It was late. The day drew to an end as I drove away from the partial sunlight of red flooded fields towards the mountains, and menacing clouds were gathering up to greet me into the evening. There wasn’t much traffic on the road - the only people out and about probably being chronic Sunday shoppers. I crossed New Westminster, following the Fraser River for a while and then headed north to Port Moody. Moody indeed was the sky when I got there; dark, convoluted clouds clung to the peaks that tightly surround Indian Arm, shrouding them in a tight pale robe. I dashed right through the town and turned uphill through a residential neighborhood, bound for the end of the road. Houses grew scarce, rain began to fall and the world turned black. It was a strange day to visit Butzen Lake. I would, however, be likely to find some peace by its shores on such a lonely night.

I parked in an almost empty lot as a few people rushed back to their cars, escaping the deluge. But as I was walking towards the water through magnificent trees, camera safely tucked into my jacket, I could feel the rain easing up; it seemed that against all odds, the sky might have had exhausted its anger for the night. When I reached the shoreline, merely a few drops were still troubling the mirror-like surface of the lake and while clouds still hung on to the slopes of the mountains above, a clearing was in the making at the opposite end of the valley and some blue sky timidly appeared. The light was uneven, complicated and fragmented. There was a slight flavour of my Alps in the air.

I walked around for some time, taking pictures, breathing in the humidity, listening to the forest noises and noticing an absolute absence of nearby civilization, except for an odd generator across the lake. By Butzen Lake, deceivingly close to Vancouver, one can feel isolated and forget about the city. I looked around, perplexed, attempting unsuccessfully to reconcile the two worlds that were elbowing each other in my mind, like kids competing for the attention of an adult. Here I was, mostly alone in a beautiful mountain setting, with the City of Glass nearby and the Pacific Ocean’s water just on the other side of a ridge. But then there I wished I had been, far to the east in an urban urchin of incredible size, an ant amongst millions of other ants, finding beauty in the company of just one.

Nothing is ever perfect, except, maybe, imperfection. But I sure wished Marie had been there.

Three years ago in fall, after finding mesmerizing pictures of it on a blog, I set out to shoot the cranberry harvest in Richmond. I’ve been going back ever since and it’s become a pleasant ritual, one that reminds me not only of leaves soon turning gold and approaching winter, but also of the evolution of my photography path. I shot the first season with my old trusted Canon G3, the second with the 400D and this year’s with Abetoo, my new 450D and IS lenses. Without a doubt, I’ll come back next year with a 1Ds Mark III. So what if it costs the price of a used car? I’ll be rich and famous.

As a reminder, cranberry harvesting is the yearly act of collecting all those pretty little red berries and sending them on their way to your can of juice. It’s an autumn routine that takes anywhere from a few days to a couple weeks of intensive work. The fields are first flooded, sending the ripest berries floating to the surface; the rest are mechanically shaken loose. They are then gathered tightly with long floating rubber nets and pulled to a corner of the field like a giant red tide. There, a powerful spray of water pushes them up a conveyor belt and they are loaded into trucks, while men keep herding the berries in, threading through 2 or 3 feet of fruit-covered water.

It makes for rather surreal scenes and color is everywhere. Red of berries, blue of sky (when the weather cooperates!), green of surrounding fields, and the multicolored turbans of the workers. I began, 2 years back, by trying to capture contrasts and the overwhelming reddish glow of the scene. By now, I have become more fascinated by nuances and textures, and the human factor. Hence, most of the shots today are portraits. Cranberries are nothing without the men who harvest them. It’s not such a difficult endeavour, it would seem, but rather a matter of patience.

« A huge field like this, one of the men tells me, could be harvested in a single day if we have enough labour. That’s about 9 truck loads. Right now we only have 2 trucks, so it will take a couple of days. » The flooded field he’s waving at proudly is larger than a football field. The men are happy to pose for the pictures; the poor boogers probably figure they will end up on some newspaper cover. I’m glad I don’t have to explain. Corio-what?

After watching the harvest for the third time, I still find myself drifting into a fantasy world. The red parterre reminds me of a bubble-gum ocean through which grown-ups would plow endlessly, oblivious to the magic, busy, resigned. How relevant a comparison to life in general…

Here’s a sneak peak at the full gallery, 30 pictures in all, to be featured on the new web site.

