been searching for.  Distracted by the euphoric belly scratching, some of the unlucky whales become trapped due to a dropping tideclosing off the narrow entrance, which makes them easy prey for hunters of any discipline.

I have never seen so many bears in one place!  Thirty three individuals confirmed by the binoculars of our skilled wildlife specialists and the possibility of more napping behind the low yellow tundra hills rolling easily away into the distance.  Although well fed, we would be staying in our zodiacs and not risk going to shore.  

As I quietly pull alongside a very large male devouring one of the many unfortunate Beluga casualties, I notice a pattern of slice marks in the pink flesh of the whale.  This was not a natural bear kill, but one of the regular hunting parties from nearby Goja Haven or Taloyoak had taken only the muktuk - the outermost layer of insulating blubber which is a highly prized northern delicacy.  

Generally, local hunters in the Canadian north are very respectful of the wildlife - using every piece of the animals they take as wild food is scarce in the winter and there is an undisputed cultural connection with the land and animals.  But with such rich bounty, these particular hunters became greedy, collecting a small percentage of the most valued parts.  

I am in two minds about this:  It is understandable that with so many easily hunted whales and hungry bears - nothing is going to waste.  I just hope the philosophy of only taking the best and leaving the rest doesn’t stick in the general consciousness of these communities.  With limited government resources, monitoring poaching is almost an impossibility.  Hunting must be self regulated, but with such a small population base, there really are no secrets up here.  

As weather and sea ice patterns change, it’s difficult to know how this will effect the attitudes in the north.  It is a drastically changing environment - not only in the natural sense, but also with ever pressurizing industries such as resource extraction, fisheries, and tourism which are all pulling the local population in different directions, but unanimously away from a traditional way of life.  Only time will tell if pride in thousand year old traditions will be able to overpower southern dollars.

- August 2015

Around the Lens - Backyard Rodeo

The master of deception - Caroline Stroud had me load the car with camping gear, cold weather clothes, a wetsuit, and told me to get ready for any number of unknown adventures to unfold over the next 24 hours.  She is known for elaborate birthday celebrations, so I wasn’t sure what to expect as we collected friends Tara and Seb and headed north out of Whistler.  

A few minutes into the drive, Seb asked me if I had ever been skydiving before - and the secret was out.  Apparently Tara was much worse at keeping secrets than Caroline.  Seb and I have birthdays only a few weeks apart, so the girls had planned to take us skydiving.  All of the gear which took me an hour to organize was yet another decoy and completely unnecessary.  

We arrived in Pemberton excited and nervous, but with a beautiful sunny July day, the sky dotted with happy clouds beckoned us to put blind faith in the hands of others.   As we signed our liability wavers and got suited up, our instructor (a hollywood north stunt man) and his friends went for a quick jump.

Little black dots left in the wake of the small aircraft hung silently 3000 meters above us until we lost them against the dark imposing face of Mount Curry.  Moments later their chutes opened like gunshots and the professional divers spiralled downwards at breakneck speed. Our instructor was obviously trying to show off to us or his friends and came in to land first.  

Only 20 meters or so off the ground, our man rotates into a flip which slingshots him downwards toward the runway going 10 times faster than his already impressive clip.  Could it have been that the runway was too warm?  Maybe he wasn’t wearing his normal shoes, or perhaps a slight miscalculation in velocity and elevation, but what seemed like a well rehearsed maneuver was about to go horribly wrong.  

Instead of skidding gracefully to a stop which would have been really slick, his shoes caught the tarmac like a rock under a skateboard wheel, stopping him in his tracks, and flattening him onto the solid ground with a dull thud.  His parachute leapt ahead, dragging him along the ground relieving him of more denim and skin.   

His friends helped him up, and at least he was walking away.  Seb and I looked at each other and simultaneously said “You’re going with him!”  The truth was that he wouldn’t be taking anyone diving until he regrew a bit of the missing flesh.  Needless to say that our nerves had gone up a notch.  Unfortunately, or possibly of good fortune, there weren’t any other instructors around that day, so the 24 hours of adventure was to be downgraded once again to “Well, what do we do now??”

We decided to drive around and in the native settlement of Mount Curry, we stumbled across a cardboard sign saying Rodeo with a large arrow.  This was a true backyard rodeo as it was literally in someone’s backyard.  Of the 50 or so people, we were the only non natives, but were welcomed in just in time for the amateur bull riding competition.  Keeping with the carnage theme of the day, we watched as rider after rider was tossed around like ragdolls, landing hard onto the dusty ground while long trails of snot shot out of the nostrils of the flailing bulls.  A very unexpected but fantastic show of local culture.

- July 2013

Around the Lens - The People of The Milky Way

Peaking through the canopy at the twinkling symphony of stars, it isn’t difficult to understand why the Cofan people of the Amazon River Basin believe they have descended to earth from the Milky Way.  The river holds the spirit of the mighty anaconda, the jungle is the place of the jaguar spirit, and the Universe above is where the human spirit resides.  Everything in the jungle is magical and alive with the most mystical display occurring out of physical reach beyond the sky. 

It is irresistibly oppressing here, especially at night.  As dusk falls, the primeval screeching and squawking of monkeys and parrots tapers off, overpowered by decibels of billions of unseen insects and reptiles humming in unison.  Millions of shades of green dissolve into a deep blackness only dreamt of in the darkest corners of nightmares.  Thundering storms pass through saturating the jungle with intense downpours offering some relief from the heat, but the humidity is unescapable.  It makes you want to shed your skin while attempting sleep, as you try to figure out if that scorpion is climbing on the inside or the outside of your mosquito net.

