Around the Lens - We Can Make It!

The narrow beam from our headlights lit a violently flowing river.  Through the heavy rain, it looked to be only 100 metres or so across and our map showed that the road went straight across it.  The rainy season was in full swing now with daily rains consistently reaching into triple digits.  Our original route had been blocked by a large land slide carrying a tangled mess of trees and power lines across the two lane coastal highway, so we decided on this secondary road. Creeks and small rivers had been no problem for our rav4 on secondary roads up to this point, but this river had a different character.  Now we had to find out how daring we wanted to be.  After a heated battle of rock, paper, scissors, I was tasked with the river reconnaissance.  I started into the thick brown water, mud sucking at my flip flops and rain stinging my eyes.  A few metres from the bank, I was nearly swept off my feet and taken into the darkness by the strong current.  We would not be crossing tonight.

Driving back to town, we found a small, rundown guest house for the night.  Seeing my mud saturated legs, the owner - a native Costa Rican woman in her mid forties, asked us what trouble we had been up to.  Through this exchange, we found out that the road does actually cross the river, but with a small rusting ferry which runs only during the day - powered by a lawnmower engine and bicycle chain.  Happy with our decision, we cheersed our Presidentes and settled in for the night ready for a much easier crossing than we were anticipating only an hour before.

- September 2007

Around the Lens - From the Volcano

As Quito turns on its lights, from our vantage high up on the Pichincha volcano, the city gradually transforms from a muted grey to pure golden light filling the Guayllabamba valley to the point of bursting.  The days final colours reach across the sky with pink and purple arms from the west, darkening blue fingers grasp at the dusk.  Trying to photograph a scene like this with quickly changing light requires making constant changes to your camera settings, but can also be very rewarding, adding some unique images to your travel shots.

An hour before, while the sun was still in the sky, Caroline and I took a cable car to a plateau at 4100m on the Pichincha volcano.  We watched as thick clouds rose from the dense coastal jungle up the flanks of Cerro Atacazo to the south in thick billowing pillows.  As if held at bay by some unseen force, the clouds lay swirling and mixing, never cresting the ridge, but reflecting the purple light beautifully back into the air.  Finding a nice spot a kilometre or so from the cable car, we went to work setting up our gear, finding our own interpretation of the unfolding scene.

Although we were shooting well after dark, there was still a lot of ambient light bouncing around, you just need to be able to collect it.  There are a few different combinations in the vast math equation of exposure, but I decided to go for a long shutter speed as my starting point.  This allowed me to get really saturated colours and enough sharpness and quality from the grasses in the front to the clouds in the background.  I can get a little obsessed taking photos like these and be out for hours.

Casually, Caroline asked - “Was 8:00 the last ride down from the top or when the place closed down all together?”

We just had to look at each other and without a word, began frantically packing up our cameras and raced back to the cable car in the darkness.  Neither of us wanted to descend 1200m, trying to negotiate the maze of roads and paths traversing the mountain side in the dark.  Luckily, we made the last gondola, but just barely.  At the base, we were greeted with by a dark, empty parking lot.  With no way to call a cab and busses being long finished by this point, we began the long walk back to the city down the narrow, mountain road in the pitch black.

- February 2015

Around the Lens - One Mans Trash...

I tried to keep my foot out of the water as much as I could, but the blood was now streaming down my leg and dripping into the water.  The heavy rains which soaked the jungle each day around 3 had left the ocean murky green, rich with sediment washed down from the low mountains, propagating along the coast and a kilometre off shore.  Yesterday morning the water was relatively clear revealing a tiger shark about six feet long, plying the reef looking for his lunch.  

The best time to surf this particular spot on a rising medium tide.  To maximize our session each day, we needed to make our way over 300 metres of black jagged lava.  With any number of caves, cracks, and holes, navigation was treacherous at best and more often than not, one of us would inevitably slip, feeling a flap of skin pulled back and forth in the current after jumping into the water.  Today was my turn.  As a set of waves approached, I waited to time my jump off the shelf of reef to correspond with a breaking wave to avoid being smashed against the face of the elevated ledge.  I jumped as far as I could, but slipped, filleting a two inch gash along the sole of my foot.  Now bobbing up and down in the line-up, the only way in being a 700 metre paddle against a strong current along the outside of the reef, dodging waves and whatever unseen creatures lay in wait below.  

After almost an hour of paddling, I made it to shore, flopping exhaustedly on a small pocket beach of white sand.  I was glad to be on shore, but now faced a lengthy walk home over more sharp lava and debris.  Garbage is inescapable along the Central American coastline, littered with plastic bottles, fishing debris, and sandals among other things.  Sandals!  A recycling epiphany hit me as I rooted around in the refuse washed in and out with the waves along the shore.  Red sole with pink straps for the left foot and a faded blue size 12 for my bleeding right foot. With tetanus and giardia almost surely attacking my immune system, I made my way back to my cabana.  

I stayed out of the water the next day, but miraculously, with no sign of infection and a minor surgery of betadine, butterfly stitches, super glue, and duct tape, I was good to go the day after.  My idea had caught on and everyone from our group foraged for a mismatched pair of flip flops in an attempt to cross the reef unscathed.  We left our stylish new footwear at the waters edge to be carried back to the beach with the rising tide for our return journey.  At the end of our stay, we gathered bags of trash (and of course flip flops) from the area around the reef, optimistically doubtful, hoping it will stay out of the ocean.

- October 2007

Around the Lens - Last Light

I had the the exact shot pictured in my head before we even started building the corner.  One of the huge plusses to building your own trail from a photographers point of view is the ability to creatively sculpt the landscape exactly how you want to see it through your viewfinder.  With the mossy hillside as my muse, we roughly shaped the radius of the up hill corner, graduallysweeping down hill, passing between a group of three old growth douglas firs.  The rest of the work would be completed by bike tires and we moved further up the mountain.

My vision would take shape after the sun goes down as the forest devours the last faintness of light, transforming from familiar shapes to an unknown black wilderness stretching to infinity.  I pictured a scene of almost total blackness unbroken and undefined if not for two riders illuminating their path with powerful headlamps.  The second rider, almost completely eaten by the night, would be silhouetting the first rider and the select few trees near the trail as they rounded the newly built corner.  

As I have never shot a photo like this before, I decided to try some test shots on my own.  At sunset, I pushed my bike up the familiar trail that I had been working on for the past few months.  Intimately acquainted with the smallest details of the trail, and could probably navigate safely home with my eyes closed.  Forty minutes later, I had arrived at my desired corner and began setting up my equipment.  Darkness descended quickly and it took a lot longer to dial in exposures, lights, and proper focus than I had anticipated as I worked by headlamp.  