Today I was invited to the Imax theatre at Canada Place for an advance screening of Giant Screen Films’ new Wild Ocean 3D, a documentary about the sardine run off the east coast of South Africa. It had been a long time since an large screen movie had blown me out of my seat. Granted, I’m not that hard to impress when it comes to giant screens, underwater footage and beautiful images. Yet my recent experiences were rather disappointing and this spring’s Dolphins and Whales 3D was a let down.

That all changed today. Wild Ocean 3D actually lived up to my all-time favourite Deep Sea 3D. While Deep Sea 3D featured amazing shots and near-perfect 3D technique, its narrative by Kate Winslet and Johnny Depp was quite cheesy. Wild Ocean fixed that. For a change, Giant Screen Films have produced a serious documentary, one with breathtaking images, a solid soundtrack and a well written narration that actually fits in and keeps you interested and involved. 

Of course, I am biased. I love the ocean. And it so happens that I now love that part of the world too. But the images were really superb, both above and below the surface. They managed to keep the human element present by reflecting on the impact of such an important multi-species migration on the lives of local populations.

The movie obviously preaches towards the conservation of our oceans but does it in a much more subtle and intelligent way then other movies, and I find it refreshing to be shown beauty and then told to preserve it, rather than having my face shoved into the terrible abuse we inflict on our planet and then have a lecturing finger waved at me while a sermonizing voice says something like « Listen, you guilty fool. They are bad, we are bad, you are bad. Everything’s bad. It must change, or else. We are right about this being wrong. It’s all right to feel like we have gone wrong and it will soon be too late. Brace yourself. Run for cover. Stop eating food and breathing air. Each time you move an inch you hurt the planet. » Etc. Your mind goes down in a spiral and you walk out of the theater more depressed than a penguin without water to swim in.

But Wild Ocean 3D only made me open my eyes very wide, it made my heart travel half-way across the globe, it made me want to see our world, to explore it, above and below, and to protect it by being wise, rather than by panicking.

Go see it!

From the Winnipeg Times

In the wake of a recent exodus of American liberals causing chaos at various Canadian entry points, authorities have taken the bull by the balls horns and hastily erected temporary refugee camps in order to contain the crisis while looking for long-term solutions. As of yesterday, most border crossings were still completely overwhelmed and extra Canada Customs Officers were being dispatched from the Yukon and the Arctic to reinforce our southern border. They will begin service as soon as they have thawed.

The camps have sparked much debate around them. « It’s extremely taxing on the local economy, » said John Zhou, a British Columbia resident. « We are small communities that normally only provide for ourselves. But then again we can’t let the poor boogers be sent back to face the Ku Klux Klan. » The Canadian government has been asking border area populations to be supportive but firm. « If you see liberals crossing your broccoli field, » the Prime Minister declared in a CBC interview Monday, « there is reason enough to believe they’re after your food and you are allowed to shoot them. On the other hand, let’s show some good old Canadian mercy and offer them free passage across our lands if they agree to go blindfolded. » Some farmers are infuriated by the leader’s stance. « The man is just weak, he wants to please everybody, » one said angrily. « He would like those liberals unharmed in case they can be exchanged within the scope of our so-called free-trade agreement. But the PM is obviously unaware of the damage a blind liberal can do to a crop. »

Local municipalities are taking these matters very seriously and advising residents to avoid broccoli fields after sunset. Passwords have been issued to all Canadian citizens for quick verbal identification after dark. They will be renewed weekly during a secret TV broadcast said to air right before Hockey Night. « We had to find a deeply rooted, all-Canadian value that only our population would recognize, » an official said about the password broadcast. « We wouldn’t want those liberals to tap in. But with Hockey Night, our secrecy is assured. I don’t think they even know how to play, let alone understand the TV guide. » Ironically, 2 hours after the first password was issued last week, it was cracked by a 12 year old liberal’s kid who posted it on his Facebook page with the comment « What’s a Gretzky? »

Within a few days of opening, all refugee camps were experiencing food shortages. « Each liberal eats like two of us, » said a cook. « We’re already out of free-range chicken, soy milk, flax seeds, wheat grass and most organic farm-grown veggies. » « They ask the strangest questions, » commented another man. « Like, this bloke wanted to know if we add hormones to our chickens after packaging them. How silly would that be, eh. »