Beliefs of ancestors traveling between dimensions in the vast open spaces of the Milky Way would have provided at least some kind of solace amongst such absolute domination of the surrounding environment.  Even if one were to reach the heights of the canopy atop the tallest Kapok tree, the scene wouldn’t be one of relief or escape.  With thick jungle stretching in every direction to the low horizon, there would be no absconding this imprisoning oasis without assistance.  

Each and every plant here sings at a different frequency.  Only the highly attuned who know the jungle implicitly can decipher the complex code of the forest.  Shamans are trained from birth to interact on a different level with plants and animals, and have to ability to walk with ancient ancestors in the milky way.  These select few men and women are at the epicentre of Cofan society acting as doctor, councillor, historian, story teller, and botanical specialist. 

Despite the dense humidity, or maybe because of it, the stars here in the thick of the jungle have a sparkle all of their own.  The cold, pure light contrasts heavily with the mass amounts of living things which makes them all that more special and alien.  Standing on a wooden dock at the edge of the Napo river, I can’t tear myself away.

- February 2015

Around the Lens - A Necessary Shift

The fog creeping in and out of the tightly spaced Fir and Hemlock trees is ghostly - materializing out of nothing and vanishing before realizing it’s gone.  Bird calls and the creek and groan of the canopy are dampened, making everything sound far, far away.  Perched atop the stump of a large ancient cedar, I can see the vastness of this second growth forest.  The lack of low branches give an airy appearance of standing inside an immense cathedral with pillars shooting skyward supporting a giant ceiling of green limbs, obscuring every ounce of light, if there was any to begin with.  This connection makes me feel at home.

Originally purchased for 25 cents per acre, this area of forest was first logged in 1927 by the American company Merrill & Ring. Old growth Cedar and Douglas Fir dominated the landscape stretching endlessly in every direction.  The hills surrounding Squamish are still green, but if you look closely, there are distinct lines delineating the darker natural first growth from the lighter, brighter patches of second and third growth forest.  Blocks of fast growing monoculture fir and pine is replacing the vast natural diversity of species which gives the coastal forests of BC their natural resilience and disorderly beauty.

Historically, British Columbia has placed value on land according to exploitative industrial uses and current market trends.  This is a difficult attitude to change after centuries, yet with a shift in social conscience and the high distinction placed on recreation and a connection to nature by many BC residents, the value of land is beginning to be seen in a new light.  Nature in its natural state is a very valuable commodity which cannot be manufactured, bought, sold, or traded.

Both forestry and mountain biking have a deeply rooted history in this area, shaping the lives and attitudes to those who call Coastal BC home.  With this photo, I wanted to show the paradigm shift in how we see value in land by juxtapositioning the old and the new economic drivers.  I understand that forestry is valuable and necessary, but needs to be done differently.  Front country logging is unnecessary and harmful to one of BC’s leading sectors - tourism.  Clean, healthy dollars which are actually staying in the communities who are striving to protect their forests, instead of exporting profits to a corporate headquarters overseas or in the city.

This photo is the start of a personal project to show impacts of shortsighted industrial pursuitshere at home in BC.  There are ways to give worth back to land which has already been seemingly stripped of economic value, but really, it shouldn’t have to get to that point.  Keep watching for more updates on this project and share it around if you like the message.

-June 2016

Around the Lens - Laguna Grande

The oxygen rich air of the Amazon River Basin is the perfect body temperature where inside and out are at a precise equilibrium.  Snaking our way down the sediment rich vein of water in a motorized dugout canoe, the light breeze felt divine on bare skin after yet another sleepless night bus epic through the mountainous interior of the Ecuadorian highlands.  Our weary minds struggled to compute the mass density of living things surrounding us.  Plants growing on vines growing on trees growing on other trees - all supporting the creatures buzzing, squawking, screeching, and stealthing their way through this beautiful disarray of vibrant green.

In the wet season, Laguna Grande is what you might expect - a big lagoon.  The water is black with decomposing chlorophyl and a shot glass of the water each day is said to provide innumerable health benefits.  Before the sun sets, we search for giant Anacondas hiding among the mangroves - some snakes topping out over 5 meters long and over 100 kg!  Getting a tiny glimpse of one of the 20 or so resident Anacondas, we motor out to deeper water for a swim and to watch the spectacle of an Amazonian sunset.

After joking about pirañas and hesitant at sharing the water with the largest snake in the world, the experience is too inviting.  Water and air are the same exquisite temperature and as I float on my back, parrots and herons traverse a pastel tangerine sky.  This feels like an ancient place and the connection with the natural frequency of the jungle is ambrosial and soothing - even though I feel like I’ll be dragged to the muddy depths by an Anaconda at any second.

Nightfall descends and the low hum of the jungle radiates out to us in the middle of the lagoon.  The ride back to camp is in complete darkness.  Again unnerved by circumstances beyond my control, we put our faith in the 15 year old boat driver who is navigating by the shapes of the canopy at top speed in pitch blackness.  Relinquishing the memories of logs we hit during daylight hours, I enjoyed the warm breeze on my face and bright stars above.

- March 2015

Around The Lens - True PNW Power

Kirk’s gun metal grey Isuzu Trooper matched the low clouds, sagging onto the horizon with the weight of a proper Pacific Northwest low.  The 1986 truck rocked back and forth melodically in the cross shore gale, the rusting suspension creaking and groaning with the hurricane force gusts while high pitched whistles pierced through a multitude of small holes in the cab, bringing with it the damp cold of late autumn.  

