Road Trips

On Being

This is not a post about going for a drive.  This is a post about staying put.  Granted, we went for a drive to reach our staying put place, but once we were there, that was it.  Kind of.  Let me try again.  Maybe I can clear this up.

It’s been a tough year for everyone.  Covid-19 has taken its toll on all of us, in one way or another.  I’ve been lucky in that my friends and family have so far been spared.  May that continue to be the case.  My son was laid off but qualified for benefits, and I continued working.  With the addition of a timely bonus and some hard-core saving, I was finally able to replace the old car.  I drove the new one in the city and took it out on the highway one night at 2:00 am. (Santana and I drove to Winfield for hot dogs and lime Jarritos and no, I don’t know why.) But we still hadn’t tested it out on the back roads.

Santana was bound to be called back to work soon.  Once that happened, our days off were rarely in sync, and taking a holiday this year might just be a pipe dream.  It was almost my birthday.  I wanted to have an adventure, damn it!  I booked a cabin at Postill Lake for two nights.

For me, this was a challenge in being unplugged.  Like a lot of people, I’d been drowning in news reports and social media, trying to keep up with what was going on in the world and helpless to do anything meaningful.  I needed it to stop for a minute or two.  I needed to be unplugged.

We arrived at Postill Lake on a sunny Thursday afternoon.  My cell phone went into my purse and I was determined it would stay there.  I asked Santana to check the temperature of the lake.  He immediately changed into his good, old-fashioned gum boots and waded in.  This is the look he gave me when I asked if he had any keys in his pockets. Not impressed.


How peaceful it was to just sit and look out at the lake!  It was like someone turned down the noise in my head and for the first time in a long time, I was able to just BE.


Postill Lake Resort is charming and delightful, and no matter where you look, there’s something to see.


Evening found us on the porch of our cabin, listening to the loons calling, and later the frogs singing.  In between we played board games.

Finally, it was bedtime.  There was a bedroom with a queen size bed, and a pull-out couch with a double hide-a-bed.  I’d already claimed the bedroom.

Santana set up the bed.  He laid out his bedding.  He climbed in.  The bed immediately tried to eat him as it folded back in on itself.  He fought his way free as I cried with laughter.   He set up the bed.  He laid out his bedding.  He climbed in.  Wham!  The bed tried to eat him again.  By this time, I could hardly breathe.

Santana fought his way free.  He took a deep breath.  He set up the bed.  He laid out his bedding.  He very gingerly climbed in.  He very gingerly wiggled.  So far, so good.  He looked at me, still trying to contain my laughter.  “Goodnight,” he snapped.

Morning dawned brightly.  I don’t know about Santana, but I had an awesome night’s sleep.  Him, maybe not so much.

We decided to rent an electric fishing boat, just to go out for a cruise.  Santana was going to be driving, so I had to sit at the front of the boat, for even weight distribution.  There was no room for my legs up there, so I sat backwards which made it a little awkward for taking pictures.


We followed the shoreline, slowly putting along.  I had hoped to see some birds on the lake, but other than one diving loon, there were no water birds to be seen.  We did come across a frog as he swam along, and although I tried, I couldn’t get a clear shot of him.  We came around a bend in the shoreline and discovered a whole other bay we hadn’t know was there.


By this time, I was starting to cramp up.  I’ve had issues with my legs for a while, but in the last month or so, my condition has deteriorated a great deal.  I told Santana we’d have to head back to the lodge.  Although he amped it up a bit, the ride back to the lodge took some time and by the time we docked, the pain was nothing short of excruciating.  Now came the big question.  How the f*&% was I going to get out of this boat?

I’ll tell you how.  I rolled.

Yup, I managed to get one leg out and then I ROLLED onto the dock.  Not my finest moment.

Once I’d gotten to my feet in a complicated reverse downward dog move, I was good to go.  Funny, I care way less about being graceful anymore.  I’m happy if I can get from A to B, regardless of how it’s done.

After a quick lunch, Santana took off to hike to another nearby lake.  I parked myself at the picnic table and spent the afternoon writing.  Could it get any better than this?



Evening was much the same as our first night, but with no clouds in the sky, the colors were more brilliant than before, and the fishermen stayed out longer.


Eventually, they all come home and night falls.


