Back in June I photographed a wedding for Michael and Sabrina — it was the first wedding I’ve worked, and possibly not the last. Things went pretty well, and I was quite happy with the results. The bride and groom, and parents, agree too.

Michael is a friend of mine who I met back in J-school, and while I’ve continued on with a career in journalism, he’s off to New Orleans to study and hopefully become a history teacher of some sort. He’s a talented writer though, who was nominated for numerous awards just his first couple years into the biz.

Anyway, we hadn’t talked in a while when he asked me to work his wedding. He asked me specifically to look for candid photos, much like I would as a photojournalist. I figured I could do that, but since the last couple of years I’d been improving as a portraiture photographer, that’d come in handy as well.

The big day came, and I shot a whole lot of both. My favourite photo is probably one of the bride and groom sitting on the steps of the church where they traded vows. It’s simple, clean and tells the story.

A couple days ago, I got an email from Mike, fresh from their honeymoon in Japan and the three-day, forty-hour drive from Oregon to New Orleans.

He writes: “Anway, I just wanted to let you know that we both love the wedding pictures. They look fantastic! There were so many great candid pics with real expressions, which is what I wanted. Also, the posed ones turned out really well. Sabrina really liked the one of us on the steps after the ceremony. She plans on framing that one. I would also like to frame one of the ice cream shots.”

Great to hear, Mike. And may I suggest this photo?

Congratulations.

Took a short jaunt out to Finn Slough tonight to use some much neglected equipment. While I’ve been shooting for work, I haven’t been doing any personal projects lately. Mostly, I’ve been climbing and working on the skills needed to become a stronger climber. Between growing my lead head, pushing grades, learning to clean climbs, rappel, tie prusiks and other knots, and manage a 70 metre rope, the act of taking pictures gets lost amid all the activity.

But more trips are coming up, including some hikes into the backcountry and attempts at a few summits (by scrambling, no apline climbing for me yet).

So stay tuned…

Two weekends and two epic trips out to Squamish for some wandering in the woods, searching for pockets, jugs, flakes and cracks to jam my fingers and toes into. I am in love with this climbing thing. The peacefulness. The wilderness. The solitude (if you so seek it). The test of body and mind against something solid, unyielding and uncaring. I have left a few layers of skin and some blood too on the rocks, but the lessons learned have transcended the stones.

I am, of course, still taking photos through all this scamping around, and you can see the results here, in my “Hands on stone” set on my flickr site. It’s been an enjoyable challenge to try and capture the quick movements often under the dark forest canopy — it’s something else I’m still learning. Check back every so often, as I’m hoping to add more to the set if the weather cooperates.

Two years ago I spent my first significant time alone in the backcountry. I camped at Garibaldi Lake and spent five days hiking and exploring the area. I instantly fell in love with the place, learned plenty about backcountry camping and about myself too.

Although I hear more about Black Tusk when I mention Garibaldi Lake to others, the highlight of my mid-September trip was the view from Panorama Ridge — the other nearby hike.

Standing atop the ridge back in 2006, I snapped one of my favourite self portraits. It shows me grinning into the camera while my jacket hood is billowed by the wind. I am surrounded by mountains and glaciers all around, and below the shadows of clouds cover the beautiful turquoise blue lake. With the photo taken, I beat a hasty retreat down to escape the cold.

But not before vowing to come back one day.

Fast forward to the Thanksgiving long weekend.

After breaking trail in about eight inches of snow from Black Tusk Lake, following the footprints left by a wolf, I returned to Panorama Ridge.

There was a healthy layer of powdery snow, but no wind, allowing for a cool break up top.

Much had changed. I was older, wiser perhaps, and came better prepared. But I still had my camera, and had to take the obligatory mugshot.

Me on Panorama Ridge September 2006.

Me back on Panorama in October 2008.

Just so you don’t think I haven’t been shooting lately, I decided to set up a couple strobes and light up my newest friend: Mighty MUGG Luke Skywalker!

Since I ended up desk jockeying again, I figured I needed a companion beside the keyboard to coax on the writing. So Mighty MUGG Luke joined the rockin’ party at the NSO.

Him threatening to use his lightsaber on me is a mighty strong muse, I must say.

But he’s also a bit lonely, so if anyone stumbles across Mighty MUGG Han Solo, I’d appreciate the shout out. I, apparently, have to buy friends these days…

For those wondering about the lighting, I set up two stobes: one to the back and right of Mighty MUGG Luke and the other front and left with an old Irish Springs soap box over the flash head to create the narrow, directional light. The low-brow snoot also keeps my camera bag smelling nice, in case you’re wondering.

Unlike the Trans Canada, travelling on Highway 7 just has the feeling of a slower pace and you really get to see the farmland stretch on around you all the way to the local mountains. It’s simply beautiful.