I started hiking my line and getting a few shots, adjusting and tweaking as I went, but without a second rider, the process was tedious and I really wasn’t getting what I had envisioned.  On my next attempt, as I set up for the corner, everything went black. Instinctually, I squeezed the brakes as hard as I could and held on for dear life as I crashed into a moss covered log.  There was no sound and not a drop of light, only pure quiet black.  My (not so charged) bike light had run out of battery and I was left to fumble around in the darkness in the direction I hoped my camera bag and spare light were.  

Eventually, I found my kit and a spare headlamp and hurriedly shone the beam around me expecting to illuminate the eyes of an opportunistic cougar who was surely waiting to maul me.  No eyes were seen, and I began packing my gear while I still had a viable light source.  Riding back to the valley, I struggled to memorize every subtle twist and turn of the trail incase I was cast once again into sudden blackness.

- October 2015

Around the Lens - Valhalla

I feel an energy in my legs that I haven’t felt for days.  Familiar shapes of the devils range now impose themselves as the black jagged skyline to the south.  This view is like an apparition affirming that this will be our last slog up wet, energy zapping snow and that beyond this last col, there is a trail.  For the past week, Micha and I have been toiling in a true wilderness where help or any kind of road is a minimum of 3 days away.  Attempting one of the first summer traverses of the Valhalla Mountains in South Central BC, we were both glad that our adventure is nearing an end.

We began with high hopes of connecting a series of alpine ridges running almost continually from north to south - creating the backbone of Valhalla Provincial Park.  But, as we crested the first of many mountain passes, we were met by an impressive sheer granite cirque with a seemingly vertical snow slope clinging to the far wall.  It was the only way through and we decided to wait until morning, hoping the snow would solidify enough for our crampons and ice axes to bite into it.  What had we signed up for??

The Valhalla range is comprised of real mountains.  Unlike most of the Coast Range, each peak is purely its own entity from steep summit pyramids to alder choked valleys.  Beautiful solid granite typical in the south, abruptly diminishes to an unconsolidated chossy mess of rock in the north.  Steep loose snow and rock intermingled making for exciting ascents leading to tediously nervous descents.  We did find some of our idolized alpine ridges with snow drenched peaks stretching in all directions to the curved horizon.  

Inevitably though, the view was tainted with the ability to see our daunting route ahead with no options or alternatives.  Each summit attained meant an arduous side hill bushwhack to the next one descending two to three thousand metres in between.  Forcing a path through this uncooperative virgin wilderness.  Our bodies constantly ached and nerves were constantly frayed with each difficult route finding decision.  

Meals were the best time of day as it meant our packs were slowly getting lighter with each bite.  Our campsites were sublime, set beside an unnamed river or alpine tarn without ever seeing another trace of human existence.  It is incredibly hard to stay in a negative state of mind in a place like this even drenched in sweat with so many blackfly bites, you don’t even bother to swat them away anymore.  The pure immersion in nature is too strong to deny and a primeval connection is all that remains.  With that being said, I still was looking forward a burger and a beer at the end.

- July 2008

Around the Lens - Paddle Out

This was one of the first shots I took with a new (new to me) Aquatech water housing for my DSLR.  As with most early morning starts on remote stretches of Vancouver Island, it was damp, cold, and grey.  James grabbed his board and I wrestled with a board, fins, and my new underwater rig.  From our camp, the hike is roughly 1km over slippery polished granite boulders covered with long strands of bull kelp, over giant logs, up a cliff, across a muddy path, and down another steep embankment.  At low tide it is possible to skirt the cliff and muddy path section, along a sandstone shelf at the shoreline, but with a swell of this size and the tide being high, we decide to scale the faded yellow rope attached to a small alder atop the cliff.  I had to make the trip twice with all my gear and was getting pretty warm by the end of the second trip wearing a5mm wetsuit.  The path along the headland feels esoteric with giant ferns and impossibly tall spruce and cedar trees.  On this coast, there is a word from the old logging days for the thick, brown, sticky mud found in every crack and crevice along this coast - shiggy.  We had our share of shiggy and tried to stick to the roots and strategically placed logs, but our wetsuits emerged from the forest more brown than black.  

The spot we are about to surf is remote from our already remote camp site, but as the population of surfers along this stretch of coast increases at an exponential rate, secrets like this are no longer secret.  Canadians by nature like to share and have a very fragile conscience, so it is hard for a lot of people to keep a spot to themselves.  Also, we are an adventurous bunch, and will search out rumours of fabled right hand points and reefs such as these.  Hence, our early morning departure.  Sets rolled in, groomed by a thick bed of bull kelp which plays hide and seek as the waves pass over the reef, tugging at their anchors.  I decide to swim and snap a few photos before catching any waves myself and with my new toy, I was like a border collie at a baseball game, shooting everything from every angle.  As the sun neared the horizon, a beautiful soft pink hue came across the low clouds and I managed to follow James as he paddled back out the catch another wave and snapped a few over/under shots of him.  As luck would have it, he was the perfect distance from the camera as in my excitement, I forgot to switch my lens from manual to auto focus as planned, and my focal plane was very narrow due to the low light and camera settings I chose.  

After watching James catch a few really nice waves, I had to ditch the camera and get some myself.  We had a great session all to ourselves as the dropping tide exposed boulders and forced us deeper into the kelp garden.  Sitting alone in the middle of a kelp forest can be a little unnerving, especially in the darkness of dusk and dawn.  As the large heads resurface from under a wave with an eerie gurgling sound. It’s like sea monsters sneaking up on their unsuspecting victim from the depths, which kind of makes you feel like a 7 year old girl screeching as her foot grazes a blade of seaweed.  Never the less, we surfed until we had our fill and another group of surfers emerged from the greenery of the headland.

- January 2013

Around the Lens - Painting with Prana (session2)

The newly constructed, mostly finished trails of Tonquin beach park are all starting to look the same in the rapidly fading light.  Even though there should still be an hour of twilight left on this clear Pacific North West evening, the thick mossy canopy of Sitka Spruce and ancient Cedar trees mask all but a trickle of light - even on a sunny day.  Nicole is leading us on a gravel trail that traverses steep black volcanic headlands to a pocket beach which should have enough sand exposed at low tide for our little project.  