We came home early.  Santana had issues with his bed, so he got up and started the packing and housekeeping.  By the time I got up at 7:30, he was pretty much ready to go.  Morning was absolutely brilliant on the road back down to the city.  We came across deer, turkey vultures, and marmots.  The sun sparkled in the trees.  There was music playing, birds were singing. I hadn’t used my phone at all and I was still alive.  So now I knew for sure that it wouldn’t kill me to not check it every ten minutes.  I hope I can remember that.


Balcony Birding


I don’t get out much.  Even before the global pandemic made “Shelter in Place” a thing, I wasn’t going out much.  My car was on its last legs.  Half my camera gear was stolen. My health was in a steady decline.  I was trapped in a world without words.

I tried going out a few of times, but my heart wasn’t in it.  I’d come home with a couple of dozen photos and not even bother to upload them for a week or two.  For someone who likes to take roads just to see where they go, I had finally lost my way.

Not quite ready to give up, I thought about re-purposing my blog.  Other than posting random cat photos, I didn’t know what I should do with it.


But this morning the air was warm and the sky was blue.  I took my cappuccino and my bowl of berries and set out for the balcony.  As soon as I opened the door, I could hear the birdsong.  The smell of spring was everywhere.  It was a great day for “quiet sitting.”  I had my camera and my journal, and didn’t have to be anywhere for hours.


Maybe it was that lack of pressure that made it the day it was.  Or maybe it was the season.  Or maybe I was finally ready to open up and accept what was right in front of me.  There were Eastern Grey Squirrels, one a black morph, chasing each other through the trees.  There were butterflies – Mourning Cloak, Cabbage and Cloud Sulphur. And there were birds.  The Robins, of course, were the loudest.  They strutted across the lawn, their chests puffed up, yellow beaks in sharp contrast with black faces.


Warblers flitted from tree to tree, shaking the branches and hiding amid the new foliage, while White-Crowned Sparrows foraged in the shadows below.  A flock of Starlings with their iridescent feathers moved between the very tops of the trees and the lawn.


The cat joined me on the balcony around the same time that a Northern Flicker joined the ruckus in the trees.  We watched as a Magpie wandered through and a Mourning Dove bobbed and weaved along the fence line.  But the crown jewel of the day was a Western Tanager performing aerial maneuvers.  He was a hard one to photograph, almost as hard as the Warblers.  No sooner did I have him in focus than he’d fly off to a new destination.

New Growth

Eventually, patience paid off.

Tanager 3

The coffee and berries were gone.  It was almost time to go to work.  But the simple joy of finding myself truly living IN the moment for the first time in months was a sharp reminder.

Tanager 2

I ain’t done yet.

Walking on Sunshine

People told me when I first moved here, that winter can seem long and depressing, with grey skies crowding in.  I didn’t see that as a problem.  I lived in Alberta.  Those are long winters.  I also lived on the Vancouver Island.  I was pretty familiar with grey skies.  I thought I’d be able to handle it.  Turns out, maybe I wasn’t as prepared as I thought.

I don’t know if it was the weather.  It might have been something else entirely.  Something about my car not being well-suited to winter driving.  For someone like myself, with limited mobility, being able to drive where I want represents a certain level of freedom.  Without it, I feel trapped.

It could have been the weather, it could have been the car, it could have been a thousand other little things, but no matter which way you added it up, it came to the same thing.


I’ve been trying.  I’ve tried to keep doing the things I love.  I’ve done my best to ignore the little voice in the back of my head that keeps saying, “What’s the point?”  I’ve tried to not dwell on things that make me sad, but some days, the sadness is overwhelming. I want to focus on the positive, but some days, the positive is hard to find.

Ever watch a cat wake up from a nap in a sunbeam?  There’s this long, slow stretch followed by a lazy roll.  The sun has the chance to reach every single spot on the surface of that cat.  Imagine how good that must feel.

I needed to go find a sunbeam.

Randomly choosing a direction, I set off to see what I could find.  Eventually, I found myself climbing Postill Lake Road.  I knew I wasn’t going to make it the 15 km to the lake, but I could go for a while.  After the initial stretch filled with potholes, the road smoothed out.  For a while, it was clear.  I stopped on the bridge at Mill Creek, where the air was crisp and the water was noisy.


Although I couldn’t get too close to the creek, I could still see the ice.  I love looking at ice as it starts to break down. I like to see how it is effected by water and sun.