But public support is rising and innovative solutions are being put forward. Near Toronto, refugee camps have begun serving Maple Leaf meat products to the liberals. « There’s no shortage of that meat, these days, » a volunteering mother laughed, « and as far as we know, it only kills Canadians. Besides, those liberals are illegal immigrants, they can’t be too picky. » In Vancouver, a firm is importing milk products from China at very low costs in order to supply the camps. « Milk is milk, » said the CEO of Radical Imports Inc., « and where it comes from should not matter to someone who is willing to leave a home country behind for mere political reasons. We do, however, recommend that liberals arriving with babies stick to breast feeding and boil their ideals for 3 minutes. »

With this flurry of activity at our borders, it’s easy to forget that real evil is driving the refugees out of their homes. Yet the Canadian Government announced last night that it will remain neutral not to offend either party. « We are acting a little like the Swiss here, » PM Harper said at the press conference. « Everybody is treated equally. An illegal border crossing can be quite messy, so we’ll clean them up and keep them organized and sedated. As a matter of fact, cuckoo clocks have been installed at major border crossings to help speed up the process. But if the conservatives come charging after the fugitives, we’ll treat them just as humanly and fairly. After all, they are in charge. »

The editor in chief of controversial activist newspaper The Sunday Pun, Langelot Laframboise, wrote in Friday’s editorial: « In these troubled times, every Canadian is aware of the menacing evil empire lurking south of us. A vicious Sith Lord has been in control there far too long and the new threat of another one rising to power is a sickening thought. Liberals are driven away from their hometowns like rats out of a sinking ship. It’s time for a Jedi Knight to reign, one who will provide rafts to the rats. For now, I can only approve of the poor bastards’ escape. » It might not be politically correct but it nails the issue on the head. For most Canadians, living on the Outer Rims normally means an occasional exposure to American drama. This time, however, the drama has crossed our borders along with the fleeing liberals. If nobody controls the situation south of us, we can kiss our broccoli good bye.

For Marie, who constantly reminds me how beautiful flowers can be.

This morning at 5:25 AM, I got up and prepared for a trip. I wasn’t going far and yet, I would explore a new universe. The objective was Stanley Park, my spaceship was a camera and for propulsion, I’d be tapping into macro theory. 

It was my first outing ever with Abetoo as a macro photography tool. We were both quite excited. Abetoo is my Canon 450D, in case you’re wondering if I’ve lost it. Granted, my current macro line of accessories consists of a single little black metal ring worth $10; it’s nothing to write home about but I will be expanding it over time. Bellows are on the way, and as soon as I can get my hand on a 58-39mm step down ring (anybody out there?), I’ll start using the Rodagon lens too.

Today, I was simply going to duplicate the previous setup and reverse-mount my Canon EF-S 18-55mm IS 1:3-5.6. I’d be using the silly little ring for that, and although I had no illusion on the initial quality of the images I’d capture, this was meant to be a field trip and first test. I needed to get a sense of how to juggle camera settings, deal with the extremely limited depth of field, compensate for the loss of auto-focus and aperture control, adapt Live View to my needs, gauge the possible combination of ISO and speeds, etc.

When I reached Beaver Lake, after a nice stroll and a cute encounter with a young raccoon that came to me and stood up on his back legs, opening his arms as if to preach or beg for a hug, it was still dark. I turned my small LED flash light on and began searching for sleepy dragonflies. I found none. There was dew everywhere all right, but no bugs. This is late September and maybe the morning air still isn’t cold enough to keep insects numb long enough for me to arrive and shoot. I’ll have to investigate further.

But the dew was enough for me to begin my experiment. I setup the tripod as low as it would go and launched into an amazing new world. It was 6:30 AM. I was at it for the next 5 hours. There is no way to properly imagine the « infinitely small » before actually seeing it magnified on the LCD screen. For this alone, Canon’s new Live View function is priceless! Without it, I would have had to crouch down to the ground and attempt to peer through the viewfinder in very awkward positions.

I soon got a hang of it. Focus, for the time being, is achieved by slightly moving the whole camera/tripod assembly back and forth, or tilting the head, mere millimeters at a time. Very difficult but doable. My lens does not have an aperture setting ring - it’s all electronics as with most modern lenses - so if I just remove the lens and reverse it, it remains wide open as it usually is while metering. But I’ve found a neat trick on the internet that works like a charm: I set the aperture on-camera with the lens in its proper position, then before removing it I press and hold the Depth of Field Visualization button. Voila. The diaphragm stays at the preset value. This is invaluable because it allows me to step down my f-stops and gain a little more depth of field.

