A Day in the Wild

After a half year of making and selling art, this winter I’ve spent a lot of time resting and writing. Writing usually happens inside with a warm beverage by my side. This last year I didn’t spend as much time with my camera as I used to. Inspiration was temporarily elsewhere. Every now and then this awareness causes me to pick up my photo gear and find a quiet, easy to reach place in the midst of nature. Aiming to spend a day among lichens, mosses and big trees, I decided to make a little day trip to Sooke on the wild West Coast. The small town of Sooke lies only a quick 40-minute drive west from our current home in Victoria, which makes for a easy outing for just an afternoon.

Victoria offers a relatively mild micro-climate with a manageable amount of rain and pretty much no frost or snow, one of the reasons a lot of Canadians want to retire here. Travel in any direction from Victoria and you’ll find more rain. Driving to Sooke, the road to winds through forest and rocky outcrops to a south-western exposed coastal landscape, slightly wetter and greener than Victoria. Still both Sooke and Victoria lie in the rain shadow of the US’s Olympic Mountains. Drive north from Sooke along the coast to Port Renfrew or visit the popular tourist destination of Tofino and the annual rainfall triples to approximate 3500mm. That’s wet enough for inhabitants to feel like they permanently live in a gray low-ceiling basement suite, and wet enough for trees to grow to gigantic proportions.

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I had been longing to spend some time in nature, not the kind you find in a manicured city park or on a shoreline trail with hundreds of other enthusiasts. I aimed to be in the wilderness, alone, if only for a few hours. I was searching for a place untouched by humans, where only wildlife leaves prints in the mud. I had an idea where I might find this place of natural chaos and splendour, where I could feel the moisture on my skin, smell the forest and hear nothing but rushing water.

 

I decided to head to the Salmon Interpretive Centre along Charters Creek in Sooke, one of the well known salmon spawning creeks in the area. Charter’s creek offers an easy to reach viewpoint for people looking to watch spawning salmon during some 6-8 weeks of the year the salmon fight against the currents of the creek. While Charters creek can be considered a Coho and Chinook bearing creek, the two large species are outnumbered by the thousands of Chum salmon. In October and November the Chums make their way from the ocean, via the Sooke River to their spawning grounds to complete their life cycle.

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I parked the car, walked upstream to get away from the other vehicles. As can be expected along a salmon bearing creek I encountered several “bear in area” warning signs. I reached back into the side pocket of my backpack to find my expired bear spray can and hopped semi-confidently into the dense undergrowth a mile upstream from the visitor centre.

 

Three steps from the walking trail the terrain turned inhospitable and dense. Slippery logs and moss-covered rocks alternated patches of sword ferns. For a hundred meters the slope dropped steeply to the rushing creek. Last year’s Summer and Fall had been incredibly warm and dry, leaving salmon in the low-flowing Sooke River to wait for the rain that would provide a lifeline to their spawning grounds. Time was not on their side this last November. Harassed constantly by gulls pecking at their backs and heads, I had watched semi-decomposed salmon waiting for the rain that didn’t come.

 

In December and January the weather gods decided to play catch up. Even in sunny Victoria the rain seemed to linger forever. Creeks rushed with strength and determination, overflowing some banks and temporarily inundating local roads. Today, the clouds still looks threatening but rain has temporarily stopped. The environment is saturated with moisture. Water drops hang from the tips of cedar branches and fern leaves by the thousands. Millions of tiny dew drops crowd the mossy rocks. A mystical mist drapes the tall cedars high on the river valley slopes.

 

Wearing rubber boots seems a safe option to navigate this wet environment. However, the smooth soles of the boots don’t offer much grip on the slippery sphagnum moss. It isn’t long before one foot slides off a log and pokes through the webbed floor of roots and rotting logs. I take my first ungracious tumble down the slope. “Ouch, this could be interesting”, I mumble to myself. As expected, this environment is not forgiving. Accidents are easy to come by, a realization quickly prompting me to text Gina about my whereabouts before I lose cell phone reception in the narrow valley.