This is the second shooting session of my Painting With Prana Project where the goal is to get visually stunning images that capture the movement of yoga in unique locations.  We emerge out of the forest onto a stage bright enough to set up our studio which consists of small speakers, a yoga mat, and a camera set for long exposures.  Nicole warms up, Caroline picks the music, and I frame my shot with Echachis and Vargas Islands soaking up the afterglow of the summer sun.

Surprisingly, there is still a fair bit of light around so dialing in an exposure suitable to capture enough of the low powered lights attached to Nicole’s hands.  We start off with some ground sequences, then to standing vinyasas which take on a more geometric look.  This is another one of the goals - to see the difference in patterns and light trails left by the yogis and their chosen sequences.  This is a totally new sensation for Nicole as she has never practiced yoga in almost complete darkness.  Especially on a remote beach with no one around.

I climb up a cliff on the far side of the little beach for a different vantage and decide on taking a 25 minute exposure to create trails left by the stars.  Unknowingly everything we brought has slowly been colonized by an army of sand fleas, so we have to eat snacks standing up.  

When we start up again, the theme changes a bit as one of Nicole’s new favorite songs “Hideaway” come on and it turns into more of a dance session as opposed to pure yoga.  On camera this looks like a giant glowing chandelier!  After two hours we decide to call it a night and leave our beach to navigate the web of trails back to my truck and onto The Wolf in the Fog for boozy coffees and celebratory cake for dessert.

- August 2014

Around the Lens - It Only Takes One

What does it take to make a trip memorable?  For some, it might be a holiday that has been a dream for so long and finally come to fruition.  It could be a combination of things or circumstances:  everything going absolutely right and you scored perfect waves with just you and your bros, or maybe everything went absolutely wrong, but from that came new knowledge and a great story.  Maybe a scandalous midnight encounter… But, sometimes it only takes one single moment or event to make going back to the grind all worth while to be able to do this again.

In 2012, I had the opportunity (and fortunately the obligation) to be the best man for a great friend and travel companion in Australia.  Having been to Aus numerous times and usually flying straight from North America or Hawaii, I decided to look for a slightly more creative way home.  And if that took an extra month or two, so be it!  Linking together seat sales and convenient stopovers, I found my way onto an Air Pacific plane bound for Fiji.  For the previous ten days, I had traveled and surfed great waves in Samoa, and was sad to say goodbye as it was one of the coolest little countries I have ever been to!  The tribal laws breed a real sense of community where there is little opportunity for foreign development ...

Fast forward a few days and I am climbing back into the long white fiberglass skiff piloted by the large and constantly smiling Joe 2.  Joe 1 was our boatman for the first few days and the thought of his infectious laugh still brings a smile to my face.  The swell I was watching build on the internet had definitely kicked in and Namotu was 6-8 foot, clean, and fast.  There were some solid attempts at racing the backside barrels that were cooking along the outer reef, but all I had to show for it was a kiss from the reef and some bloodshot eyes.  Also, paddling out against an angry rip had pretty much tired out my Australian companion and I.  But, why not stop off at Wilkes and see if it's any good???  It's on the way home anyways!  I could tell Joe 2 wasn't too keen on the idea.  The tropical darkness sets in quickly and although Joe 2 know these waters like the back of his hand, we still had to negotiate a narrow, boat eating reef pass.  

The low storm clouds weren't going to leave us with much twilight, but with that giant white smile Joe allowed a couple more waves as long as we were quick.  It helps when there is no one else out in the lineup and moments after jumping into the warm Pacific water, our boat disappears out of sight behind a large lump of water moving in.  The orangey yellow light reflecting off the clouds creates an eerie, intimate mood on the hot windless evening and makes the sets hard to define against the dark skyline, but this looks big.  I start gunning it for the outside, making calculations to the tune of: 1 square metre of water weights 1 metric ton, and that looks how big...?  When the wave is about 15 meters away, it hasn't quite started to feather yet, and the 10 percent of me that's saying "go for it! go go go!!!" wins.  A quick spin, and I put my head down and start to stroke into the beast.  One thing I love about the South Pacific are the steep drops created from the abrupt coral shelves.  These reefs also tend to have shallow coral heads, and even though I am being raised up the face of the wave, they appear to be getting closer as water is drawn off the reef, adding to the mass of the wave.  

I manage to pop up to my feet quickly and shoot my gaze down the line where a long, silky smooth wall awaits.  But it's not waiting long.  I'm gonna really have to work for this one.  The combined water sucking up the face and a very slight off-shore breeze lift the nose of my board as I am gaining speed exponentially on every pump.  Every surfer has watched in awe of sea birds that glide effortlessly only centimeters from the face of a wave and this is probably the closest I'll ever get to this feeling as I effortlessly slide my way along.  The only definition I can see on the smooth featureless face is where the lip is feathering it's white eyelashes, about to blink a few meters ahead of me.  It's starting to throw and the only ways out are through the tube or the floor and into the spiny basement below.  I am absolutely flying as the lip comes down just a head of my board and the wave relentlessly churns along the reef ahead.  All I can do is keep pumping.  I can see my exit far in the distance, but I'm entranced by the crashing hollow echo inside my black glass cavern.  Simultaneously, time is standing still and is also a fast forward blur of motion and noise.  Miraculously I get spat out of the barrel and onto a dark velvety shoulder that is just calling out for a cutback or two, so I grab the rail of my board and oblige.  A few more turns and I dissolve with the wave into the channel and sink slowly into a warm euphoric abyss.  

Did that really just happen?  That was soooooooo good!!!  I wish I could stay here with this feeling forever, but I am still bleeding, it's almost dark, and I did see a tiger shark here yesterday.  Looking around, I can just make out the dull white nose of the boat bobbing up and down with the swell a few hundred meters away.  I think Joe 2 might be napping.

- February 2012

Around the Lens - Down Hill Boating

Despite the fact that our 110 meter ship looked like a toy in an icy bathtub, the bay felt oppressively small.  Low clouds obscured the tops of surrounding jagged peaks and tidewater glaciers terminating into the blackness of the water.  The windless morning, dark and thick with sodden mist dampened the continuous squawking of gentoo penguins.  It was eerie.  Somewhere on the other side of vast Neko Harbour, unbeknownst to us, a glacier had calved a massive hulk of ice from its face, creating another colossal iceberg.