In the end, the most challenging part of macro photography doesn’t seem to be as technical as it is visual. The problem for me is slowing down enough. I am used to composing my shots while walking around. But in the macro realm of nature, walking around equals to being blind, just as a UFO overflying the Earth would see nothing of our ridiculously selfish yet so passionate lives.

So this morning I would stop somewhere and drop to the ground, and stare for a while, letting my eyes glide over the plants and looking for details and dew drops and interesting light. I got it wrong most of the time, but once setup, the camera would invariably reveal attractive angles and cool textures I had completely missed. Many, many times, while looking at my screen, I felt like I was underwater looking at a coral reef. Other times, I was in space watching strange worlds with liquid planets orbiting yellow suns on a background of green and red nebulae.

The photos are pretty bad. I’m not even close to having mastered depth of field and focus. The slightest breeze sends flowers flying across the highly magnified frame and unless I step down to f-22 and use my highest ISO setting, tripod shots are tricky and hand-held’s are just about impossible. A lot of these are poorly framed and the in-focus range is incredibly narrow. But it’s a fascinating start and need I say I am completely hooked?

Any way, there were just too many shots that I liked so rather than posting them all here and linking to them via the usual slideshow, I’ve created a completely new gallery on the main web site, as part of an ongoing redesign which should be completed within a few months.

A word of warning: this is a Flash gallery. If you are among the 1% of web users who don’t have the Flash plugin installed, you will be given the option to do so. It’s your call. I think it’s worth it. Recent Flash versions feature the awesome Full Screen option, which I will integrate to the new site design. For now, make sure to check it out, there’s a full screen button on the lower-right corner of the gallery once it is open. It’s totally immersive! Enjoy!

Yesterday at work, I walked out of the office and bumped into a thin man who looked rather lost. He was wearing a business suit, carried a leather case and hesitated in front of our door. Honestly, it’s hard to get lost on this floor because there are only three offices. He was probably from a farm country. I offered my most helpful smile but didn’t say a word. We’re also a little suspicious of strangers, on the 20th.

He turned to the unmarked door across from ours and muttered, half to me, half to himself: « This must be primates. » I smiled some more. That’s a clever one, I thought, never heard that before for the men’s bathrooms. Great sense of humour. He pushed on the door handle but it didn’t open. Our bathrooms are a high security area, you need a magnetic card to get in, and I guess all access is recorded downstairs at the Security desk, so that they know when and where... Never mind.

He started knocking on the bathroom door. One of my eyebrows arched, but I commanded it back down and stayed cool as ice. He was kind of dancing from one foot to the other and I figured he might have had an urgent need. « I’ll buzz you in », I offered, getting my card. The door beeped and he walked in, turned the corner and disappeared, the door closing behind him. I waited, unsure. I mean, our bathrooms are nice but you never know what people expect.

The door swung open again. He came out. On his face was an obvious conflict between an urge to laugh out loud and one of throwing a direct at my jaw. We stared at each other for a second or two, gauging the opponent’s resolution. I had a clear advantage, being on familiar ground and having just caught him knocking on the men’s door. Then he articulated a little slower. « I’m looking for Primus, it must be an unmarked door. »Oops, so that’s what he’d said.

« Ah, I replied, of course, I think it’s there at the end of the corridor. » I pointed to a door down the hallway, half hidden by transparent plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling and which a draft blew slightly open given the concourse an abandoned-spaceship-filled-with-aliens look. They’re renovating the 4th office on the right and the sheets are a vague attempt at containing dust and paint smells. But there is indeed an unmarked door at the end. They have servers and electronics in there but I rarely see them walk in or out and I don’t know the company details.

He walked over, eased his way past the loose obstacle, and knocked again, uneasy. No answer. He knocked once more, glancing back at me nervously; I think he must have suspected I was now directing him to the ladie’s. Come on, I encouraged silently, you can do it. I swear he jumped back at least a foot when the door finally opened. But someone he knew appeared and he entered looking around him as if watching for traps.

So I buzzed myself in, because I didn’t want to wet my pants.

Well kids, we’ll start today’s class with a trivia: can anyone tell me what this photo is? The Frenchies among you are at an advantage, but you won’t know that until later... Can’t guess? Just read on then...

