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.

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 the subject of another post. For now, we hunker down, we tighten our belts and we clench our teeth as 5000 km once again team up against us, forming an immense chain that acts as both an ironic link between east and west and an immense fence, each kilometer clinging to the next, as many small measures that once considered as a whole, form a gigantic obstacle made up of space and bureaucracy.

It’s all right. I have endless energy for this.

I thought it might have been the sunset of the century. I rushed out and ran to the C-shuttle stop only to find a notice of route deviation. So I went to the False Creek Ferries’ landing but it was Sunday and they were no longer crossing to the bottom of False Creek. I ran back up the hill and caught a bus on Davie. But once on board I realized we were going the wrong way, north almost to Burrard Inlet before turning east and eventually back south on Main. It’s because of the Nike Race, the driver told me, apologetic. There are road blocks everywhere. It’s been a hell of day.

When I shot off the bus at the train station a fantastic storm cloud was towering to the east, but I had no clear line of sight and none of the obstacles were worth showing. I pressed on towards the water, looking behind me as I walked fast. By the time I got to a spot where I could catch my breath and setup, the cloud had pretty much died and my sunset had misfired.

I took the time to shoot a few « I was there, any way » pictures and a pano, but I shot at too wide a focal length and my verticals are distorted. Later, in Photoshop, having stitched the 10 shots into a 239 mb file, it took me 2 attempts to apply the superb « denoise » action of FFDD6; it’s highly processor-intensive and on such a large file, it tests the very limits of my poor laptop’s endurance.

But all this is just a hazy blur. My mind is elsewhere. Soon, once again, as it has for over a year now and always will, time is going to contract itself like a snake recoiling before a bite, and then it will explode in all directions, hours turning into mere seconds and a week into an eternity. East is visiting West, the Big Apple meets the City of Glass, a terrace vs a balcony, so much fun in perspective it’s hard to breathe and accept this will not be it. Yet.

Not much to say. It’s hard to complain when widespread devastation is lurking in other people’s lives. And yet. I can’t live their life for them. But I must live mine in the most honorable and giving way I can.

The fact that I am shooting mostly sunsets, looking westward at the fleeting light and feeling darkness creep up behind me, is just a geographical coincidence. In effect, the opposite always happens. Light invariably comes in from the east and it’s westward that the night falls for me. If only I can manage to illustrate that light, I’ll be fulfilled. In photography and in real life.

I pride myself on being fit. I steadily run my 10.5K twice a week. I work out. I eat well. I usually nurture dreams of grandeur and think no reasonable challenge is a match for my stamina. I’m my own hero. Duh! And today, at the apogee of my illusions, I hit a brick wall on a trail. Or rather, the trail hit me with everything it had and left me to struggle my way back through the deep puddle of my arrogance like a crippled invalid.

My three and a half - most cherished - readers might recall that I went last week-end on a recon’ of Lynn Headwaters Regional Park. Assessing it from the bottom end, much like ones road tests a sports car by sitting in the left seat at the dealer’s and running a loving, greedy hand on the leather interior, I had decided the area had strong potential for trail running. I stood by the park’s map for a long while and since I’d done the run from Lynn across the mountain to Deep Cove in the past, I opted for the opposite direction. I would aim towards Grouse. A glimpse of genius made me elect to run downhill, from Grouse to Headwaters, since it was my first attempt. It saved my butt. The opposite decision, given the circumstances, might have cost me a very embarrassing lot more. I shit you not.

So I get up this morning, in top shape, around 8:00 am. The weather has turned out to be cloudier than expected and I take my time leaving home since the heat won’t be so much of an issue. I make myself a tall coffee and, having had a cereal bowl during the night - I had a craving - completely forget to have breakfast. Absentmindedly contemplating my bi-weekly run around Stanley Park on which I carry no food nor water, and because today’s trail is slightly (!) longer at 14 km, I decide to bring a banana, an energy gel and my camelback water pouch, which I will fill up at the chalet before getting under way. And I completely forget to drink any water.