I had just picked up Tammie who had anchored the zodiac she was driving 100 meters off the beach, out of the reach of the dropping tide.  On our way to shore, we paused to take in the scene.  Floating amongst small blocks of brash ice, the intensity of grey, white, cold, and damp resonated a deep chill to the bone.  Penguin highways stained brick red with guano weaved their way like frozen arteries up the white snow slope to a rocky outcrop.  Gigantic blue seracs hung precariously from the glacier beyond, creating an ominous backdrop as the penguins obliviously hopped around on the rocks, collecting and stealing stones for their nests.  Small waves lapped at the bouldery shore line as I pulled up to our landing site.  Tammie and I hopped out and began to secure our boat when a larger wave violently crashed into the stern of the boat, sending a shudder through the rubber pontoons.

Waves marched in without a hint of warning, successively growing larger and as they reared out of the water carrying blocks of ice with them up the shoreline.  With each blow, the boat was thrashed erratically about, pushed higher and higher up the pink granite boulders.  Tammie had seen the futility and danger in staying near the boat and made her way to higher ground, while I stubbornly hung on to a line secured to the length of the pontoon as the boat came to rest on a large pedestal 20 meters from the waterline.  Two other guides now joined me to make sure I hadn’t been pinned or crushed by the force of the water.

With only a few seconds before the next, and by far the largest wave reached us, I climbed into the boat and instructed the other guides that when I was lifted by the wave, to turn the boat so the nose was facing down hill towards the water.  Crashing up the rocks, the wave swept me off the boulders, pulling the boat down the beach with barely enough water under the keel to keep me a float as the wave retreated.  Seeing a gap in the rocks, I lowered the engine and managed to get enough of the propeller into the water to gain some forward momentum as another 2 meter wave hit, threatening to take me up the beach and into the rocks once again.  The engine screamed as I hit the throttle, spraying a rooster tail of water as I struggled against the shoreward momentum.  Then, as the wave receded, I was free!  The waves dissipated as quickly as they had come and once again, the only audible sound were the penguins.

- January 2015

Around the Lens - Caballitos de Totora

As dawn breaks, the fishermen are already returning home.  Who knows what ungodly hour they headed out for their daily catch, but chances are this routine has been going on in more or less the same fashion for millennia.  Evidence from pottery shards suggests that the long reed boats which every fisherman in Huanchaco is paddling, have been in use for around 3000 years with the design changing very little to this day.  With a long pointed bow curving up out of the water, and lots of flotation provided by locally collected reeds, the boats are perfectly shaped for the heavy Pacific swells marching constantly westwards towards the coast. Peruvians also claim that these boats were the first surfing craft, pre dating any Polynesian surfers.  

I can picture how appealing the iconic left hand point breaks of the area were too much temptation for the Peruvian fishermen not to surf them.  Inevitably, one of them would have stood up on the rickety water craft sparking the competitive nature of men, and before long, fishermen all along the coast would return morning after morning, standing tall, triumphantly surfing their catch all the way to the beach.  This is pure speculation, but as I watch the boats effortlessly gliding down the faces of decent size waves, I believe it to be true.

Armed with a 7 foot length of bamboo split in half to serve as a kayak style paddle, I try my luck at the wave breaking off the pier.  My legs aren’t used to the coarse texture of the reeds and as I straddle the wobbling boat, I am getting seriously chaffed.  I decide to move to kneeling which is more off balance, but a huge improvement in comfort with augmented paddling power.  I manage to crash my way through the shore break and sit waiting for a set to come in.  The familiar green bumps begin to rise on the horizon and it takes a bit of effort to get the 15 foot long boat pointed towards shore and some forward momentum.  I feel the wave rising the back of the boat and paddle harder.  After a few solid strokes, I’m on the wave, digging my paddle into the face to for support and to steer my way down the line.  The flat bottom picks up speed instantly and in a split second, I’m sideways and thrown into the murky green washing machine.  As I pop back up, I see the little reed horse has righted itself 50 feet towards shore, and beyond, a group of locals on the beach are laughing their heads off.

- February 2015

Around the Lens - Tsunami Surf Session

Every surfer has thought about surfing a tsunami.  Fantasizing their way out of certain death by grabbing their board along with cute local village girls under each arm and riding a twenty story wall of water to the safety of a jungle wrapped mountain top.  But the thought that we might actually get to surf a real tsunami scared the shit out of me.  

The captain of our 40 foot converted Indonesian fishing boat (now a 1 star surf charter boat), looked like he was 16 years old.  Adamant that he had at least that number of years of experience sailing and fishing these volatile waters, we had no choice but to trust him.  Either way, he had skillfully navigated our craft along the south coast of Lombok finding really good waves for us to surf along the way.  

A few hours ago, report had come in over the VHF marine radio that a 7. something earthquake had just treated java and sumatra like a pair of maracas and raised the sea floor by a meter.  Heading our way was a series of waves of unknown size and destructive force and our captain was now suggesting we find a spot to surf them!  Moving empty Bintang bottles off the table, he laid a chart out in front of us and began pointing out where the waves might make landfall.  To me, the idea was difficult to wrap my head around and really, sounded a bit insane.

After much discussion and deliberation, and the captain claiming that this happens on a somewhat regular basis, we decided to head to a big wave spot called outside ekas.  A large remote bay where the boat could stay in the safety of deep water and we could risk our lives waiting in the water for a tsunami to arrive.  Sounds great.

Even though the ocean was calm - forebodingly calm, I couldn’t sleep and was relieved by the faint purple hint of dawn.  Sometime during the night we had moored at the foot of imposing vertical sandstone cliffs leading to a feral palm fringed beach a kilometer deeper inside the bay.  There was no sign of the wave.  We waited until 8:00 before jumping into the water and paddling over to the gentle waves peeling peacefully along the blocky rock reef.  The sun was shining, the water was body temperature and crystal clear, and not a breath of wind was disturbing its surface.  

Gradually, the subtle rise and fall of the swell increased and large lumps of water appeared on the horizon.  I started paddling out towards sea as green walls rose from the depths, hanging in silence before crashing a few meters in front of me.  Taking in as much air as my lungs could manage, I swam for the seaweed, but just as I thought I was in the clear, I was pulled backwards into the foamy maelstrom by my leg rope and thrashed violently.  Disoriented, I swam for the surface and got a short breath in before being plunged back down, deeper than before.  The vicious cycle repeated 3 more times and then it was calm.  All that remained was the hissing of billions of tiny bubbles popping on the foamy surface.