The fierce November storm had knocked out the power reducing the solitary diner and assorted ramshackle shops to a state of dark, lifeless interiors solidifying an impossibility of a hot breakfast.  Flooded streets and battering winds further deadened the small, dispiriting crabbing town without a soul to be seen.  Crunching on the cold remains of our snacks we watched the ocean, captivated by the gigantic rollers exploding onto distant reefs far out to sea.  The sandy remains of tumbling whitewash torn apart by ferocious winds carried foam airborne for miles down the deserted beach.  Wave after wave relentlessly battered the coast dragging logs, sand, and dune grass into the churning maelstrom.

Yesterday, after a beautiful surf session with sizeable, intense dark waves and clean conditions, a foreboding bank of black clouds sat just off shore - telegraphing the impending violence out at sea.  The wind kicked up around 10 pm scattering embers from our campfire in all directions, knocking empty beer bottles off the picnic table.  But it wasn’t until 1 am that the real fury began snapping trees like twigs in the forest surrounding our tent.

Every few minutes branches and trunks peeled away from their terrestrial anchors landing what was seemingly only inches from the thin synthetic walls of our vacillating shelter.  Without warning, the tent fly shot sideways and a loud crash right beside my head bolted me upright and out of my sleeping bag.  A medium sized birch tree had been snapped at the base, landing on one of the guy wires holding us to the ground and carried on to buckle the wooden picnic table beside the fire pit.  Sleep was now impossible as Kirk and I winced at every sharp crack and heavy thud threatening our inadequate sanctuary.

We were up with the first faint greys of morning to survey the disfigurement of our fractured camp in the continuing storm.  The forest lay shattered around us, but miraculously the tent and the Trooper only had small sticks strewn on them.  The wind still howled as we shoved the half dismantled tent into the back of the truck and drove away from our campsite thankful the night had gone as well as it did.

- November 2007

Around the Lens - Painting With Prana (session 3)

My headlamp died 5 minutes after leaving the truck.  It took a few minutes for our eyes to adjust, but enough blue light from the nearly full moon filtered through the thick canopy of old growth coastal cedars and spruce for us to navigate our path.  Caroline and I made our way down a line of bare wood in the center of the old boardwalk, moss colonizing the flanks and cracks between the rotting planks, the forest reclaiming what was rightfully theirs.  

The low tide beach was bathed in silver moonlight with gentle whitewash imbricating synchronistically up and down the shoreline.  Traversing the open expanse of sand, an unsettling, fresh set of wolf tracks carved their way down the beach.  Violent turns, impossibly long strides, and claw marks skidding to a stop told of a frantic chase.  The paws were the same size as Caroline’s hand, so we hoped it had already caught its dinner.

Clouds raced past, obscuring the moon only to unveil its luminosity again as we set up for the shoot.  Caroline climbed up to a tiny volcanic tidal island topped with waxy salal and a single stunted spruce tree permanently directed east from relentless North Pacific winds.  The shrubbery proved to be an annoyance, blocking out crucial light, so it took a few different angles to achieve any decent results.  

Happy with our tree island, Caroline spotted some interesting composition near a deeply cut channel rushing with foamy water.  As we began to shoot, a large set of waves crashed onto the rock pillars behind me and heaved into the surge channel beside Caroline.  Only barely, we managed to stay out of harms way and made it out mostly dry with some cool photos.  

Our last set up took us back to the expansive beach from which we came.  The rising tide had appropriated a decent amount of real estate, but still left us with lots of sand to continue experimenting with the different forms of yoga.  Some of the creations which appeared were a salmon head in a bubble, a uterus with legs, a Japanamation superhero, and my favorite pictured here - the sauntering elephant.  

- April 2016

*Painting With Prana is an ongoing personal project documenting the movement of yoga through light painting in beautiful outdoor spaces.  A gallery of images from the study will be appearing on my website in the coming weeks.

Around the Lens - Desert Cracks

I would have liked a bit more alcohol percentage to calm my nerves, but the local Utah beer still tasted good and the bitterness seemed to match the dust choked desert well.  A few hours earlier, high up between the bright sandstone walls of a rarely visited canyon beside the languid Colorado River, I had taken the biggest whipper of my five year climbing career.

After 5 days of climbing in the famed Indian Creek, we had run out of anything new to climb that was below 5.11, and were growing a little weary of the morning ritual of waiting in a lineup of similarly dirty climbers for the pleasure of the only toilet seat in the area cheerily referred to as cell block 1.  Stopping in Moab for a quick resupply and a cold outdoor shower, we had something more remote in mind.  A small side note at the back of the Indian Creek guidebook mentioned nondescriptly “If you find yourself jonesing for bouldering or off the beaten track obscurities: the list below should provide some entertainment.”  This sounded just right and had the approval of some of our fellow campmates who had climbed in the area a few years earlier.

Twenty or so miles down the 279, we picked a canyon which matched the vague description as well as could be expected.  With the lack of any kind of route descriptions, it didn’t really matter which canyon we chose as any climbing would be the truest form of on sighting anyways.  Weaving through angular orange blocks and rugged juniper trees, we made our way towards the vertical wingate sandstone cliffs, orange fissures splitting the blank wall of black desert varnish in perfect skyward geometry.  