 

I wrestle my way down to the riverbed, slapped in the face by fresh wet cedar branches and water logged lichens. My jeans quickly saturate with water upon touching the environment. I am used to falling. On many occasions I have slipped and tumbled as I ventured off the beaten path for just a few hours, bruising my body and ego, shoving the dirt further underneath my nails. Damaging photo equipment has become my signature move with plenty of camera gear already lost to rivers, creeks and rocky slopes. Yet the unexplored wilderness, even a few minutes from the road always holds a lure to great to resist. Like the beachcomber hoping for a treasure under the next log, I always submit to the curiosity with a calculated risk.

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Using my tripod as a cane and leaving my photo gear in my padded pack, I reach the deafening rush of the creek where the view opens. The water runs swiftly over a rocky creek bed, colouring the creek in patches of white. The water-saturated air has turned the river valley into a bright green oasis of moss, lichens and ferns. Fierce trees are wrapped up to their neck in a green moss sweater as if to protect themselves from permanent exposure to the watery mist.

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In the next few hours I take many long exposure photos. To take long exposure shots, photographers typically use a neutral density filter which basically dresses the lens in some sunglasses, reducing the amount of light coming into the lens and onto the sensor. It allows for the shutter to stay open longer and catch movement in the water or sky. Here in the valley the light today is dim enough to work without the filter. In the long exposed photographs the turbulent river water changes into a milky silk ribbon. The soft romantic feel of the photos always appeals to me. Letting the camera do its job allows me to lift up my head and take in the environment, something so many of us picture takers, including myself, forget from time to time. I sit on a few moss-covered rocks to pose for a self-portrait which soaks my pants even further. I observe the towering trees, dangling my rubber boots childlike in the creek. This really is a magical environment, unforgiving and wild. No wonder bears and salmon like it here. At ease and lost in my right side brain, I slowly putter away with my camera gear, taking in all details of the surroundings. All other aspects of life die for a while. Like the river, everything flows momentarily, which is fairly uncommon for me these days, yet a good reminder of where I find my energy.

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I venture a bit further downstream to find a different viewpoint. As I stumble passed a large protruding rock, I discover a large black hole under the rock. “Perfect for a wild animal to take shelter in”, my left brain thinks. In the mud nearby I find some paw prints of a bear, perhaps a resident and passerby from days ago. My curiosity requests a look inside the hole, yet my heart rate has involuntarily already jumped. My walking pace doubles. Suddenly, I find myself hastening over slippery rocks and through unforgiving undergrowth, sliding, wobbling, losing my balance, twisting my ankles and knees into awkward positions. Some thirty meters downstream I slow the pace, returning to a more present view of the situation. “What are you doing?”, I ask myself out loud. “Did you actually see a bear?” “No, I did not.” “Why then, after almost 20 years of living around bears, do you still run like a chicken?” It was a good question to reflect on for a moment. “Well you started it!”, my cognitive brain, now addressed my reptilian brain in an effort to make sense of the instinctive reaction I had experienced a few times before.

 

The anticipation of a very close encounter with a bear had always been ten times more stressful than the real life close encounters I had experienced over the years. Some of them were even rather uneventful as the bears often minded their own business or took off running at the sight of an unexpected visitor. While the worst stories do the rounds in books, on social media, encounters with bears are seldom frightening or life threatening. The problem is, in my mind they usually are.

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As I set up my tripod in the creek I drift off thinking of photographers who are willing to wait for hours or days for animals to show up. The best of them manage to take great photos blending into the environment without disturbing the wildlife. It is an art form I appreciate and envy, but I don’t know if I have the patience for it. I have learned about myself that I’m a slow but constant wanderer, a treasure hunter. While appearing calm on the outside, restlessness drives me on. I search for little treasures in the form of photo-compositions rather than wait endlessly for a treasure to show up. That’s no doubt why I often struggle with committing to a meditation and mindfulness routine. That’s why I like beachcombing and garage sale shopping. “And that’s why..”, I conclude, “I will keep wandering, sliding and tripping along this beautiful creek”.

 


 

Old and New Horizons

 

We made the leap. We packed our stuff and drove west. Destination Vancouver Island. The ocean has been calling my name for years. And I’ve been ignoring her call for too long.  I have a good excuse though. For the longest time I have been seduced by another lover: the Rocky Mountains.