When I arrive at the top of Grouse on the Red Skyride around 11:15 am, the place is already packed. An uninterrupted line of week-end braves irrupts from the Grind - why they choose to do it on a Saturday at noon, staring at someone’s bottom up close all the way up, is beyond me. I feel great thinking that I’m headed the opposite way, into the wilderness. I eat my banana to celebrate and fill up the camelback from the faucet of the washrooms, and because of the location of my water source, only drink a few sips of water from the tap itself, and then I head for the trailhead after tightening my shoe laces.

When I start my stopwatch at the bottom of the actual Grouse Mountain, it’s 11:37 am. I walk uphill for 5 minutes to warm up further and then break into an easy run. The last time I had done this stretch after climbing the Grind, years ago, there was snow on the path and running was difficult. But today I feel strong and the road is clean. I’ve brought the G3 camera in a belt pouch and intend to take snapshots of the run. I have a plan. A map. A small folding pocket knife. A cell phone that will have temporary reception. Money, ID, bus pass. A gel. Water. I’ve left an itinerary and ETA with Marie.

I usually don’t try to run up the steepest section of a trail run I’ve never done before. Back in the Beloeil days, I could run all the way to the Pain de Sucre, but I had done the trail so many times I knew exactly how and when to pace. Today, I’ll run the flat parts, the safe descending ones and reasonable uphills. I’ll walk the rest. The map has revealed a very rugged trail. First, I must work my way over and around the succession of small peaks lined up behind Grouse. There’s Dam Mountain, Little and main Goat, and Crown in front of which I will cut south. The trail is narrow and very uneven, definitely not a good running trail. Muddy patches soon appear, reminder that even at the end of August, the snow isn’t long gone. I was so eager to leave the crowd behind that I only remember a half hour into the run to send my departure text message. It’s noon.

My pompous plan and best estimate is that it should take me about 45 minutes to get to Crown Pass, another 15 to 30 minutes to negotiate the steep rock slide down the pass, and I’d be left with maybe an hour or an hour and a half of running down Hanes Valley and south along Lynn Creek. I’ve estimated Time on Trail to 2 to 4 hours. I’m secretly hoping for 2:30.

The first bad surprise happens as I reach the slope leading down to the pass; I had hoped for a gentle incline but a more careful study of the map confirms a spectacular drop. It turns out to be so steep that not only is it not runnable, but there are metal chains running down the muddy rocky path and I spend way more time negotiating my way to the pass then I wanted.

At Crown Pass, I get a glance of Howe Sound but the best view is towards the east down the valley I’m headed into. I keep snapping a pictures of my progress. It’s 12:30. The knees are doing great, so is the overall shape. I realize I haven’t had any water yet and suck a few sips through the plastic tube. It tastes bad despite the careful wash I gave the camelback last night.

The rock slide too soon becomes a major obstacle to my run. Its boulders are unsteady and the path leads practically straight down, not a very smart way to draw such a vertical trail. I give up on running and try to keep a steady rhythm down while avoiding loose rocks and without sending them rolling down the slope, which I’ve always considered messy and dangerous. I’m having to take deep steps down and the thighs are working very hard. I pass a few people going up and exchange ritual mountain courtesies. I pity them, the hard part is still above them. A man tells me to watch out for the lower third of the slope where, he says, a recent landslide has brought a fresh cover of stones over un-melted snow, making the larger boulders unstable.

Towards the bottom, I pass a helipad and stop briefly to take an upward picture. I’m glad to be through the slide and the rocks. The ground has flattened out a little and becomes runnable again. I’m getting tired but figure the worse is over. I should now be able to run till the end. It’s 1:00 pm. My energy level feels low so I reach for the gel and swallow it down with some water while running carefully.