Likewise, on the rocky outcrops along the side of the road.  I could see the water moving beneath the thin layer of ice, bubbling along as it sought the quickest route to the ground.  That was hard to capture with the equipment that I had, but I could take photos of the frozen “falls”.


The higher I went, of course, the thicker the snow.  Snow crystals brilliant in the sun, unmarred by human touch, rolled upward along the hillsides.


This picture made me want Kool-Aid, I don’t know why.


I’d gone as high as I was comfortable going, and it was time to turn around.  But I wasn’t quite ready to leave. I pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.  Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply, letting the cool mountain air fill my lungs.  The breeze was cool on my face, and the sun warm on my back.  The air smelled of water and wood. The silence was spellbinding.

This was my sunbeam.

The brilliant blue sky was reflected in the streams of water running down the road, carving new paths in the gravel.




Looking at the snow piled on this rock, I imagined that you could read the layers like tree rings, to determine the number of major snowfalls there were this year.


Finally, at just about the exact spot where I made my first stop of the day, I came across a herd of mule deer, the perfect ending.


I see my doctor next week, just in case.  But I’m feeling a whole lot better.

Walking in Peachland

There was a cloud on the bridge between Kelowna and the West Side.  I drove in, surprised by the onset of vertigo – something I’m not used to.  The feeling remained with me as I drove through the cloud.  When I emerged, I was in Peachland and all was right with the world.  In fact, it was spectacular.


Peachland is a lovely place, no matter what time of year it is but today the contrasting colours seemed especially vibrant.


I puttered around Beach Avenue, enjoying the fresh air, trying to decide what I was going to do.  I found myself a picnic table and took out my journal, prepared to write a long, philosophical, exaltation on the wonders of the day.


What I wasn’t prepared for was the cold wind coming off the water.  Journal back in bag, butt back in car.  Time enough to write later.


I decided to take Princeton Avenue and see what there was to see.  I knew, from my travels last year, that it was paved for a good distance before going to gravel, and then was paved again a little further up the road.  I’m still driving the car that isn’t suitable for winter excursions, so I knew I couldn’t take too many chances.  It’s far too easy for things to go terribly wrong as they did earlier this month in Sooke, when lives were lost due to a tragic set of circumstances.  My heart goes out to the families of those three young men.

I drove to the end of the pavement.  The gravel stretch was hard-packed snow.  I followed it for a while, but the grade became too steep and I was left, quite literally spinning my tires.  Turning  myself around, I came back down the hill, stopping for the briefest of moments to take a photo of the snow through the trees. Or was it the trees through the snow?


Back in Peachland, I wandered through the park, checking on the condition of the totem pole.


There is a beautiful new boardwalk in Peachland that was completed last year.  Jutting out over the water, it offers not only a beautiful view of the lake, but a bit of local history in the plaques that are mounted along the way.  There are also plenty of benches for wimps like me.


It seemed like everyone and their dog was out for a walk.  Really.  Everyone had a dog.  What’s up with that?  Aren’t there any cat people in Peachland?  Maybe all the cat people stuck their heads outdoors, felt the wind and decided to stay in where it was warm.  Curled up with their cats who gave them the look that said, “Told you.”


Yes, such are the thoughts of someone with nothing better to do than stand on the boardwalk listening to the gossiping geese and the swish, gurgle and slap of water on the rocks.


What a glorious day.








Back in the Saddle

It’s the beginning of February, and the warm, high winds are reminiscent of the Chinooks I knew when I lived in Alberta.  I listened to them whistling high in the trees outside my window, and felt an inner longing – although for what, I’m not exactly sure.

The one thing I am sure of is that it’s been far too long since I went out into the world, just because.  There was a lot of snowfall this winter, and the car I brought back from the coast wasn’t up to the task.  Rather than risk some kind of incident, I put my road trips on hold until I either bought a new vehicle, or the snow melted – whichever came first.  I didn’t expect it to take this long.

This week, I had to get out.  It’s not as though I had cabin fever.  In fact, it was almost the opposite.  The more I stayed at home, the more I didn’t want to go anywhere.  Then my car was broken into.  Foolishly, I had left my camera bag filled with specialty lenses under a coat in the back set.  Of course, it was taken.

My initial reaction was that I might as well give up.  I wouldn’t be able to replace those lenses, and without them, I wasn’t going to be able to take the kind of photos I wanted to take.