Amazed that I was still attached to my board, I paddled back out to deeper water to catch my breath as another set of waves reared up before exploding on the reef.  They were incredible to watch from the shoulder - big beautiful beasts of water energetically making their way down the reef in structured military processions.  Seeing that all my shipmates were accounted for albeit spread over a large distance - some smiling, and some with eyes wide with fear, I edged my way in closer to catch a few tsunamis of my own as the energy from the earthquake slowly diminished.

- November 2008

Around the Lens - Surf by fatbike

It’s usually a 2km hike just to check this spot, so you are always bringing your board and wetsuit with you, but, it’s a nice way to get warm before jumping into 10 degree water.  A rocky outcrop above the thick green canopy of the northern temperate jungle provides the first glimpse of the wave, if you can even see through the fog.  But today we ride!

This is my first time on an electric fatbike.  A tool that has been used for snowy winter commutes for years is making its way to the coast and excelling at accessing remote beach breaks which were previously a pain in the ass to get to.  With every pedal stroke assisted by a battery powered motor providing the same amount of power the rider puts in to push the slick 4 inch tires, it makes soft sand actually fun to ride on!  

Equipped with board racks and a bob trailer filled with wetsuits, lunch, and post surf beers, we casually ride north past the small first nations reserve of Esowista dodging foamy whitewash and watching the waves roll into the beach.  Thirty minutes later, we pull up to chest high waves peeling down the rarely surfed sandy point break.  Stoke is high as we suit up, and paddle out for our own private session.

- May 2015

Around the Lens - The Fur Seals of South Georgia

So here we are, standing back to back.  The once solid, but now crumbling beach stones Sophie and I are clapping together are rapidly disintegrating with each frantic impact.  I don’t want to reach down and grab whatever fresh rocks might be at my feet as that would require taking my eyes off three of the five large, aggressive, Antarctic Fur Seals who are currently surrounding us.  A distant relative of the Grizzly Bear, Fur Seals are very territorial, willing to defend their small batch of beach to the death.

Cooper Bay is more of a mild indentation than an actual bay, on the wild southern coast of South Georgia Island.  Really, every centimeter of coast line on South Georgia is wild and inhospitable - unless you have flippers.  At this latitude, storms rage with hurricane force, constantly circling unencumbered around the globe.  Traveling predominantly from west to east, rolling waves the size of apartment buildings abruptly end their journey in mass explosions of water and foam right here.  The bare pyramidal hulk of Cooper Island sits 1.5 kilometers to the south, funneling this swell and wind directly into the southwestern exposure of the bay - making landings here extremely difficult and rare.  

With uncharted offshore reefs and kelp forests with an appetite for outboard engine propellers, why would anyone want to come here?  Macaroni penguins, that's why.  Being the most numerous penguin on the globe, you might think they would be common place, but despising comfort, they frequently make their homes on steep rocky cliffs fully exposed to the horrendous weather.  

Today is the calmest day I have seen in my 3 years working this stretch of coast - the sun is shining with ‘calm’ 10 knot winds.  The last time I was in this area, fearing for my life, I struggled to lash boats to the outer deck of our ship in a raging blizzard and 80 knot winds with a large swell threatening to toss me into the frothing sea.  But today is different - the scouting party consisting of Sophie and myself, are lowered from the ship in our zodiac like a giant fishing lure into the deep blue water.  A 2-4 metre swell is more than apparent as I struggle to unhook the lifting straps from the crane with the boat rising and falling with the waves.  A minute later we are off towards land, speeding over the hills of water which obscure the ship from view each time we dip sharply into the troughs. 

No one on the ship has landed here before, so I blindly aim our little boat for the more prominent topographical features we could define from outdated British Admiralty charts.  As we head for a maze of sharp volcanic reef - foaming with whitewater and surging waves, I get the feeling that today is not our day for a landing.  Concealed behind the line of reefs is the small pocket beach I was hoping to land on.  We sat and anxiously watched as rogue waves swept through the kelp choked channel between jagged sea stacks.  

Optimistically, we make our way west around a small prominent of land, tacking our way through small keyholes between partly submerged reefs. A few minutes later we were hauling our boat up into a small bay with tiny waves gently lapping at a grey sand beach.  We had made it to land, but the penguin colony was still a fair distance away.  Ahead of us lies a beach with a strangely large number of large adult and adolescent male Fur Seals.  A desolate bachelor pad at the end of the earth.

In our haste to get moving, we had forgotten our battle gear (collapsable trekking poles) on the ship.  When something like a trekking pole touches the seals sensitive whiskers or flippers, they generally back off, or bite the pole.  Without our sabers, we grab a few rocks to clap together as the seals also don’t like the sharp sounds.  Feeling slightly vulnerable, we try to make ourselves as big and bad as possible (Sophie is 5’1’’) and forge our way through the mob of seals towards the Macaronis.  

Reaching a dead end along the beach, we scramble up a gully (also filled with seals) to a plateau covered with the only greenery on the island - tussock grass.  Tussock grows in large cascading mounds which create tunnels and pathways, camouflaged by the long blades of grass spilling from the plants summit.  Like a zombie movie, seals pop up out of the trenches with a vicious snarl everywhere around us.  Dodging bites, lunges, and fake outs from mouths filled with long, sharp canines stained orange with bacteria, we hop between tussock pedestals trying to keep our balance.  It’s not long before it is evident that we cannot bring a group of tourists here to dance with the seals, so we descend back to the beach.  

A final option is a narrow ledge which might connect to the pocket beach which was our original landing site.  Yet again, we find this to be blocked by seals!  As we turn to leave, we see that our exit has been filled in by three big males who are not keen on moving for two gore-tex clad intruders such as us.  Behind us, the seal on the ledge is reinforced by another male clambering out of the water for a grand total of five - each one doubling or tripling us in weight.  

Trying to think of anything we can use to pry our way between two of them, my thoughts are suddenly brought to our boat - equipped with two large hard plastic paddles.  

‘SHIT!’ I yell aloud.

When I tell Sophie, we are both burst out in fits of nervous hysterical laughter.  Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid making one last stand, we face them head on in one unified screaming charge, shooting for the biggest gap.  I put my boot out to block a bite and hop out of the circle of death.  They pursue us for a few metres, but we made it!  We strut back to the boat like the confident gangsters we are, daring any seal who's feeling lucky.  We own this neighborhood!  Even as we motor out through the reefs and over the waves, new seals join the resistance and lunge hungrily out of the water at our rubber pontoons.