A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon some pretty amazing macro photography and my curiosity was triggered. I began reading more on the subject, trying to assess whether or not decent macro could be achieved with a minimal budget. I was not about to launch into yet another expensive hobby and wisely decided to stay away from Canon’s $900 MP-E 65mm f/2.8 1-5X Macro Lens. Some day, maybe.

Further reading revealed that many people successfully used modest setups involving belows and enlarger lenses. I found a Rodenstock Rodagon lens on eBay for a laugh and ordered it. It has arrived but I can’t start my trials until I get my hands on bellows and an adapter ring.

But then I read some more and I got into the really cool stuff. Reversing a lens, it seemed, allowed for very interesting macro results, keeping quality decent and cost down. I knew I had found my experiment’s first step.

I ordered two rings, on eBay once again, for a total of $18.78 shipping included. The two small metal adapters, once arrived from India, didn’t look like much. One was going to allow me to mount a lens reversed on my camera body, the other would let me mount one lens reversed in front of a normally mounted lens.

I did my first series of tests last night, late, with a throbbing headache from my lingering cold. The conditions were bad, my patience low and my bed was calling. But I needed to know. These are everything but good shots. But the initial results are quite amazing. Here is a non-macro shot of my Opinel knife, king of French-made outdoor tools. Do you see where I’m going with this? Yes. That’s what the first shot was. A macro of the first two letters of the word Opinel engraved in the blade, taken with my very ordinary kit lens, a EF-S 18-55mm set to its widest focal length! I only cropped the out-of-focus top and bottom a bit, but that’s basically full frame.

Of course, the first noticeable glitch is the incredibly narrow depth of field, to be expected. By mounting my lens in a reversed postion, I lost all electronics and hence control of my aperture (and depth of field). Mounting the 2 lenses one on another should help with this. Then focus isn’t really that sharp, because at this kind of magnification, the slightest vibration will make the image move. I was not using mirror lock and my remote cable was coiled very close to the camera, inducing slight trembling. In addition, with this kind of macro, focus is no longer set by using the lens’ ring but by varying the distance to the subject, which becomes incredibly difficult with a tripod-mounted camera...

But wow. This is quite amazing an improvement for a lens which normally has a 25 cm minimum focusing distance! And it cost less than $10! My kind of stuff! Next, I’ll be playing with the double lens setup and I will look into getting some kind of rail system to allow for easier focusing.

Oh and by the way: look at the first photo carefully, there’s a splendid optical illusion. Because of the sideways lighting I was using, the letters appear to be sticking out. They are in fact engraved, or recessed. I swear.

When the alarm rings at 7:00 am, I’ve been battling with a strange dream and welcome the eruption of reality into my foggy mind as I sit up and yawn. The angel sleeping next to me acknowledges the dreadful sound and its meaning by turning over in her sleep and resolutely burying her face into the pillow. Her little observette is wide awake, however, sitting on a corner of the bed with her legs crossed and blowing rings of smoke towards the ceiling while she stares at me. Everybody knows observers have all the bad habits and we have none. It must be noted that observer smoking is none-polluting and doesn’t cause cancer. It’s merely a way for them to annoy us (A well known fact of life being that counseling annoys.)

That cute observette is new to me. I find it fascinating to compare her behaviour with that of mine. They are as different as Marie and I are. And as very much alike. Speaking of my own little observer, he’s rubbing sleep away from his eyes, perched on my left shoulder as always. He mumbles in a grumpy tone that I should hurry up and make coffee. He never drinks it but the smell cheers him up and he loves the sound of the small Bialetti espresso maker finishing to brew - the galloping horses as Marie calls it.

So I get up and fumble for a pair of shorts and cross the apartment, all 20 feet of it, to go busy myself preparing breakfast. My Bialetti is too small for 2 people and forces me to brew twice, but I use the wait toasting Safeway’s surprising Good Heaven baguette and preparing the usual croissants, butter and jam. « Hurry up, insists my observer, we’re on a schedule here. We must be at the border crossing by nine o’clock. » He pulls on my ears wildly as if steering a horse and I have no choice but to comply. It’s just that today all four of us are going to Washington. We’ve decided to go have a closer look at Mount Baker.