Deciding on one of the beautiful cracks which looked 5.10ish, I opted for the first lead of the day.  Plugging too much gear into the parallel sided crack as per usual, I reached a ledge 10 meters up, using my last red #1 cam.  Reaching as high as possible to place a gold #2, I chalked up to climb through a slight overhang to a secondary widening crack system.  Climbing a few meters past my last piece of protection, I jabbed at a sloping, pinchy hold and was air born.  Before I knew I was falling, I thudded hip first onto the narrow ledge, bounced, and came to a stop at a cam which had walked to the outer edge of the crack, but still held.  

“Are you ok??”  Rob yelled.

“Ya, I think so.”  I replied in a shaky voice.

I clambered back up onto the ledge, not wanting to hang on the gold cam wedged in the gritty sandstone any longer than I had to.  Despite the force of a 7 meter fall, the cam hadn’t moved a centimeter which was reassuring.  I checked myself over and apart from a patch of road rash on my forearms, I felt alright.  Again I climbed past my saving piece of protection, but with the adrenalin coursing through my veins, I nearly lunged past the sloping handhold and sped up the last 20 meters of the climb.  

We climbed a few more stunning cracks and corners that day, but I was happy to second the pitches as my leg stiffened and throbbed.  Even back at camp hours later, I was still buzzing from my fall.  I had always wondered about the holding power of sandstone, and although I was sore and would still stitch the cracks of the following days with too much gear, it was a great confidence booster knowing that I could fall on gear in obscure, gritty desert cracks.

- March 2010

Around the Lens - Little Emmanuel

A cold fog clung to the mounds of lichen covered rocky hills, obscuring the taller craggy peaks.  Slowly descending past widely spaced houses - brightly painted in yellow, red, green, and blue; the saturating mist settled on the water, dulling the sounds of boats and seabirds inside the sheltered inlet.  Emerging from a throng of ramshackle fishing boats moored along a soggy pier, Immannguaq (little) Emmanuel glided effortlessly across the silky surface of the frigid water in his traditional hand built kayak.  The black canvas and low profile of his boat creating perfect camouflage against the inky water.

Emmanuel was born and raised in Sisimuit, Greenland, the colourful little town on the rocky cliffs above and has a long family history with the qajaq.  Kayaking was, and remains in the central hub of Greenlandic culture.  His grandfather was a great kayak hunter catching fish, seals, and occasionally taking larger prey like walrus or even polar bears.  

Two prominent features of Greenlandic kayaking are the specialized equipment and unique and varied rolls.  Emmanuel proudly shows off a sealskin dry top which was crafted by his grandmother back in the 70’s.  His grandfather had caught a large bearded seal to feed his family and using the skin and different tanning techniques, Emmanuel’s grandmother had fashioned an integrated skirt / top which still holds up to the adverse Arctic weather 45 years later.  

In a land devoid of trees, resourcefulness is key, so the iconic narrow paddles are fashioned out of scarce driftwood from Europe. Now replaced by imported strips of wood, canvas, and resin, boats were fabricated by stretching seal skins over a structure of bone, creating a stable and stealthy form of hunting transportation which is also perfect for rolling.

Emmanuel paddles away from my zodiac to demonstrate some of the literally hundreds of rolls in his repertoire.  There seems to be a different roll for any situation - being dragged towards shore by a walrus, capsizing in heavy swell, pulled broadside by a whale, and my favorite: paddling upside down underwater, beneath an ice floe to sneak up on a polar bear.  

Halfway through his show, Emmanuel paddles over and I give him some hot tea from my flask.  The exposed skin on his hands and face is puffy and red from the near freezing temperatures of the North Atlantic.  Unfazed by the cold, once he catches his breath, he paddles back out for another round of rolls, proud to share this special part of his heritage with us.

- August 2015

Around the Lens - Remembering to Remember

Yesterday while I was organizing my camera gear, I came across a micro SD card in a USB adapter.  The USB didn’t work, but when I tried another adapter, 150 odd images popped onto the screen from the spring and summer of 2010.  The photos ranged from a surf trip in Sumatra to a shot of my feet turned smurf blue after thirteen pitches climbing the Angels Crest, breaking in a pair of new climbing shoes.  Scrolling down through the thumbnails, the bright orange helmet of my friend Amy Stein jumped out. 

I climbed a lot with Amy and this was definitely one of our most memorable outings together to tackle what is probably the most esoteric and bush thwacky route on the Chief - a 700m high granite monolith and the exclamation point of beautiful Squamish, BC.  Mainly forgotten by the climbing community, the North North Arete is one of those climbs that when you’re looking for beta on the route, most people think they know someone who has apparently climbed it, but have not climbed it themselves.  We were looking for something different, thought provoking, and adventurous, and the North North fit the bill.

One prominent feature of Amy’s fluid climbing style is that when she is tenuous about a certain move, she swears like a sailor while giving herself a pep talk.  There were no shortage of these moments on the gritty, dirt filled cracks of the North North.  Being so obscure, we soloed the first two and a half pitches before realizing we were actually on route!  It continued with a bushy, loose, and dirty character usually reserved for alpine routes.  We weaved our way around corners, through trees, and up a prominent fin.  I remember leading a four foot wide chimney where the only piece of protection I could place was the smallest cam in my rack - a grey metolius double zero.  There was nothing ordinary about this route.