At Harrison, it was another story. In search of nature and beautiful scenes to photograph, I found instead suburban development. I wasn’t too impressed, that is until I walked a bit further down the dike towards the hot springs.

Fenced off now to keep people out of the waters, the pool emits the smell of egg salad gone wrong and while the water is clear, it only provides the view below of muck gathering on what looks to be concrete stairs leading deeper into the springs.

I was captivated by the old relics of the former Harrison left to the elements while the hot water continues to be pumped into town to heat a local pool and hotel. The lamps and old trail leading visitors to the springs have been left alone, and nature is slowly taking them back.

I’m just too tired (and sick) right now to really write much. But here’s one from Wednesday’s lunar eclipse.

I didn’t scout out a dark area before in preparation for the shoot and ended up on a bit of grass beside a dark road with semi-trailers passing every few minutes. Not the best location, but I’m happy with the results.

Beak hunched and wings moving in slow, powerful beats, the eagle wasn’t getting anywhere against the roaring wind ripping down the Squamish River. Welcome to Brackendale, on a blue sky day with gusts strong enough to jostle passersby and stop an eagle in its tracks. It was damn cold as I trained my long lens on the birds of prey showing off to bird watchers along the government dike affectionately named Eagle Run. Beside me, a group of Japanese tourists oohed and aahed into black binoculars watching the bird struggle. It beat its wings several more times, then with a shake of its head as if to say “Fuck this,” turned and coasted back into the wood across the water.

The tourists quieted, and other bird watchers moved on to other vantage points in search of the eagles. And I was done, my sense of adventure sapped out by the chilling winds. I already spent a solid five hours along the dike, a 15 minute break in between to warm up in the car and shot nearly 300 images. All that for a handful of eagles, leaving me to wonder if this was the Brackendale I had heard about. I’d seen more eagles on a random day in Ladner, and once counted half a dozen perched on a single cottonwood.

Another gust reinforced my desire for home and warmth, so I packed it in. Brackendale and the Eagle Run can wait another year, when hopefully it’ll be less windy.

Just got home from a day spent out in Brackendale where I was buffeted by high winds while looking for eagles to take photos of. Here’s one of the 300 photos I took that, for me, conveys the feeling for the day: It was cold, very very cold. If you look closely, that’s choppy waters on the Squamish River and snow being blown along the river bank.

The eagle did not look too happy while looking for it’s lunch.

So far, I’m keeping about a dozen from the shoot. But I’m going to take a closer look over the week and write up something longer once my hands thaw out. Cheers for now.

I smelled burning plastic.

Shooting photos at Iona Beach is typically a hit and miss sort of experience. I’ve lounged on the sand under driftwood shelters, wood weathered gray and with cracked lines like ancient bones. I’ve wandered the log salvage yard and imagined what those tired looking hulking pieces of machinery would sound like working under the controls of an experienced hand. I’m come out with great photos like a full moon rising over the dead wood and have left dejected, ready to toss the camera for good. And then there was today, when the wafting scent of burning plastic hung in the air.

Fucking waste treatment plant.

Did I mention? Not 200 metres from the beach where children play on hot summer days and where people walk their dogs on a daily basis is a waste treatment plant that churns out the effluent of 600,000 area residents from Richmond to Vancouver to Burnaby. The plant does its thing with the nasty stuff, then pumps it all into the sea through a seven kilometre pipe – which you can walk on, all the way to the end. If you’re ever bored one day, walk it. It’s a windy, exposed jaunt; and the planes landing at the Vancouver airport roar constantly overhead, so low if feels like you can reach up and touch them.

But today, there was that nasty smell of burning plastic. Was somebody burning tires? Were there a couple racers peeling their supped up cars out of the parking lot?

A police cruiser slowed then passed by. Then a couple cops on ATVs. Then a RCMP SUV. This time I told myself I wasn’t going to follow, camera in hand, just to see what was happening (that has been a mixed bag of experiences too). But I was damn curious about that smell.

I shot a few more frames of snow geese quacking and doing nothing particularly interesting and decided to call it a day. The sun was lowering and the light was fading, I was getting hungry and that smell was really getting to me. Back at the car I popped my telephoto lens off the camera body and freaked out.

Eerie green powder wafted out of viewfinder box and that smell filled the car cabin. Now I knew what happened. While shooting into the sun earlier I had paused a little too long to frame a photo, and the monster telephoto lens somehow caught a ray of light that magnified just enough to melt the plastic underneath the camera’s viewfinder mirror.

There was nothing else to do but swear really really loud in the car, turn the ignition and race home cradling my wounded camera in my lap.

That was nearly a month ago and after a bevy of test shots, cleaning and mild scrubbing inside the viewfinder box, the camera seems fine. The green powder is gone, and likely my warranty too. But the camera is still producing top notch images, even if it’s a bit skunky when I change lenses.