But somewhere inside a little voice was telling me I was wrong.  My vision didn’t depend on a specific lens, it depended on me.  My camera is part of my life.  I needed to feel the weight of it in my hands.   I needed one picture that spoke to me – just one – and I’d know everything was going to be okay.

And if I couldn’t head out into the mountains, there were still places I could go.  The city of Kelowna is an interesting mix of residential, farmland, orchards, beaches and wild places. I would find my picture out there somewhere.

I started out on Lakeshore Drive and followed it to the end before turning back.  I stopped in Cedar Creek to take a picture of the park.


I stopped at the beach access, where I was intrigued by the wood washed up on shore.  There were many other stops I would have made, including a stop for a small herd of mule deer, but traffic prevented me.


From Lakeshore I headed to the pond on Hull Road.  This was the very first park I visited in Kelowna, while looking for a place to live.  I was hoping that, like that day, there would be swans on the pond.  I found Buffleheads instead.


I left Hull Road, and made my way to Myra Canyon Road.  The rule I made for myself was that I would keep driving as long as I could see the road.  Unfortunately, although I could see the road, it was covered by ice and slush.  The higher I went, the worse it got.  I turned back.  The only stop I made in that area was KLO Creek, beautiful as it carved its way through the ice and snow.


I took the backroads through orchards and farmland to East Kelowna, stopping to take pictures of the geese in the orchards.


I arrived at Scenic Canyon in Rutland, but didn’t take any pictures.  I was standing there, looking at the snow, and wondering when the last time I threw a snowball was.  I was overcome with the desire to do just that. I made snowballs and threw them as hard as I could toward the river, laughing till I was breathless.

It wasn’t until I was on my way out of the park that I realized there were people in a parked car near mine.  I wonder what they must have thought at the sight of an overweight, middle-aged woman throwing snowballs at nothing, cackling to herself.

My final stop found me back at one of the small beaches off of Abbott Street.  I took pictures of bark and sand, but mostly I sat there, looking out over the water, at the gilded clouds and the blue mountains, remembering how lucky I am.


And the shot that I needed?  I got that.


Winter Wise

Winter looms above us like a dark prophecy…

Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic. But remember a few weeks ago when I said that winter was just a few kilometers up the road? I wasn’t wrong.

It started out simple enough. Santana had a four-hour shift to put in. Rather than drop him off, go home, turn around and come back, I decided to go for a drive. I’d been wanting to check out a certain stretch of road – Jack Pine Forestry to Bear Lake Main to the Coquihalla Connector. My concern was the Connector. A high mountain pass that connects mild-mannered Highway 97 to the tempest that is the Coquihalla, the Connector is subject to rapid weather changes and high volumes of snow. Frequent accidents are the norm. Drive BC has a sign between West Kelowna and Peachland that keeps drivers up to date on the road conditions. I figured if the sign said it was bad, I’d just roll on into Peachland and buy myself some lunch. Win-win.

The sign said, “Slippery Sections.” That didn’t sound too bad. I exited onto Glenrosa Road and began my ascent.

Evidence of winter’s approach was almost immediate. Before I was even beyond the residential area, there was snow on the side of the road. The further I went, the thicker it got. The weird thing was that the snow had been plowed. I have to ask – who does that? Or a better question – who pays for it? When I lived out in the country, if you weren’t on a school bus route, you were pretty much S-O-L. And finally, if the money is there, why hasn’t the road been fixed?


It was, however, absolutely gorgeous. The sky was a brilliant blue and for the most part, the snow had that virginal look to it. Except for the tracks.

When I lived in Alberta and worked in the newspaper industry, we would arrive home everyday shortly after sunrise and I would check the yard to see what creatures had visited through the night by reading the tracks. We got quite a variety – enough so that I finally asked Santa to bring me a trail cam. I left Alberta before getting the chance to set it up.


I could see plenty of tracks in the snow. Deer and rabbit, birds, coyotes and even a large cat, although I couldn’t say for sure if it was lynx or cougar. The snow had blown over, so the tracks weren’t exceptionally clear, but I could see that there were no claw marks. That’s how you tell the difference between canine and feline tracks. Canines don’t have retractable claws.


The snow was thick in the areas the sun couldn’t reach, hanging precariously from branches. It sparkled blue and silver in the filtered light.


Partially frozen streams added texture to the landscape.