Eight pitches later; dirty, bleeding, and smiling, we emerged through the “birthing pitch” - a half meter squared hole.  Like crawling out of someones basement through a secret, nondescript trap door, we surfaced into the fading sunlight speckled on the mossy forest floor.  Traversing from this rarely visited summit to its busier neighbor second peak, we finished the last of our water as the sun slipped behind Mt. Murchison.  Descending the popular hiking trail alone, we chatted about the climb, the design of her new house, and her theory and practice on becoming better at getting up in the morning.

Amy passed away three years ago this past weekend and I miss her dearly.  I hadn’t thought about our climb for a long time before I found this missing memory card.  It made me realize that in the last few years, with thoughts of life changing events both planned and divined, I have been making a concerted effort to plan and infuse as many new experiences into my life as time will allow.  As good and productive as that is, it often doesn’t allow as much time to look back and remember past adventures.  It’s important to breathe life into these memories, to talk about past exploits over malted hops so they avoid being relegated to a dusty hard drive or cobweb filled corners of the brain.

- April 2015 (updated May 2016)

Around the Lens - Frozen in Purgatory

In a sport where the first rule is “don’t fall”, and warm spring conditions melting out the already small threads of my last ice screw which was at my feet, I panicked.  A violent jerk and my ice axe which had been stuck for the last few minutes was free and instantaneously connected with my face.  Lucky for me, I have a hammer instead of a sharp adze on the back of my axe as the adze could very easily have scooped out my eyeball.  The force of the blow nearly sent me hurtling off the frozen waterfall, but adrenalin kept my left hand gripping my other solidly planted axe and helped me finish off the pitch despite the constant flow of blood clouding the vision in my right eye.

Todays mood was lighter though as I watched my climbing partner Rob holding the tops of garbage bags at his knees moving his legs like a puppeteer.  I followed in similar fashion as we gingerly made our way over rocks worn smooth from millennia of cold rushing water.  Reaching the opposite shore without any breaches of plastic, we stashed our river crossing kit and made our way up what looked like a straight forward slope towards the string of frozen waterfalls perched on the canyon walls.

200 meters up the slope, the nerves were firing on high alert once again as the grade steepened and the frozen scree slope shed its top layer under the weight of every step.  After an hour of ball bearings and exposed, tenuous steps, we reached the first pitch of ice.  The clear sunny days of a melt / freeze cycle had taken its toll on the ice which nowhad a sunbaked whiteness and was rotten and brittle.  

The first pitch was moderate, so Rob started up, sending dinner platter sized slabs of ice with each hollow thud of his axe crashing onto the frozen ground below.  The position was incredible.  Sharp craggy peaks sparsely treed with ancient ponderosa pines began to poke out above the ochre canyon walls which, almost sheer, ended in the ultramarine river below.  The first rays of sun felt good on my face, until the whizzing started.  

It is a sound all too familiar to a mountaineer and one that without fail sends ball shrinking chills deep within.  The rays of sun which created such calm, simple enjoyment have also been melting the ice above, releasing sharp projectiles once frozen in purgatory.  Caught between the urge to look up and the knowledge that tied into my anchor, I can only move less than a meter side to side, I tuck my body as small as possible underneath my helmet away from the direction of the noise.  The futility is laughable as the rock has generally shot past by the time you’ve heard it.  As the morning heats up, the rocks come quicker, but not so frequently for us to turn back while sheltered belays are plentiful.

As Rob and I swap leads up the canyon wall, I ponder why we’re up here at all.  Ice climbing is cold, wet, scary, dangerous, and very fickle on the coast, but with every solid swing of my ice axe biting into firm, frozen works of art perched high up on a forgotten canyon wall, the question remains unanswered.  But this is pretty freakin’ cool.

- March 2008

Around the Lens - Chilled Perfection

I knew these characteristics well, the smooth green water rising gently before traversing sideways with a dull thud and receding from view.  Searching for waves by boat challenges your judgement of what could be surfable and what should be left alone - especially on a possibly unsurfed and wildly inaccessible stretch of coast, typical of northern Vancouver Island.  On top of that, we were in kayaks, at least 10 hours of paddling to a truck at the end of a remote logging road which would still be hours away from any form of aid.

My paddle strokes quickened, impeded slightly by the surfboard I was towing which would rhythmically catch and drag in the troughs of a following 2 meter ground swell, then spring forward when released.  The green backs of the waves rose and fell in languid succession, groomed by the thick bed of bull kelp. My anxiousness grew.  We had been surfing a small, fun beach break in front of our camp for the past few days, but the swell was hampered by a string of off shore reefs.  Reefs which had piqued my interest months before for the potential slabs they may be concealing.  

Had we finally found what we had come all this way for?  Was the tide right?  Was there enough swell?  Maybe too much?  Or worse, was this just a mirage full of false hope and excessive expectations?  Strings of questions battered my mind as I paddled ever closer to the answer.

I pulled my camera out of the dry bag strapped to the deck of my kayak as a mound of energy from deep in the Pacific grew larger, fueled by the water it was thirstily sucking off the slab of reef.  Filling its walls to the point of bursting, the glassy face hung in the air and spilled over top of itself in a liquid symphony of precise movements refined over centuries of storms.  Another wave followed, executing the same rehearsed exercise.  It was perfect!  I had nearly jumped out of my boat at that point, but with the physical impossibility of dawning a wetsuit in a kayak, we had the added challenge of finding a safe place to land on this desolate, wave ravaged island.