- January 2015

Around the Lens - Nightclub Hotel

It’s best not to chose accommodation when you’re deliriously tired, sweating profusely, and emotionally fragile.  At that point, anything would do.  The price was good, and a gentle breeze soothed my sunburnt skin from a third story balcony overlooking the two main surf breaks in town.  My weary mind overlooked the fact that the room was little more than a small wooden cell with a chip board door hiding a miniature bathroom with leaky plumbing, giant spiders, and no light which to see said spiders in the darkness.  I happily collapsed onto the cigarette burned green sheets and fell into a deep sleep.

The twenty hour bus ride from Trujillo was a revolving door of people getting on and off in the blackness of the most obscure areas in the Sechura desert throughout the night.  I lost track of how many new seat companions I acquired as I slipped in and out of a blurry state of consciousness.  As morning light revealed a harsh landscape of crumbling rock cliffs and sandy riverbeds interspersed with dry sticks of trees, we veered towards the coast.  Finally, the bus pulled into the seedy little town of Mancora on the north coast of Peru.  Empty bottles and plastic bags lined the streets as random partiers stumbled home from another big night of drinking and drugs.  At this point, all I wanted was to get to the hostel I had booked on another travelers recommendation.

The sleazy vibe continued as I pulled up to the misfits hostel a few kilometers out of town.  The place was burningman-esque with teepees and brightly coloured huts scattered haphazardly around the sandy acreage.  Poncho clad partiers were passed out in hammocks and even face down in the sand in the intense morning sun while a few hearty souls were still going hard under a sand fly infested lean to.  This boozy, drugged out atmosphere was not what I had in mind, so I dragged my exhausted, glassy eyed self along the beach, back to town.

After a few rejections with no vacancies or prices too expensive for my meager budget, I wandered towards the centre of town looking for breakfast or just somewhere to sit in the shade for a few minutes.  As I passed a four story cinderblock building, young boy ran up to me and asked if I was looking for a place to stay.  At this point I would take anything, and this was that anything.  The open air front desk and wooden exterior balconies were clean enough and I accepted my ocean front room with the best view I could ask for of the monotonous, banal coastline and of course the waves I came here to surf.  

The bass started around 10 pm.  What appeared to be a boarded up restaurant a few hours ago was actually one of the main night clubs in town and the sound system was just a few metres below my bed.  I haggled the owner down a few dollars per night in exchange for paying for five nights up front - a decision I was now regretting as sleep was improbable for the foreseeable future.  It was some time around 3 or 4 that the club finally shut and I managed a few fitful hours of sleep before my alarm went off at 6 am.  Every part of me wanted to stay in my tattered bright green sheets, but I forced myself up to at least have a look at the waves.  I scanned the serene orange and purple pastel coloured bay and watched as flawless sets gently caressed the anchored fishing boats minutes before peeling flawlessly along the rocky reefs, tickled by a light offshore breeze.  Pelicans dipped and effortlessly glided along the faces of the waves and, once again, everything was alright - at least until nightfall...  

- January 2015

Around the Lens - Painting With Prana

It’s hard to know how a woman will react when you ask her to meet you at a construction site at the end of an abandoned residential street just after dark, but Julia’s unwavering voice said simply - “Sure!”  It also helps that I have known Julia for years.

The point of our meeting in this obscure location is for my ‘Painting With Prana' project.  With traditional yoga photography, I always felt a disconnect with a lot of the outdoor shots.  I get the idea, but seeing a girl doing a handstand on wet boulders near a stream-although impressive, seems counter intuitive to me.  In my mind, yoga is all about movement, flow, and a spirituality which transcends the merely physical act - all of which are very difficult to convey through still photography.  

Jules is there just before I am, we discuss outfit choices and then gingerly make our way across the construction site in the encroaching darkness.  Our destination - a decrepit dock with loads of character (and splinters) - is a spot where I have spent every warm lunch hour for the past year and a half (my previous job was a foreman on a large residential build).  The uneven platform is mostly submerged in a thick green bed of rough horsetail reeds, and takes a short hop to get onto.  

As the blue/green glow of dusk starts to fade from the sky, we devise a plan of potential shots and sequences to try and capture the moving form of yoga.  I attach two small LED lights to the palms of her hands, manually dial in the exposure and focus on my camera, and remotely trigger the shutter as Julia starts to paint the sensor with sun salutations.  It takes a few tries to get the correct exposure with the right amount of movement, but soon the photos start to take shape.

With the technical side figured out, we are free to get creative with different angles, sequences, and even adding a little bit of the Jane Fonda workout in for good measure.  There was a lot of laughing, a bit of rapping.  Another goal of my shoot was accomplished by letting the unique personality of the yogi shine through their movements which was very apparent with Julia’s unique blend. 

Painting with Prana is an ongoing personal project featuring some of my favourite yogis in unique locations.  The project is always evolving and changing, so I’m not really sure what the end result will be.  For now, I am just enjoying the act of creating and collaborating on a technique which seems to be new to this discipline. 

- August 2014

Around the Lens - Summit "Sleeping"

It’s quite a romantic notion to sleep on top of a mountain, but this idealism is the furthest thing from my mind right now.  In the dim pre dawn light Rob and I scramble to get our bivy bags stuffed into our packs as the wind howls through the exposed col we are perched on.  I know now isn’t the time for pictures, my frozen hands can barely work the buttons, but I need to capture this grim moment.

The forecast was for a trace of snow overnight, but this seemed to be a remote possibility as we set off in dazzling sunshine and were quickly down to our base layers as we traversed the Decker Glacier.  Our goal was the Spearhead range connecting Whistler and Blackcomb mountains.  With the long April days, we were hoping to explore some new terrain, bag a few peaks, and get some nice turns from the summits.  

After a great day of touring on firm snow with long picturesque descents without seeing another group all day, we camped mid way along our route near the 2691m summit of Tremor Mountain.  The light softened and clouds played hide and seek in the valleys far below as we flattened platforms to sleep on and built walls to block the wind.  Gradually, more of the surrounding peaks became enveloped in thick blankets of grey cloud creating absolute, perfect silence.

An hour or so after tucking in to our tiny cocoons, the first gusts of the storm tugged at our shelters.  The tinkling sound of snow blowing across fabric of my bivy bag was magical, keeping me poised in the present moment.  Another hour passed with sleep coming in short fits while snow piled up around and on top of me, slowly shrinking my already tiny gore-tex world.  