10778 feet or 3285 meters high, Mt. Baker is an impressive dormant volcano, northernmost of its kind in the Cascades range which also claims Mount Rainier, Hood, Logan, St. Helens, etc. The mountain isn’t very far from Vancouver; a few articles on the web describe the drive there as a 2-hour expedition. I’ve adjusted that to 3 hours, allowing for unpredictable customs delays and photo - and pit - stops. I figure that if we can make it to the Sumas border crossing - south of Abbotsford, BC - by 9:00 am, we’ll stand a good chance of getting through relatively fast.

 « The horses! Your Bialetti is hissing, warns my observer, get it off the stove now! You don’t want to burn your coffee. » There is no point explaining to him that coffee can’t burn, besides he has a point: it would seem that avoiding brewing a pot all the way to dryness spares a little bitterness. I usually try to stop when the frothing begins. « Yeah, yeah, I simply tell him, keep your pantyhose on. » It’s from the movie The Abyss. It annoys the hell out of him.

When Marie joins me for breakfast at a corner of my computer table, I’ve booted the machine up and confirm with disbelief that the forecast is still perfect. Grand beau temps as it is called in French. We are incredibly lucky. It sucks driving to another country to see a mountain which is hopelessly hidden in clouds. Uh-uh, seems to grin the observette. I think she was hoping for rain and a day inside. Not this time, dear.

We hit the road at 8:15 am in a little rental car which, to my surprise, I only spent 20 minutes parking last night; that must have been a record. The West End is very unfriendly to visiting cars and if you don’t have a resident sticker, you’re left with maybe 5% of all parking space to choose from, often having to drift many blocks away from home. The engine roars to life, I engage the thrusters and prepare for warp speed. Both cameras are on board, excited and trying to see out the windows. I take Pacific down to the end of False Creek, and Terminal to Clark, then Hastings all the way to East Vancouver where I jump on Highway 1, the Transcanadian.

Traffic is light on this Sunday morning. Crossing the Vancouver suburbs is never really interesting but it does remind me of how the city only spreads out towards the southeast. We’ll basically be driving through boring outskirts all the way to the border. ‘Greater Vancouver’ indeed...

At a quarter past nine, almost on schedule, we reach the Sumas crossing. The line-up seems very reasonable and as I am looking for the fastest lane, my observer wakes up from a nap and yells « Take the right lane, the right! » I give in and ignore a sign that mentioned something about ‘visitors on the left’. It turns out the right lane heads straight in while the left splits into 3, making it 3 times faster, or in other words, us 3 times slower. So much for observers. I should have left mine at home. I glance at Marie’s observette, riding shotgun; the two of them appear to be having an intense conversation, and I assume it must have to do with the border crossing. I don’t much like customs either, especially in light of our recent immigration trauma. My observer becomes quiet but agitated, nervously pulling on my seat belt as he watches cars go through the control ahead of us.

20 minutes later, we get to the little gate where a lady officer has just begun her shift. « How do you know each other? » she asks, noticing the different passports. « We’re married, » I say with a smile. She looks up and arches a suspicious eyebrow. « How’s that working for you? » she asks. My observer snorts. « How do you think it’s working, you fat-ass uniformed bureaucrat bitch? » he lets out in disgust. I silence him and reply as humbly as I can. « Not too well. »

Of course the officer’s alarm bells have gone off and she probes a little deeper, asking Marie when she arrived to Canada, if she is employed (duh) and when she will leave. Then she seems to see right through us and shifts her focus. « Are you carrying any food, » she asks. I am floored. How could she have figured out who we are? I glance to my left and to my horror, the observette is eating a duck prosciutto sandwich. But I know that nobody else can see her and I answer that we’ll get lunch on the road. And just like that, the resistance yields. We are waved through. I think my observer just inked himself. Marie enters the United States by land for the first time. Then our observers forget about the tension and jump to the back seat and begin fighting about the prosciutto. We let them have at it. They’ll leave us alone for a while.

Sumas is a strange ghost town with somehow western looks. We push on south and soon turn inland on 547. Eventually we branch off onto 542, and suddenly, we are climbing. Mt. Baker has been towering above us, closer every minute, but we now lose it in the trees that line a very pretty river we’ll follow all the way to our destination. Its glacier origins are unmistakable as the water glows a pale blue-green color, running noisily on a large bed of rocks and pebbles.