- September 2013

Around the Lens - Leopold

Since the earliest days of Austral Polar exploration, Leopard Seals have been portrayed as fearsome and aggressive creatures.  With a snake like appearance and huge mouths lined with sharp, menacing teeth, it’s no wonder these beautiful creatures have gotten a bad rap.  Paul Nicklen, a famous National Geographic photographer specializing in underwater polar imagery, attempted to dispel the negative myths about Leopard Seals by capturing intimate one on one photos with them in the frigid waters of the Southern Ocean.  As I came eye to eye with a 3 meter long female, my mind went blank.

Alone in my zodiac, I was searching for a safe place to drop anchor - away from drifting icebergs and rocky shoals exposing themselves with the falling tide.  There were two Leopard Seals in the area- one napping peacefully on an ice floe and one very inquisitive individual who was diving under the boats, investigating our strange fast moving black rubber icebergs.  All of the sudden, less than a meter from my face a long sleek body emerged from the water to meet my standing position, starting square at me with gigantic brown eyes.

Mesmerized, all I could do was stare back, admiring the power and beauty of this amazing creature.  This behavior called spy hopping, is used by nautical predators to see what tasty wildlife may be atop an ice floe or along the shore.  I knew she was hunting, but somehow I wasn’t afraid, more in awe - studying the subtle curves of her powerful jaw and gigantic mouth, the small whiskers below flaring nostrils, and those captivatingly investigative eyes.  

She seemed to hang in the air and a moment later, slipped silently back beneath the icy sea while the moment we shared hung languidly in the crisp air.  It took a moment to realize that I was still holding my breath.  I watched her dark shadow glide gracefully around the boat, sometimes playfully swimming on her back, revealing a lighter coloured underbelly.  The shadow slowly faded from site and I sat down to enshrine the intimate experience shared between man and beast.

- February 2016

Around the Lens - The 100 mph Rock Shower

This photo was taken with my first digital camera - a Canon 350D with the cheap 18-55 kit lens, way back in 2005.  I remember paying almost $500 AUD to upgrade to a 2 gig compact flash card instead of the standard 256 mb - which would only hold a few photos if used in my current camera.  

I was living in Western Australia at the time but had been slowly and increasingly persuaded (guilted) by my parents to come home to help them build their new home on Kootenay Lake - which is the gorgeous house they live in today.  I was resisting coming back to Canada as this was the last work visa I could get and Australia is like a second home to me.  Eventually I succumbed, but not until a few friends and I had one last trip.

Andrew and Cam found an amazing package deal to fly from Sydney to Auckland, with a rental car and accommodation for a week in Raglan for only a fraction more than the price of a 2 gig CF card!  Apart from surfing one of the best left hand points in the world, the major draw was the New Zealand stage of the WRC rally was going right through that area.  I have never been a fan of motor sports, but it was guaranteed to be entertaining with this crew of guys.

Many great times and stories came from the week as we surfed early and hopped around from different rally stages around the North Island during the day, followed by Waikato draught filled evenings - shooting pool at the local pub.  But one of my fondest memories was of taking this photograph.  The world of digital opened up so much creativity and the freedom not to have to worry about the associated cost with tripping the shutter.  

I found myself wanting to find new angles without the spectators or sponsor banners, so I ran across the gravel road and sat myself on an outside corner, waiting for the next car to come along.  I was so scared as the first car approached my new position I didn’t even take a photo.  Imagine seeing one of these rally cars racing straight towards you at upwards of 200 km/h on a loose gravel road, then at the last minute locking up the brakes and skidding sideways less than 2 meters away and showering you with stones.  It was all about timing, snap a photo, duck and cover your head and camera from the projectiles.  Exciting to say the least. 

With this new found privilege of digital, my stoke for photography was reignited.  Endless creative options to play and experiment, then, just hit delete if it didn’t work out!  I still really like this photo - it has some great action, nice composition, beautiful lighting, and is of decent technical quality.  It invokes some great memories and emotion and is a great reminder that it’s not all about having the best camera, professional lenses, or the latest technology to create a fantastic image.

- April 2005

Around the Lens - Siberian Death Rocket

The paint was peeling or completely stripped by the relentless Siberian winds, exposing bare, weathered wooden siding and thick frames of shuttered and broken windows on the small low houses.  Dirt kicked up from the gravel streets clung to everything.  Stuck onto trees and shabby houses with the oily black smoke spewing from passing military trucks and Ladas; and burning plastic emanating from the chimneys of houses stretching haphazardly in every direction.  We were lost, but hopeful we would find the makeshift minibus station soon.  

At the edge of the potholed parking lot, leafless oak trees overhung a few odd vendors hawking beer and expired snacks out of tiny makeshift shacks constructed from salvaged boards and tin.  A small collection of dilapidated yellow and white mini busses - some idling, some half torn apart, formed a ring around a group of fat Russian men shouting and waiving bits of paper in the air.  Jonas and I conspicuously made our way into the thick cigarette smoke, unsure of how we would be received or if we could get a ride to where we wanted to go.  

Immediately a few of the men rushed over yelling “Baikal, Baikal, Baikal!” - the only obvious place a couple of foreigners like us would be heading to in the area.  Grabbing at our shoulders, one of the men pulled my backpack off and thrust it into one of the idling vans and it was settled, we were going with him.  

Springs protruded from the torn back seat which we were hurriedly ushered into only to wait for 20 uncomfortable minutes while the bus filled to beyond maximum capacity.  The rear door holding our backpacks was tied closed with a shoe string and our obviously intoxicated driver half fell into the drivers seat.  He turned around and gruffly slurred something in Russian and peeled out of the parking lot, tires scraping the wheel wells as his vodka tainted breath hung in the air frigid air.