My back was starting to freeze and I knew the moment I had been procrastinating facing was now imminent.  The new down filled sleeping mat I was testing had lost most of its air and was now providing zero insulation against the snow floor which was rapidly draining my body heat.  As I unzipped my shelter, the gale outside sent little tornadoes of spindrift into my sleeping bag while I tried to clumsily put on pants and frozen snowboard boots.

Blowing snow whizzed past in the beam of my headlamp as I struggled to find my buried avalanche shovel to dig out my shelter.  I could shovel only slightly faster than the snow replacing my cleared areas.  I managed to re-inflate my sleeping mat and with a few more shovels full of snow, I clambered back into my sleeping bag which was now filled with fine crystals of snow.

The storm raged outside as I tried to shiver myself to sleep.  Every hour or so, the space around my head would close in to a point where I needed to open my bivy and clear the snow away to be able to comfortably breathe again.  Which would, in a cruel ritual, refill my sleeping bag with snow for my meager body heat to melt, to become wetter and colder.

As the inky blackness of night slowly gave way to dark grey, I was out of my bivy, determined to never re-enter this poor excuse for a shelter anywhere near snow again.  Rob had the same experience and was equally happy to get moving as soon as possible.  In a complete white out with no depth perception and 30 cm of fresh snow, we retraced our route, gingerly picking our way down the slope we had ascended yesterday.  Amazingly, Rob had laid a track with his GPS the day before which we could follow to safety.  The thought of having to wait out the storm for better visibility chilled my already chilled bones.

-April 2007

Around the Lens - Saharan Sunrise

For some reason, the act of riding animals and I don’t get along.  They always end with a painful disagreement in my body, and obvious emotional distress in the animal.  After riding a horse, I generally can’t walk; elephants have hit me with their trunk then angrily showered me with water; and in this instance, I was bitten by the camel I was riding while taking this photo.  Maybe I need to stop choosing the ‘feisty’ ones and let them choose me instead.

The former was the case when Kirsten and I were organizing our camel trip into the Sahara.  After a spirited drive through the western reaches of the worlds largest desert, where massive sand dunes had blown over the rapidly degrading and narrowing highway.  Our tiny hatchback rental car made it over these formidable obstacles with surprisingly relative ease.  With this new found sense of confidence, I tried my luck over a large dune and got us hopelessly stuck, but luckily near a small village.  

Two points of advice for a trip like this are: do not travel to one of the hottest places on earth in the middle of summer.  Secondly, carry the latest road map which shows the new paved highway which goes directly to your destination instead of following a sketchy line of hash marks through a vast expanse of yellow.  The villagers hadn’t seen tourists on this road for over a year, but were happy to help us get our car out of the sand in the heat of the day which was north of 50 degrees celsius in the blazing sun!

This is when we met Hassan, a local who said he could help us navigate the vague maze of desert tracks to his cousin Ahmed’s house in Merzouga, but neglected to mention we could take the shiny new road if we merely back tracked 80 odd kilometers to the last town.  In our naivety, we felt blessed to have met Ahmed seemingly by divine intervention, thus avoiding certain death among the blowing sand of the Sahara.  We were on our way once again with our new guide Hassan riding shotgun.  

The 20 kilometers to Merzouga took 3 hours as we wove the most indirect path as possible through the dunes and dry riverbeds getting stuck 3 more times and ripping the front bumper off the hatchback.  Utterly frazzled from the stress, exertion, and heat, Hassan led us through the open foyer of his cousins house and into a dark cool room with large red pillows lining the perimeter.  Over a glass of cold mint tea, we discussed the arrangements of heading into the desert, with Ahmed, for a few nights at a traditional Berber camp near the Algerian border - which had been our original intention for coming to this remote desert outpost in the first place.

An hour later, feeling mildly better after some water and a short rest, Ahmed brought us to a pen with a dozen large camels and we were asked to choose which one we would like to ride.  For some reason, I decided to go for the one making the most noise as he seemed the most alert and ready to move.  He looked sturdy enough, but as the beast tried to stand - prodded disagreeably off the sand by the stable master, it toppled over a few feet off the ground and I barely got my leg out from under it in time as he landed on the ground with a dull thud.  A little fearful now I hopped back on with the second attempt going much better than the first.  The camel rose onto wobbly legs heavily listing from side to side as we set off with our backs to the setting sun.  

The dunes were otherworldly, like distant mirages rising to heights of 150 metres, sweeping gracefully smooth lines from their summits in a sublime dance to the horizon.  In the diffused light, the sand turned from a palate of bright orange and yellow to soft pastel shades of pink and purple.  I was thrust back into reality as my camel let out a loud belch like growl and throwing its head almost 180 degrees around, gruffly bit my leg with its gigantic putrid mouth.  Shocked, I pulled my leg away as fast as I could, almost falling off the other side, throwing my animal wildly off balance as the top heavy creature struggled to stay upright atop the soft, uneven sand.

As twilight descended on the vast expanse of sand, we crested the final rise and descended to our camp.  The small oasis, hemmed in by imposing dunes was little more than a few African oil palms and some low shrubs surrounding three large canvas tents with no visibly apparent water to sustain the greenery.  There was also a makeshift manger made from scrap wood which was set away from the tents where the camels groaned noisily.  Sitting on pillows on a large red rug, darkness fell and surrounded by small lanterns we enjoyed chicken tajine and mint tea.  Feral cats roamed our perimeter looking for scraps.

The atmosphere inside the tent was stiflingly hot with no air circulating, so I opted to sleep outside with the cats, gazing at shooting stars in the flawless desert sky.  Soon enough, I was hit by the first maelstrom of many miniature tornados which would batter us throughout the night.  Tiny sand particles flew haphazardly in every direction, stinging any exposed skin as the wind tore at my blankets.  After a few fearsome seconds, it passed by and I returned to the sweat lodge of a tent which was constantly battered by these short and sudden outbursts of wind.

In the predawn light, I could feel sand in every crevice of my existence, and I could not wait to get moving.  We watched a magical sunrise and boarded the dromedaries.  The clean morning light was surreal - casting sharply defined shadows from the ever shifting dunes, but I had to force my weary hands into my pack to pull my camera out.  Disagreeably, from atop my wobbly, smelly, 800kg tripod, I managed to snap a few frames.

-August 2006

Around the Lens - Galungan

Galungan is one of the most important holidays on the Balinese Hindu calendar.  It signifies a time when ancestral spirits return to the earth, and so, is a time for the Balinese to return home to visit family and participate in various ceremonies.  Special offerings and prayers are necessary to accommodate these incorporeal guests.