The trail now follows Hanes Creek from above and the sound of water is everywhere. Many smaller streams come down from the left slope and I have to slow to a halt in order to cross them. The map mentionned that they would not be passable after heavy rains; thank god it hasn’t rained much lately. I’m sweating heavily under the thick cover of trees despite only a very shy sun above the canopy. Time is slipping fast and this section is beginning to take longer than expected. I have to start reevaluating my timing. I should have found Norvan Falls already.

Then I get to a much larger river crossing and even though I can’t see a waterfall, I assume I’ve reached the point where I must cross the creek and angle south. The map, however, showed a bridge. I see none. The creek is flowing quite strongly and I lose precious time looking for a crossing. There’s a large tree trunk thrown across the gashing water and I attempt to cross there. That’s when I notice that my legs are very shaky. The simple task of balancing myself to the other side proves incredibly difficult and I slip off the tree, slightly hurting both my shoulder muscles in the short fall to big rocks below. The wood is wet and slippery. I decide to find another way to cross. 15 minutes later, I’m still on the western flank of the creek hesitating. This is not like me. I finally choose the narrowest and least exposed gap to jump over, knowing that I will land into a few inches of water and get my shoes wet, but that’s the best I an do.

It’s around 1:45 pm. I’ve been going for 2 hours. I think I still have half way to go. I climb the steep opposite bank and begin running again, wet and suddenly quite tired and shaken. After 10 minutes, I have to slow down to a walk, feeling empty. This is not looking good. My energy level should be much higher and the last part of the trail should be easy to run.

A large metal suspended bridge appears in front of me. I understand the previous crossing probably was Lynn Creek. I am now finally in the vicinity of Norvan Falls. But I feel so le tired that I don’t even look for them, snapping a single shot of the bridge. It’s now past two o’clock. A sign on the other side points towards the south. It reads: « Parking lot. 7 km. Allow 2:30 hrs. » I suddenly feel completely exhausted. My head is spinning, my breath short even on flat terrain and I’m getting nauseous. A fierce reality is taking shape: I will not be able to run down. I’m likely going to bust my ETA. I’ll be happy to make it out the trail period.

I start walking slowly, amazed by the speed at which my remaining power has suddenly drained. The insignificant weight of the mostly empty camelback is incredibly cumbersome and I have to take the camera belt off to relieve stomach cramps. Then my legs start cramping too.

The next hour and forty five will be, incredibly, a nightmare. I’ve completely given up on taking pictures. The only accurate way to describe my condition is a collapse. I’ve heard of marathon runners having this kind of completely debilitating episode and having to give up. Except I haven’t ran a marathon. My mind is working very slowly and the world around me goes by in a haze. I have absolutely no power of concentration and can’t focus on details. The thought crosses my confused brain that I must be completely dehydrated, but I have been sipping on my water at regular intervals. I must also be starved. I wonder about blood pressure. I’m not sure. I don’t really want to throw up because it would only empty my stomach even more and waste precious energy I must save to move forward.The am puzzled to be having such a hard time in such a friendly and green environment. Around me, no harsh sand dunes nor frozen Arctic ice. I’m surrounded by a lush and humid temperature rainforest.

I have to stop and sit regularly, unable to keep moving downhill on the path that is now large and easy. But sitting down doesn’t help and my breathing remains erratic, and what’s worse, my legs instantly want to cramp up badly. I’m not talking about the regular calf twitch I’ll eventually experience running on the Seawall. These are full-fledged cramps, starting high on the thighs and dashing all the way down to my ankles. The left side almost gets out of hands a couple of times and I only get it back under control my standing up and resuming my slow walk. I must be moving like an old man, unsteadily and hunched forward, hands on my hips as it seems to help with breathing. But I can’t really slow down because I must be on time for my arrival report. This is my fault and I won’t cause unnecessary worries if I can help it.