Speaking of which, the small town of Glacier appears and we decide to stop for food; it’s not like us to hit the road without having packed a picnic and we are feeling a little naked. The first sign we home in on says « bakery » but our hopes are soon shattered, it’s a mere coffee shop selling muffins. It’s only much later, as we drive passed it again in the other direction that I realize it was an easy pun someone had to have tried, no matter what. The second spot, however, turns out to be a winner in the form of an attractive lost-near-the-end-of-the-world Italian restaurant where we order two sandwiches and a slice of cheesecake, which Marie will pass on, but not the observers. Then the grocery store across the road sells us a beer, water, an apple and ice. At the last minute, Marie’s observette pulls on my sleeve so hard she almost undresses me, pointing insistently at a bag of chips. « I know, I say, I know. » I buy the chips.

We hit the road again, finally feeling like ourselves, and attack the final section of the road, winding and increasingly spectacular. The cameras are frantic inside their respective shelters but we have decided to get to the end of the road as early as possible and won’t let them out yet. My observer has gone quiet. He’s hanging on loosely to my left ear and staring at the scenery in awe. But when he notices I’m smiling at his weakness, he snaps out of it and reaches for a handful of the observette’s hair, pulling sharply to make her scream. Little devil. She fights back with a kick to the nose and we send them to the back seat again.

Finally, the road ends. We’ve paid the Park’s $5.00 access fee and passed the ski area. We are as far as a car will go up the slopes of Mt. Baker. A surprising number of people are already up here. We orient ourselves on a map and decide to first take a short walk to southeast-facing Artist Point that will grant us perfect views of both nearby Shuksan Peak and Baker itself, slightly further and to the southwest. Abetoo comes to life and so does Marie’s wonderful little Canon. As always, we immediately focus - pardon the pun - on our respective subject of predilection. She aims with amazing instinct and talent for the incredibly small - flowers, plants, insects - and I lose myself in the immensity of the panorama.

My biggest shock is the temperature. There is not a whisper of wind and an unusually warm sun is shining hard through the pure air, even at this modest 5100 feet elevation. Soon, my head is sizzling. I didn’t bring a hat. My observer taps me on the head. « You’re gonna fry, dude, he says with a perfectly content tone. I told you so. » He didn’t. « No you did not, I reply. And I would advise taking your role a little more seriously and stopping all the flirting with Marie’s observette if you want to keep your place. There are many good observers out there. You’re not that special. » There’s nothing like a sweet little threat now and then. It keeps him on his toes. « But I did tell you so, he insists. It was last January in South Africa. I warned you to listen to local advice and beware of the fierce sun. I recommended you covered that precious nugget of yours with suntan lotion. You ignored me. You burned. How many times do I have to repeat myself? »

The view is amazing. Both Mt. Shuksan and Mt. Baker are still almost completely snow covered and display immense glaciers. Baker is actually slightly further away from us than I had imagined, linked to our location by a long ridge along which a clearly visible trails seems to be calling my name. But not this time. We aren’t dressed for high altitude hiking and we are here on a vegetation mission. We came seeking Pacific Northwest alpine plants. So having walked to the view point and taken many pictures, we slowly head back, pausing to build a little cairn for Jay and Guy. « It should be higher, » protests my little observer. He’s obsessed with size, being rather short himself. « It will do just fine, I reply, moving my hand like a Jedi Knight, it’s the intention and location that matter. You twit. » I like having the last word. Marie’s observette exhorts her to keep adding small stones to the top on the cairn; the white one is a really nice touch.

Back at the car, all four of us decide to drive down to a beautiful small lake we saw on the way up, and to have our picnic there while looking at flowers. We’ll be further below the tree line and should fine even more interesting plants. The two tall ones among us are secretly hoping to be able to let the two small ones loose in this well contained playground. There is really no need for observers in such a perfect setting.

A trail loops around the circular valley and we launch into it counterclockwise, descending through magnificent fields of flowers towards the meadows surrounding our lake. There is water everywhere; streams are chanting through the grass, shining in the sun, and at the bottom of the small valley, the pristine lake’s water is emerald green and inviting. We settle down on a big rock two thirds of the way to the bottom and unpack our lunch. My observer stays close. He’s after the beer. One bottle for all of us, and less than half of it for the designated driver.