 

On Halloween morning we finally hit the road. We drove out in the rain, fighting a continuous spray on the winshield and battling the fatigue caused by weeks of purging, selling and packing. It rained in Revelstoke as it always does when we drive through and it only stopped when the ferry generously swallowed us up as the last car of the sailing. Above us a gray blanket covered the coastline, like a warm comforter that you pull up to your nose during the dark days of winter. It was a typical winter welcome to the coast, a return to mild coastal weather and a reminder of the first 28 years of my life in native Holland.

 

Ever since the plans to move to Victoria were set, I have been looking at the mountains differently. You start to appreciate them more when you know you will part ways with your beloved friends. You realize that every time you look them in the eyes might be the last day of your intense romance. You enjoy the short 5-minute drive to visit a friend in your tiny mountain town. You cherish the quiet coffee shop with familiar faces just a little more during that last week. And you admire the fact that during the last 15 years, true wilderness only started 2 minutes from your doorway.

 

For a guy who has only lived in relatively small towns, it will take some getting used to a city environment: the traffic, the unknown faces, and my own unfamiliar face among the crowds. The people and the infrastructure currently feel unfamiliar, yet the wind, water and rain immediately made me feel at home. I tasted the salt air this week and took an extra couple of deep breaths to make room for something new. We climbed over slippery logs washed up on the shore. We watched as a seal casually played with a school of fish. We stood small under towering cedars and we got stuck in traffic on multiple occasions. It is slowly sinking in that this strange and yet familiar place is our new home.

With my photography in the Rocky Mountains coming to an end (at least for now), it felt right to complete one final artistic project. I have been making mosaics for customers through my Etsy site for a while now and always intended to make one large final piece that reflects Canmore and my photography. You can see the result here in this blog. I took 800 close-up nature photos that I captured in the last five years and used them to make a large colourful mosaic.  The background image that the mosaic represents is as Canmore as it gets: The Three Sisters, Canmore landmark and our view for the last 15 years.  The individual photos represent many small pieces of nature that, together, build the larger ecosystem. To me personally the piece also represent hours and hours of enjoyment, sometimes hard work and wonderful memories in nature.

 

I intend to print the image on large format and hang it in our living room to keep a close connection to the place we’ve called home for so long. They say “home is where the heart is”. While the ocean might steal me away, part of this heart will always remain in the mountains.

 

 

To visit my Etsy site with mosaics, click here

For Three Sisters lovers, the mosaic is for sale as a print. Just contact me to inquire about sizes and pricing.

 

 

 


 

Life on the Goat

We live in an incredibly beautiful environment. Surrounded by protected national and provincial parks, you could easily pick a different destination every day of the year and not visit the same place twice. Some people choose to do just that. To adventurous personalities there is an irresistible draw to conquer something new; setting foot on a slice of soil no other human being might have touched, or dropping down an unknown waterfall that was formerly thought to be instant suicide.

 

I approach things somewhat differently lately.  I’m finding out new discoveries can take place in familiar places. The coordinates on the map might not change but the seasons come and go. The natural world evolves and changes; a fact the spring floods starkly reminded us of. No doubt being an adrenaline-fueled adventurer would soothe my ever demanding ego, but my current physical limitations perfectly match my desire to be more present and appreciative rather than always looking for change. It is as if the universe has a way of presenting you with what you need to learn.

 

For me personally, there are a handful of cherished places I return to on a regular basis. Goat pond is one such place.  Even though Goat pond (“The Goat” as I call it) is surrounded by mountains, forest and wetland, at first glance it cannot match postcard-pretty cousins such as Moraine, Peyto or Emerald lake. No turquoise waters, no lazy chairs and cappuccinos, no cute ground squirrels begging to be photographed. One person might look at the Goat and see an artificially controlled lake with a dam and a dusty road along one shore. Another person might see a jewel of a lake with many secrets and surprises. The choice, as always, is in the eye of the beholder.

 

goat-pond-paddle2Close to the dam “The Goat” doesn’t look all that appealing, but hidden at the back of the lake is a marshy area, shallow enough to get your kayak occasionally stuck on pebbles and rocks. A field of tree stumps line the shallows of the lake on one side. On cloudy days they look like the tombstones of a cemetery, reminding us of former forested days. Ironically, nature has made itself a beautiful home here. An osprey nest sits precariously on an old telephone pole, a beaver dam decorates one of the two quaint islands. A common loon commonly hangs out in the deeper parts of the lake.  In late summer moose frequently visit the shallows in search of refreshments and aquatic plants.