Eventually, I reached the junction of Jack Pine Forestry and Bear Lake Main. I made my turn. The road was narrower here, hugged by trees on both sides – and it hadn’t been plowed. I stopped to take some photos and couldn’t help but slip into a memory.


It was near Christmas and I was about eleven. I was spending a few days with my best friend and cousin on her farm. Every season on the farm had something special, but winter seemed even more so. Whether it was skating on the frozen beaver dam or snowmobiling in the endless fields, there was always something. On this evening, we were on our way to a neighboring farm for a Christmas party. The road was exactly like this one, dark and magical, and there was an air of anticipation, the kind you only feel when you’re young.

I remember the kids were permitted to drink cider. I’m not sure if the parents realized that the alcohol percentage was higher in the cider than in the beer they were drinking, but somehow, I don’t think so.  I think they thought it was non-alcoholic.  Albertans weren’t that familiar with cider in those days. I don’t remember much more about that night – no big surprise there.

But that road – that road with its towering trees and snow-coated branches is something I never forgot.


I wanted to drive down this road – I was hungering to drive down this road. I rounded the first corner. The snow was getting deeper. There was a large 4X4 headed toward me, only the second vehicle I had seen all day. I pulled as far over to the side as I could to make room for him to pass. I felt the rear end of the car slip a little and quickly corrected the steering. My window was already down, as usual, so I waved at the other driver as he was about to pass. He lowered his window and looked down at me.

“How’s the road ahead?” I asked. He shook his head.

“It just gets worse from here.” He looked down at my little old Grand Prix with its all-season tires. “Frankly, I’m amazed you made it this far.”

I laughed.

“I drive slow.”

With a wave he pulled away. I thought about it for a minute or two. I looked longingly down the road and with a sigh I wiggled my little car back and forth until I was fully turned around.

I may be adventurous, but I’m not stupid.






Where the Wild Things Are

I make a big deal about bears – about how I’m always looking for them.  I’ve complained that even though I was never guaranteed to find one, at least when I lived in Alberta, I knew where to go look.  I knew where to search for moose.  I knew the best places to go birding and where I would be most likely to spot a herd of elk.

I didn’t always know.  

Even though I grew up in Alberta, it wasn’t until I had moved away for a few years and came back that I began to understand and appreciate what Alberta was.  It wasn’t until someone handed me a camera that I realized there were more birds out there than Magpies and Mallards.  It took me until I was in my 40’s to see the beauty in a field of wheat, the call of a coyote, the taste of a thunderstorm and the songs of tiny frogs. 

Sometimes, I miss all that.  

It’s not that BC doesn’t have all those things.  I know it does. I just don’t know where to find them – yet.

Except for the sheep.  I know where to find the California Big Horn Sheep.  There is no way for me to adequately express how truly fortunate I am to live in such a place, a place where fifteen minutes after leaving my house, I am looking through my lens at these glorious creatures.

Because it’s such a short distance, I went out twice this week – once early in the morning, when the sky was the colour of sapphires,





and again, late in the afternoon, while the sun slipped behind the mountains.  




So, if you hear me complaining that I haven’t seen a bear or that I forget what a moose looks like, just remind me that there are still plenty of roads to travel.  Remind me that I live in a world of endless possibilities.  Say, “Sally, remember the sheep.”


Aspen Trail

I’m on a quest. Mid-November – about the time of year that the Big Horn Sheep rut begins. Generally speaking, the challenges take place on the female’s wintering range. I’m not exactly sure where that is, but I know where I usually see ewes and kids, so I thought I’d start there.

The rain was coming down in sheets when I left the house. By the time I dropped Santana off at work, the sky had begun to change from a blanket of soft grey to a mix of colours and textures. There was even a bit of blue. Sunlight fell in patches on the hillsides, and the road glistened in the light. The spray that followed each passing car created a prism of light, making me smile. I was surrounded by rainbows. What a great day to be out!  

I followed West Side road until just past Fintry, stopping occasionally to take a picture or have a look around. I was struckby how much colour there was. At this time of year in Alberta, the colour has seeped out of the land, and what isn’t covered in snow is a dull greyish brown.  Maybe it was the rain, but the colours seemed so alive and fresh.