I went to a large gathering at the picturesque Padang Padang beach, poised on the souther tip of Bali.  The small white sand beach is hemmed in by low, overhanging limestone cliffs draped in jungle foliage - the perfect place for an exorcism!  

Passing a few of the less devoted men rowdily betting on a cock fight, I made my way down the steep stone steps.  Standing trepidatiously at the back of the beach beside battered fishing boats, I was unsure if I should move in closer or keep my distance.  The ceremony was already in progress.  Throngs of patrons were dressed in dazzling white and seated facing the water with hands lifted to their foreheads, pressed together in prayer, eyes lowered, gazing at the sand.  Cleansing the devotees, the priests dipped a bamboo brush into a golden pot adorned with carvings filled with holy water, then touched the brush to each persons forehead while delivering a prayer.

I struck up a quiet conversation with a man beside me, asking about the ceremony.  In his words, Galungan represents the struggle between dharma and adharma (good vs evil) with dharma being the victor.  In this particular ceremony on the beach, people have come to cleanse their souls and get rid of any bad spirits which may be inhabiting them.  The first stage is the purification with holy water and a blessing, which we could see happening.  Next was the more intense exorcism through entrancement in prayer.  

A large circle formed around a bamboo mat sprinkled with colourful flowers and ritualistic offerings of food.  A central priest lit a red bowl full of incense.  As the thick grey smoke rose from the bowl, he wafting smoke into the faces of those sitting cross legged in the circle with their eyes closed.  Each chanting softly, rocking gently back and forth with the goal of this spiritual trance being possession by one of the many deities patrolling the circle.  

Suddenly, a man violently shot up from the sand knocking people sitting behind him to the ground as he squirmed, trying to release himself from the grip of the many helping hands that were now upon him, trying to hold him down.  There was an intense yet blank look of horror in his giant eyes as fear gripped the man and you could tell he was witnessing a battle within and not registering his outer worldly surroundings.  Then another, and another - bodies lurching and faces clinched in pain and disillusionment, all experiencing struggles unseen by the onlookers outside of this inner circle.

- November 2008

Around the Lens - The Surfing Chief of Tia Via

From first sight, the bay looked like a surfing paradise - like one you would draw on the back of a notebook while day dreaming in class.  Clinging to the steep volcanic spires, the dense thicket of jungle avalanched as a chaotic, twisted mass of trees and vines, unbroken down to the crystalline sea.  The coral fringing a group of jagged black sea stacks was clearly visible from our vantage high above the pristine bay.  Waves peeled perfectly in every direction only a few feet above the colourful ocean floor.

We had our pick of three distinctly different waves.  A left hand point on the west side of the bay was pitching top to bottom barrels along the entire length of the reef.  The wedging river mouth would rear up out of deep water to double in size at the take-off, trouncing the unwary while peeling off in both directions.  And a gigantic heaving right bombora - waiting in vain for a courageous soul.  All sharp, all shallow, and all perfect.

The rusting blue Toyota rav4 bounced and squeaked its way down the steep dirt path, sending bright brown mud flying in all directions.  As we reached the village gate, a big Samoan smile waved us on through.  Almost all of the villages on Samoa have a toll gate to enter - usually manned by the chief of the village or one of his family members.  

“We don’t have to pay here?” I asked our Aussie ex-pat surf guide Brett.

“Na, I let him use one of the old boards and he’s cool with us surfing here.  Although, he breaks so bloody many of them, it’s not really worth the toll!”

We parked in the shade of a giant banyan tree to get suited up.  Immediately the chief who was at the toll gate sauntered over to us and in his thick South Pacific islander accent, asked us if we had a board for him to use.  Dressed in a typical lava lava (sarong) he was much slimmer than your average Samoan with deep dark eyes.  His muscular body was covered in traditional tattoos - presumably, like most Samoans, administered with a sharp bone and wooden hammer.  He grabbed one of Brett’s boards and immediately started to paddle out towards the wedging river mouth.  

“He’s heading out just like that, huh?” I asked.

“Yup, you might get an eyeful out there…”

The rest of our group paddled against the currents to join the chief at the river mouth.  The water was a beautiful deep dark blue and clear enough to define between the individual plates of coral below.  Mesmerized at this colourful aquarium under my feet, I almost forgot where I was as a large set approached.  Paddling out towards the relative safety of a deep water channel, I watched as the chief took off on a bomb of a wave.  Completely out of control, he somehow managed to stay upright as the wave pitched over his head, slotted him inside the barrel.  He came up the face towards me and nearing the top of the wave, the board and his legs went skyward while the lava lava along with the rest of his body headed for the depths of the sea.

A few seconds later, he popped back up from the foaming whitewash laughing through that gigantic smile.  Bare assed, he clambered back onto his board and paddled around looking for that pesky lava lava.

-February 2012

Around the Lens - Bikeshwacking

At this point in the day, there was no way to know we were heading up to a trail from the hardest possible direction.  We were full of energy, the sun was shining, and we had at least 12 more hours of daylight to enjoy the pristine alpine single track awaiting our arrival. Things couldn’t be better! 

While doing my research a few weeks earlier, I had spotted an alternative route onto a spectacular ridge line connecting Mt. Thurston, Elk peak, and Mt. Mercer as opposed to a hike-a-bike up the main hiking trail.  I couldn’t find any literature on or off line suggesting that mountain bikes were contraband on this section of trail, but given the current climate of hiker / mountain biker relations, and having adventurous companions, we chose the back way.  

Early on, we came across a fresh cut-block with new roads altering our original course.  We traversed piles of logs precariously perched on steep slopes switchbacking up the hillside until we rejoined our original route.  The scorching August sun was on us now.  With a grade too steep and loose for pedaling, plumes of dust arose from every step, sticking to sweaty exposed skin.  There was no stopping as the black flies were maddeningly persistent and voraciously ravenous. 

Hoping for solace in the alpine, we pushed on and past where the trail should have started.  Finally, after retracing our steps, a ragged line of flagging tape made its way into the sub alpine scruff of stunted trees and huckleberry bushes and disappeared.  I guess that’s our “trail”.  Enter bikeshwacking mode - a head down angry push forward by any means necessary.  After nearly an hour of grunting, slipping, swearing, and pulling our bikes, we emerged onto a steep, narrow ridge.  Sweeping views of Mt. Baker and the Chilliwack valley to the left and rugged ridge after ridge rising from the mighty Fraser River to peaks unknown to our right.  And in front of us - a trail.

-August 2013