 

The lake can be rippled and breezy, feeling cold on the hands and feet. But as if the power to a blowing fan is abruptly being turned off, the wind often dies in the evening. As the sun sets in the early evening behind guarding mountain peaks, a shadow casts over the lake. As a photographer it is easy to get discouraged by the lack of light. It is tempting to leave early. However, in the shadow, with the wind dying, the lake turns into a real beauty. Cars stop driving by, nature comes alive and the water’s surface transforms into a perfect mirror. Only then I start to hear the water cascading from the mountain walls. Only then I hear my kayak slice softly through the water. Only then I notice my own breath and heartbeat.

 

I often paddle alone. But occasionally my friend Graeme joins me. He has come to appreciate the pond. Graeme is built like a brick wall. His Scottish face shows evidence of boxing: boneless nose, some crooked teeth. His legs portray years of football. His biceps are twice the size of mine. His hands are clearly those of a plumber, big and weathered enough to shovel coal into an engine. If it comes to a pub fight, Graeme is the guy you want to have on your side. Still, he is a good-looking gentle giant. Though he appears hard as rock, I also know he is soft as an M&M on the inside. He likes solitude and time to reflect. He sometimes goes missing for days.

 

graeme-on-goat-pond-3-low-rEven though I am the one exploring and chasing the concept of mindfulness, on the water Graeme seems come closer to grasping the practice of being in the present. He just floats in his kayak, his paddle never seems to touch the water. My camera, like my ego, is always reminding me that it wants to be acknowledged and utilized. Driven by potential photographic opportunities I circumnavigate the lake only to find Graeme in the same spot. Like a lifeless doll stuffed in a kayak, he is staring into the distance. I wonder what he is looking at. Perhaps I should take a photo of it. A faint current has moved the tip of his kayak in a couple circles. Sometimes he observes an osprey perched in the top of a tree on the shore. At other times he seems to listen to the call of the loon echoing off the vertical mountain walls. He is obviously in la-la land. When I ask him what he thinks about, he doesn’t know. All he says is “wow, beautiful”. I envy his ability just to let things be.

 

Today is another stunning summer evening out on The Goat. The lake appeared rippled and moody for the first hour. Wildlife seemed to have other plans tonight. It was oddly quiet. But in the last half hour the lake has settled into her formidable mirror look again. Some far away forest fire smoke lingers on the horizon. The sky has turned to a warm inviting pink. A bald eagle has appeared out of nowhere. It graciously circles the lake, no doubt keeping a keen eye on the numerous sucker fish it supports.

 

Graeme-eagle-1-low-resI’ve been here enough times to know no bald eagles nest here, so I’m happily surprised to see this lonely visitor gracing us with its presence. It’s the surprise appearances that make me come back to this place time after time. The eagle has settled on an old tree stump, merely a foot above the water. Graeme and I slowly float towards it. Graeme is in a much better position than me, simply because of my frantic search for photos and his ability to just sit there. Once no paddles are used anymore, our kayaks settle into a silent speed. We coast slowly towards the wonderful creature. Graeme is on the best course. Like a floating feather being softly blown, the lake magically stirs him almost within touching distance of the eagle. The bird is plucking away at a fish. You can smell the meat, hear the ripping of the flesh. It’s a beautiful raw spectacle and Graeme is right in the middle of it. The lake has pushed me behind a tree, partially obscuring my view. Great things come to those who are patient, my mind reminds me.

 

I love this lake. Not just for it’s convenient proximity to town. Not just for its mountain magnificence. Not just for its wildlife. It’s a secret gem that only reveals itself to those with patience. Sometimes a place just wins you over. There are no obvious explanations. Maybe it’s a solitude I experience here, yet so comfortably close to the road and home, the safety of civilization within arm’s reach. Even though this lake is visited by a handful paddlers of the sit-down and stand-up kind, there is a faint feeling that this lake is mine. It is part of me. Next year it might be different; change is both natural and inevitable. My heart might get stolen by another place. So while it lasts I’ll take it all in: the splendour,  the friendship and the subtle lessons.

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