“Opens a door in Heaven:

From skies of glass

A Jacob’s ladder falls

On greening grass

And o’er the mountain-walls

Young angels pass”

 From Early Spring by Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Turning around, I headed back toward West Kelowna. I stopped when I spotted a large gathering of Ravens and Magpies feasting on something at the side of the road. Bald Eagles looked on from nearby trees. 

I turned onto Bear Lake Main and followed it for a while, all without seeing any sign of the local sheep. The nice thing about gravel roads after a rainfall is that there isn’t any dust.

I had my window down and the stereo off, listening for any sound that might indicate head-butting action.  Nothing. But the day wasn’t wasted.

I found myself on a narrow road off of the main drag.  The forest here was quiet, and there was a low, golden glow about it.  

This was the road to the Bear Creek Recreation Site – Aspen Trail. There is a lovely hidden campground that still housed about three or four motorhomes.  No tents. Wussies…

The clouds hung low in the sky.  Winter is just a few kilometers up the road but I’m not quite ready for that.

Maude-Roxby Bird Sanctuary

It’s time to turn in my flip-flops.  I found this out the hard way – by going for an early morning stroll in the Maude-Roxby Bird Sanctuary.  It was cold enough for ice to have formed on the marsh, except in the places the Mallards had broken it up. That didn’t stop me from spending an hour and a half walking around with my toes exposed.  Brrrr….

I was there hoping to catch a glimpse of a specific bird rumoured to be hanging out in the area, and even though I didn’t spot said bird, I have no regrets.

It’s easy to miss those little moments.  Last week I looked down from my balcony to the lawn below and all I could think about was how much I wanted to roll around in the leaves, like I did when I was a child.  I put it off because I was busy.  It could wait until my day off.  That’s also when I was going to go down and take pictures of the mushroom garden growing on an old tree stump.  My day off came and I was woken by the sound of a mower.  The landscapers had come, all those lovely leaves were gone.  The mushroom garden had been weed-whacked.  Two missed opportunities, and while they might not be big or important, they reminded me that I need to say yes more often.  Especially when I’m the one asking.  

When it occurred to me I should go see if I could spot a single, specific bird in a forest of trees, I didn’t question the likelihood of it – I said yes.  Surely there would be things to see.  There were.

First of all, there were swans on the lake.  They must be Trumpeter Swans because the ruckus going on sounded very much like a Middle School band.  As it turned out, there were both Trumpeter and Tundra Swans on the lake.  You can tell the Tundra Swan by the yellow teardrop just below the eye.

Inside the sanctuary, a boardwalk winds its way through a marsh situated on the last piece of undeveloped shoreline in the Kelowna area.  

I love a good boardwalk.  Somehow, even though I struggle to walk across a parking lot, when I’m on a boardwalk, it feels like I can walk forever.  Of course, a few well-placed benches help.  The smell of fallen leaves, nature’s sweetest bouquet, rises all around, and the plants are tousled and wild, looking as though they just got out of bed.  The cattails, if I were on the ground, would tower over me like a scene from “Alice in Wonderland”.

Moss covers exposed roots between lake and marsh, and there are countless hiding places for birds looking to take a break from the flock.



It’s quiet in the sanctuary.  The few other people on the trail walk softly and speak in muted tones.  What noise there is comes from the Mallards on the marsh, and the squirrels racing in the trees.  

I’m glad I came, even if my toes are cold.


“What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlonely being alone can be.”

⁃ Ellen Burstyn

It took me a while to become comfortable in solitude. The day it finally happened, I discovered not only comfort, but joy. Alone with my camera and my journal, my blanket and my picnic lunch, I prowled the marsh at Pearce Estate Park in Calgary. I was captivated by the abundance of wildflowers and the way the sunlight played upon the marsh grass. Minutes turned to hours and I had no concept at all of the passage of time, as deeply involved as I was. That feeling, somewhere on the edge between exhilaration and utter calm turned out to be what I was seeking.

Or on the shores of Frank Lake, Alberta in early May, when migrating birds would darken the sky with sheer numbers and I could barely hear my own thoughts over their cries. They went about their business, driven by instinct and ignored me, the lone human on the landscape – never has a moment been more euphoric.

Each week that I go out, head into the backcountry, my true purpose isn’t to get enough pictures to fill a blog. It’s to reach that place of silent wonder, enfolded in the beauty that surrounds me. Lost in time among the trees and hills, the lone human, wandering unnoticed, on the landscape of the gods.