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”.

 


 

Blossom obsession

 

Jan 10: I was promised to live in the Hawaii of the north but so far the Victorian winter has been unseasonably cold. Children have been skating on the shallow ponds near our place for an unheard two weeks. They managed to make snowmen, which in all fairness, melted in 3 days. While the rest of the country experiences real winter conditions with snowbanks, permanent ice rinks and frozen water lines, here the winter weather this year is upsettingly lukewarm. Humming birds still buzz around and red-winged black birds still made their presence known, but something seems off.

Jan 16: My Victorian friend Jill, who’s been blaming me repeatedly for bringing snow and ice with us from Alberta, sent me a reminder that the famous cherry blossoms on View street are only 21 days away. Like winter solstice offering psychological relief to those that fear the darkness of winter, I circle February 6 with a big fluorescent circle on the calendar. It’s the day I finally expect to get warm.

Feb 1. Woohoo, it’s February. According to the newcomers guide to Victoria, it’s time for cherry blossoms, colourful crocuses and droves of daffodils. If I am to believe the locals, this is meant to be the time of the year where retire your hoodie until November and walk around in your shorts and t-shirt. This is the time of the year you make your Canadian Facebook friends jealous with countless images of blossoms and greens. At least that’s what I was promised. However, last night, while the moon, Venus and Mars lined up harmoniously in the dark blue sky, the temperature dropped below zero, again. This morning the ducks are sitting on top of the ice instead of in the water, as the have been repetitively for the last 6 weeks. Our feathered friends huddle together to avoid the cutting wind.

Feb 6: I went to View Street today to see the Cherry blossoms radiate in full glory. It was a beautiful scene to see all the trees in a brilliant white. There was however a small technical problem. The trees were not covered with flowers, but snow. The city turned to chaos. My boss told me to stay home.

Feb 15. The wet cold continues way past its due date. “This is unusual”, the locals keep saying. In the mean time the remainder of Canada chuckles at the Vancouver islanders complaining about their winter weather. And rightfully so. While real Canucks dig a daily tunnel through the snow to find their front door, Victorians board up their houses at the slightest dusting of snow. The “big one”, the major earthquake that is meant to flatten coastal BC, seems to worry the islanders much less.

Feb 26: I keep staring at the calendar. I can’t get over the fact how cold I’ve been since our arrival in November. My self-image has quickly changed from weathered winter warrior to west coast wimp. It’s true what they say: the wind on the coast really does blow not only through down jackets, but through bones and organs too. Here I shiver more here than in the Rockies on a sunny minus 20 Celsius day. I have no idea how East-Coasters survive ice storms, but they have my eternal respect. I am quietly hoping my body will adjust back to the days I lived in wet windy Holland. So far it has not.

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Mar 6: The flower count has started. This light-hearted event is organized to have the local communities take up the challenge to become the “bloomingest community” of the Greater Victoria area. It is all part of promoting Victoria as a great destination during the shoulder season. I look at my window. “I think the count will be over really quickly this year”, I say to myself. I see a few buds but not any flowers.

Mar 14: The local community of Coldwood wins the flower count contest for the fourth year in a row with 64 million blooms. Who makes this shit up?

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Mar 25: I can finally detect blossoms on the cherry and plum trees that grow along many roads. It is indeed a beautiful sight. Daffodils, crocuses and hyacinths have made an appearance in the local parks. Despite being late, there is feeling of spring in the air. I can relax. Just one more thought is on my obsessive mind. “What if it gets too warm this Summer?”

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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.

 

 

 


 

Who burst my Bubble?

“Wherever you go, there you are”, I remember this quote all too well. I’ve changed circumstances in my life quite a few times only to find the same face staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. My view of the world is really what I bring to the breakfast table. However, there is one major factor contributing to my “lack of creativity” feeling lately. It comes from something outside of me, even though it’s ultimately me responding to it.

 

As the first flowers of the year popped up in all the familiar places, I ventured out and took some photos. I still enjoyed being in nature, but in the back of my mind I could hear a familiar nagging voice overruling the gratitude I usually experience. “You’ve seen and done this all before” the voice said. So I tried to look for some different subjects and angles, give it a bit of time and try again. But still the outings lacked the flow and child-like enthusiasm I had felt during previous springs.

Over the years I have gotten to know myself quite well. My runs of inspirations in jobs or creative processes typically only last a few years; then I’m ready to move on. I picked up a video camera for a few years, did some cool new things, made a film and from one day to the next I just dropped the camera. Boxes of tapes still sit in the closet, waiting patiently to be processed. I wonder if I’m heading the same way with photography. Repetition feels like stagnation. With the exception of steady relationships and a place to call home, I have always had a disliking to it.

 

I could ask myself a thousand times why it is so important to feel creative. The answers require some soul searching. Is it a desire to be unique? A need to feel free? Is the moment I don’t get the highs and satisfaction I crave, the moment I give up? Perhaps I will pull the fibres of my being apart a few more times and unravel the mysteries of my soul. Or I could just accept that ultimately, me is just me.   While I take full responsibility for my repetitive distorted thoughts, my mind lately feels it needs to blame the lack of inspiration on something outside myself. It blames the current world of photography and social media in particular. Whereas I still genuinely enjoy the process of immersion in nature, social media has bluntly robbed the photographer in me of the “living in a happy bubble” feeling. I wonder if I’m alone in this. A few years ago, like many relatively new photographers, I started participating in the social media frenzy that is nowadays considered a “must” to any photographer’s marketing approach. We are aspiring professionals who sell a few prints and calendars  and post images to social media sites to collect more “likes” and “wows”, hoping to reach a substantially growing audience that hopefully one day can be translated into a revenue stream or more photographic opportunities.

 

It seemed like a good idea at first, but I quickly starting feeling discouraged by the way the digital photography world seems grossly oversaturated. Photo sharing sites have made the world of photography into one big fishbowl. My inner cynic concludes that every possible nature photo has been taken, and at a level of excellence that may seem commendable but also incredibly boring. While I am taking this statement to extremes, I certainly have moments I feel like this. I was happier living in the blissful bubble, not being aware of what millions of other photographers were doing.

 

Even though I enjoy sharing the beauty that surrounds us and keep posting some images for that reason, it was here, on social media, that I noticed the conflict between my values and my creative work. While I understand the need for every artist to get comfortable with self-promotion, it is the competition for our world’s two-second attention span that really bugs me. It feels empty, meaningless and miles removed from my personal objectives and values.

What I currently need is a renewed vision and, paradoxically, some creativity preserving discipline. It has meant deleting some social media accounts and at least temporarily stepping away from others photographer’s feeds. I will understand if others stop following me too. Call it a photographic celibacy. I am currently asking myself some important questions. Is it important to have a message in my photography? Could I ever venture into commercial photography without sacrificing my strong personal values? Can I even still see the world as a non-photographer?

 

While a vision in photography can be the result of some strong values and/or a desire to make some money, ironically my latest quest for a new vision is more the result of what I don’t want. Sometimes it takes a few “don’t wants” to find out who we really are.