We eat in silence, staring around us, mesmerized. The scenery is postcard-perfect. Flowers are everywhere, in large beds of yellow and pink and white. The grass is incredibly green and large patches of moss thrive in the melting snow water coming from higher elevations. One thing is very strange, though, and I share my concern with Marie: there is no sign of life bigger than small birds. My observer laughs. « You always have to find a negative thing, he says. Just be content with the scenery. » « It’s not negative, I answer him, it’s puzzling. » Such a wild environment should be bustling with animal life. Rainier is very close to the south and has a similar geography and vegetation; there were marmots, deers and birds of prey everywhere. Hell, we also saw deers up at Grouse in the middle of the resort. But here, nothing. No movement. I don’t understand. It’s as if a giant eagle had just overflown the valley and scared every animal into their hiding places...

Our sandwiches gone, I manage to finish the cheesecake on my own, Marie not being much of a desert freak. The 2 observers, despite sticking their fingers repeatedly into the cake and licking them with delight, cannot actually affect its physical mass because they are in fact restricted to a parallel dimension from which they can communicate and be seen, but can’t actually interact with our own dimension’s matter. Sometimes I feel sorry for them. I often wish they could taste Marie’s cooking.

We head down to the meadows and wander around, following the trail to the end of the lake and climbing up on the opposite side, back towards the parking lot. Marie leaps over a stream and exclaims « A fish just jumped out of the water as I was in mid-air! » I’m incredulous but she has keen eyes. We look carefully at the clear water and suddenly, right at our feet, another one. Definitely a fish. I instantly vote for a mountain trout, she goes for a salmon. « Too small for a salmon, » I say. « A baby salmon, » she adds. « A troualmon? » suggests my observer, thinking himself so witty. The observette doesn’t add anything, lost in thoughts looking at her reflection in the water.

A couple of large boulders form a barrier at the downstream end of the lake and behind them, by a small bridge, we spot at least 20 more fish, hovering in the current. « Too small to catch, » says my observer, disappointed. We climb back slowly to the parking lot and after a few more pictures and a last look at the valley, we get back in the car and start the drive back home.

Crossing the Canadian border is much quicker than this morning and we make good time despite a temporary slow down on the highway. Back in Vancouver, feeling lazy, we decide to look for a French-ie restaurant. Surprise. They all seem to be closed on Sundays. What the ... is up with that? Marie ends up preparing divine mushrooms à la grecque while I find us some wine on Davie.

The observers are passed-out on the carpet. It was a long day filled with a lot of sun glare, pure rarefied air and many wonders. Tomorrow, half of us are getting back on a plane to New York while the other half stay behind. Good-byes will be tough. Our observers will probably cry. They’re just wimps. But they’ll also whisper to us that it’s all coming together, and all these sidesteps and momentary magical splashes are just part of the grand scheme that leads from A to B, from here to there, and from I to us.

I’ve rambled about it before, borrowing a pair of very pretty green eyes to look around me and rediscover my surroundings always yields much magic. It so happens that Marie was just in Vancouver for 10 days - such a long time according to our time-compressed standards and yet so very, very short a shot at making up for months of thirst and loneliness.

Her mind was hungry for our Pacific Northwest beauty and peace, so we walked and walked and walked, and explored and tested and tasted and watched and photographed, stopping and then stopped, picture after picture, from flower to flower, until our eyes were filled with wonders and our memory bank topped up. British Columbia was enjoying exceptional September weather and it could finally be said that Vancouver cooperated fully.

While I’ll only post these few pictures (it’s being chronicled extensively at 66 Square Feet), there were many trips to Stanley Park and its famed chickadees, seeds in Marie’s hand and all ears wide open, listening for the unmistakable call. There were idyllic sunsets on the beach next door, leaning against huge floated trunks that form as many first-row seats and lazily taking pictures as the light transmuted itself and our stealth drinks sank with the sun. There was a pilgrimage evening up on Grouse Mountain for a well deserved celebration, with a visit to the grizzly bears and many more special flowers found. There was a trip to ethereal Lynn Creek to further explore the canyon and follow the river for a while. There were Greygoose martinis, very dry, shaken, 2 garlic-stuffed olives, dirty. There were frequent crossings to Granville Island’s Public Market via the False Creek Ferries, resupplying ourselves in organic vegetables, various delicacies like Aji Amarillo and lemon leaves, and most of all gorgeous meat - including the extraordinary, best-in-world-never-matched duck prosciutto. There was much inspired cooking at home, masterfully orchestrated by the Chef and humbly observed by her apprentice. And there was a ritual evening at Chambar for their exquisite moule frite Coquette.

But in the end, the grand finale was stolen from Canada by Washington’s Mt. Baker. That, however, will be th