Many times, as people approach in the opposite direction, I prepare myself to ask them for energy food, but at the last second, pride prevails and I manage a few more steps towards the end of this trial. I can only remember feeling such extreme physical distress twice in my life. The first one was during my early days of high altitude mountain climbing when I was 14, in the Meije massif. The second was many years later, in the Costa Rican jungle. I had gone on a walk and misjudged the heat and humidity, and become highly dehydrated. I now recognize the symptoms. Extreme fatigue, dizziness, nausea, short breath. At least that’s what I’m thinking.

When I finally make it to the parking lot, I’m too weak to even rejoice. It’s taken four and a half hours. I run into a couple of guys I’d met at the top of the pass and beg them for a ride to civilization so that I can catch a cab. I have to intention of waiting for a bus and handling transfers and people. I can barely stand. They drop me off at a gas station in North Van and I ask the attendant to call me a cab, which he does immediately, pointing me to a chair. I must look comically horrible. There’s mud up to me knees and blood on one of my hands, from a sharp tree branch. I buy a Gatorade but barely manage to drink half of it. Thirst, surprisingly, has never kicked in.

The cab takes me back all the way home through light traffic. I open my door and can’t believe the shape I’m in, even though it’s already coming back very fast, probably from resting on the car ride. Je jure, once more, que l’on ne m’y prendra plus.

...

In retrospect, I made two serious mistakes. I didn’t have a healthy breakfast, and didn’t super-hydrate. My last liquid went back to the night before. Coffee doesn’t count. I had my last food back in the middle of the night. Later, a banana and a gel couldn’t compete. Why I didn’t think of all this, I just couldn’t say. I was probably lured into complacency by the easy rhythm of my regular runs.

A sign on the park map and board says « Be prepared! »

I was. But I wasn’t. And I met my Waterloo. Get it?

« Next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained. »
Source unkown

“The loss of the battle of Waterloo was the salvation of France.”
Thomas Jefferson

Lynn Canyon Park is probably the most extraordinarily beautiful, most accessible spot in the Greater Vancouver, if not the entire Lower Mainland. But it’s also relatively small and on summer week-ends, the crowd tends to get overwhelming. With Twin Falls downstream, the Suspension Bridge in the middle and 30 Ft. Pool upstream, all within a 20 minute walk, options are a bit limited and one must be willing to share the creek’s stunning emerald water with many others...

Surprisingly, the Lynn Headwaters Regional Park just above doesn’t seem to act as the overflow it should be. Much, much larger than Lynn Canyon, Headwaters stretches into the mountains for 10 to 20 km and offers serious hiking possibilities. The entrances to the two parks are located minutes from each other; they both share Lynn Creek as a center attraction, a guideline flowing down from the Coast Mountains into Burrard Inlet. The major difference, apart from size, is the nature of the valley itself. Lynn Canyon, as the name implies, is a deep and narrow chasm, yielding many impressive waterfalls and stunning pools. Up by Headwaters, on the other hand, the river bed widens and the creek runs through the valley in the open, on a bed of large boulders and pebbles, its water still crystal-clear and singing softly as it flows past deep temperate rainforest on its shores.

While not as eventful as it would have been in the canyon, my walk up the Headwaters trails this Sunday soon put a comfortable distance between the mob and me and since the river was just nearby, it was easy to find spots to go play in the water with barely anybody around. A short hour walk (and we’re talking about photographic hours, here, which include some walking and a lot of shooting) from the parking lot, I came upon a very nice pool by a large boulder, begging me to dip in; but a few rain drops were falling and since it was already 5 or 6 pm, I headed back. There must remain many surprises further up. I will have to investigate with more time ahead of me.

The large color topo map at the park entrance also revealed what could be a very nice and challenging trail run, from the Grouse Mountain Chalet, across to Crown Mountain, down to Norvan Falls and then all the way back to the Headwaters parking lot. 14 km in total, which I would do downhill the first time. I’ll need a cool week-end and to figure out what to do with my North Face Ultra 103, the crappiest trail running shoes I have ever bought, probably from choosing a size too big. Live and learn.