The van bounced down an icy road towards the low angle October sun at a reckless clip as diesel exhaust slowly filled the cabin forcing us to open windows for a few breaths of below freezing fresh air.  We skidded from side to side as our driver, throwing caution to the wind, accelerated past anything in his path around blind corners and up steep hills.  I was sure we would go careening like an errant rocket into the birch and alder forest at any moment, so I occupied my mind by watching the shoelace holding the rear doors closed, stretch to the point of breaking with every jolting pot hole we struck.  

After a white knuckled hour we crested the final hill and descended into the sleepy town of Listvyanka.  A bustling tourist hub in the summer, the town was now almost deserted with most shops closed and boarded up with the frigid temperatures of Siberian Autumn.  None the less, we were excited to be alive and off the road, so to celebrate, we cracked the screw cap of an undistinguishable bottle of vodka and drank as we wandered around the small fish market in the centre of town.  Every stall was the same - selling dried endemic omul, hanging in the last few rays of afternoon sun.

- October 2008

Around the Lens - Jimmy's Teeth

I could feel his trepidation as I sat a few hundred meters away under the protective shade of a short coconut palm.  I too had those exact feelings before paddling out at this spot for the first time almost a month ago.  But I’d never be standing where he’s standing.

Another set approached the reef seemingly dredging the dark blues from where it was spawned in the storm ravaged open ocean, transporting them to this beautiful aquamarine place.  The wave grew exponentially and darkened further before expelling itself onto the colourful reef only meters from where the surfer anxiously waited.  A smarter man would have entered the safety of a deep water channel closer to the beach instead of defiantly staring this wave directly in the face.

I knew all too well the amazing power of this particular place.  Two days previous, I was paddling into a glistening blue monster of perfection when disaster struck.  A late takeoff sent me plummeting from twice my height onto the serrated coral shelf only 18 inches below the surface.  The pressure from tens of tons of water driven by a long forgotten storm thousands of kilometres away turned my ankle bone into a wedge driving upwards splitting my fibula as it went, then trowed my limp body across the jagged reef like fleshy mortar.  Instead of a four hour drive inland to a small a outpost village and their ill-equipped forgotten hospital, I opted for a tape cast expertly woven by my friend Adam which was slowly cutting off circulation to my foot as my leg continued to swell in the extreme tropical heat.

With a break in the waves, the surfer made an awkward dash across the remaining twenty meters of reef, gingerly looking for the flattest bits of dead coral to step on.  Reaching the edge, he leapt off the shelf just as a meter high wall of whitewash tumbled towards him, dragging him back over the reef where he had just come.  Paddling hard, he just squeaked over the ledge as the whitewash receded.  Lumps of water reared up, but the surfer managed once again to avoid the clutches of the sea by diving deep enough below the surface of the wave.  The next wave was bigger than the first and as I watched with bated breath, he dove again.  A few seconds later, the wall of water feathered and pitched.  Amidst the chaos, I could faintly see something in the lip of the wave - red board shorts.

- September 2010

Around the Lens - Spooky Moonlight Singletrack

With the push of a button, conscious movement is replaced by reactionary reflex as my reptilian brain slowly assumes control from my cerebrum as the light from my headlamp fades into memory.  My eyes gradually adjust to my new surroundings.  A world much larger than the few square meters of light cast from my helmet, but is shroud in infinite mystery.  

Like an obscure vision pulled from Jim Henson’s darker years, the scene is nightmarish in its architecture.  The charred carcasses of ancient juniper trees stripped of their greenery in some distant wildfire stand silently, like motionless sentinels waiting to be awoken by the parting of clouds revealing a cold and dazzling full moon.  Luckily for me, the apex of the lunar cycle is still two days away, but the bright silhouette of the large moon casts sharp spindly shadows from the branches obscuring scraggly sage and salt brush.  Everything here is sharp and brittle.  

Was it really a good idea to go for a solo midnight ride on unknown single track atop a lonely mesa with no one for miles in any direction?  Yes it was.  One of the charming features of desert singletrack with dirt beaten into submission by years of bike tire abuse is that it creates a very light coloured dust contrasting with the prolific reds and oranges which seems to emit moonlight from its chalky atoms so that on a mesa such as this with no foliage, I am free to ride by the light of the moon.  

The distracting vibrance of crimson, orange, yellow, and ochre rocks by day are replaced by shape and shadow which aids in navigating across the undulating maze of slick rock.  As I pedal towards the south end of the mesa sandstone melts into singletrack and I follow the white line snaking off into the darkness.  Feeling my way over rocks and around corners is a very tactile and freeing sensation compared with the calculated intellectual style of being able to visually inspect the numerous options of possible line choice.  

Near the canyon rim I am stopped dead in my tracks by a large inky black stump perched in amongst the boulders beside the trail.  I know it is just a stump, but something about that spot sends a tingling chill across my scalp as I stare paralyzed in the silent tenebrosity of the moment.  Thoughts of ancient Indian burial grounds and chanting sacrificial ceremonies enter my thoughts.  I gather up the courage to race past the stump, trying not to imagine what terrible black magic this woody apparition may have in store for me.  I reach the relative safety of the next hill a few hundred meters away and look back into the obscurity of muddled shapes and cannot define that horrible stump.  The silence is calming and unnerving at the same time as I start the motion of pedal stroke after pedal stroke towards the hazy, nearly full moon.

- March 2016

Around the Lens - Full is Full

I wasn’t sure how either of us felt about the situation, but the casual demeanor and relaxed smile of the 7 year old Samoan school girl took me out of my Canadian need for personal space and let me enjoy the humor in our current predicament.  As we pulled out of the gravel parking lot, I was sure the creaking, teetering wooden structure of the bus would emancipate itself from the rusting metal chassis below my feet, sliding slowly into the jungle at our current top speed of 20 km/h.  

I thought I had seen some packed public transit in my time, but no Kuala Lumpur bus, Indonesian scooter (piled 7 high once!), or London tube at rush hour could beat the Samoans.  Jumping on a bus from the capital ‘city’ Apia to my treehouse on the South Coast of Upola seemed like a civilized enough endeavor.  The driver said we wouldn’t be leaving until the bus was full which is pretty standard practice in tropical paradises such as Samoa, so I struck up a conversation with a grandmother sitting across the aisle from me who agreed to let me snap a few photos of her.  

As the bus began to fill, I sensed we would be leaving at any moment, so I settled in, as best I could, to the cushionless wooden bench seat with a 90 degree back which was slowly turning my legs numb.  In a few short minutes, all feeling from below the waist was gone as the bus driver systematically perched children on everyone’s lap (including the grandma) starting at the back and slowly working his way forward.  Some Samoan youngsters have the physique of a fully grown wild boar, so I was lucky, I guess, to have a slim young girl who sat sideways so she could talk to her friend who was standing in the aisle pressed against my shoulder.  

We trundled up the narrow road into the mountains at a snails pace stopping every so often at obscure points (to actually pick more people up!) before descending once again to the palm fringed coast.  The sweaty mass of humanity trickled off and without yet seeing the gate to my village, it was slowly becoming apparent that I had gotten on the wrong bus and being the last one left confirmed this fact.  I walked up to the driver and asked: “How far to Sa’anapu?”

To which he replied with a laugh: “Sa’anapu?  You on the wrong bus matey boy.  Lucky for you I live on the road to Sa’anapu, I’ll take you there.” 

Thankful for my good fortune, I sat back and enjoyed the wind on my face.  I thanked my new friend for his generosity and began the 2km walk back from the highway.  Only a few minutes down the road, a muscular middle aged man with a sweat soaked camo-green tank top and deeply set dark eyes holding a rifle hastily walked up and asked me where I was going.  I replied that I was staying with Tausa’afia, to which he replied with a smile that she was his cousin.  He then went on to tell me of the wild pig he had just shot and invited me over for dinner with his family.  I accepted and with a smile and a handshake we parted ways for the time being.  With the Samoans living up to their legendary hospitality, I was stopped multiple times on my short walk home and invited for yet another dinner and a volleyball game.

-February 2012

Around the Lens - The Crotch Beetles of South Sumatra

For most of the month that Justin and I spent in Sumatra, we each had our own motorbikes.  The family we rented our bikes from only take the steep and barely maintained but surfaced road snaking its way through the coastal barrier mountains to Liwa once a week at the most.  Today, they needed a bike for the 4 hour round trip, so I happily offered mine and Justin and I would share his bike.  Since we were doubling and would stand out more than usual, we decided to augment our daily adventure with matching blue and brown striped board shorts.  

Two grown men with surfboards trying to navigate a road occupied by cows, goats, dogs, people, chickens, and other bikes erratically darting in all directions is no small task.  I trust Justin completely and am not concerned watching him thread a tight line between different species as we make our way past small concrete homes backed by dense tropical jungle silently dangling in the light early morning mist.  I do however start to break a sweat when we swerve quickly as Justin folds over the handlebars grasping at his chest.

Justin manages to get the bike stopped at the side of the road and tells me that something about the size of a hummingbird flew out of the jungle and hit him in the chest.  We take a few minutes as a large bull saunters past, seemingly unaware of our presence.  Justin seems okay, albeit a little rattled, so we continue towards the beach.  We had come across this remote beach break a few days ago while exploring the coastline in between surf sessions at one of our favorite reefs.  We weave our way along a muddy track through tall coconut palms and over slippery dew soaked grass before popping out onto the beach.  The deep fine sand is too much for our heavily laden bike, so I get off and walk.

As I make my way down towards the water, I watch as perfect A frames march in from the Indian ocean in regimented succession.  Luckily the sandbanks haven’t been washed away with the monsoon rains and heavy swell of the past few days.  I make my way down to where Justin has propped our motorbike up against a log and we survey the waves.  Out of nowhere, he starts screaming and swatting at his cloths.  

“Holy shit, what is it man!?!?”  I say.  “A bee, what??”

Frantically jumping up and down, Justin is clawing at the draw strings of his shorts.  When he finally undoes the ties and yanks his shorts to the ground, he delivers a furious slap between his legs.  

Breathing heavily with his shorts around his ankles, he stands over a gigantic beetle at least 3 inches long.  Large black pinschers and spiky spindly legs protrude from a shiny purple and teal metallic looking shell which is straight out of a futuristic sci-fi movie.  He looks at me stunned and says

“That thing just latched onto my cock!”

Laughing, we deduce that this must have been the creature that hit Justin in the chest, then had fallen into his tank top and somehow made its way into his shorts.  Relief slowly settles in as we calm down and after a few minutes, we head out into the warm, empty waves.

- September 2010