Head East to go West
HEADING EAST TO GO WEST
Escaping the desolation of a Chinese winter, we take a road trip to the western United States; phenomenal desert and ocean landscapes and
a bird photographers paradise.
BALANCED ROCK SUNSET: ARCHES NATIONAL PARK, UTAH
We emerge from the train onto a desolate platform, few others disembark; the interior had been a furnace, out here, it’s a freezer. It is minus 15C and the wind is making it quite clear we are not welcome. Fighting through a mob of touts, desperately offering assistance in finding a hotel, or seafood restaurant, we get into a tiny taxi and are buried under our copious luggage. On the highway we rush past vistas of bare Poplars; leafless plantations of seemingly endless straight lines and dry grasses alongside deserted agricultural fields. Nothing grows up here at this time of year; the place is dead. I look at my wife and ask “why the hell are we here?” or something similar! Juanli doesn’t answer, and continues staring out of her side window, her own dark thoughts subdued only by the warm light of the setting sun kissing her cheek.
It’s 3pm and we’re in North East China on a late November afternoon in 2004. We’re relocating back here to live, Juanli having bought an apartment a few months ago while I’d been in Mexico. I look at the grey desert of death drifting by and can only think of the stunning view from the house we’d just left in Malaysia; from the island of Penang, looking across the Straits of Malacca to the conical and massive limestone outcrop of Gunung Jerai on the mainland; the azure sea an incongruous juxtaposition to our new reality.
Now we’re in Beidaihe (Bay-die-hu), and to put it mildly, the fifty-degree drop in temperature is pissing me off. Essentially, the town exists to satiate Beijing residents desire to be by the seaside. The small town lies on a small peninsular sticking out into the Gulf of Bohai and has a pleasant sandy beach, a plethora of eateries (all seafood) and no shortage of cram ’em in cheap hotels; that aren’t cheap. The thing is, they only come in the summer, when the place transforms into a partying beach resort. The other influx the town enjoys is from birdwatchers, mostly from Europe and the US; but their migration is also seasonal; late April to mid May and again for a few weeks in the autumn, the times when the birds themselves are migrating.
Because the town, as mentioned, is on a promontory, it is a magnet for migrating birds, many of which do so at night and head for land at dawn. It was discovered as a “hot spot” in the 1980’s by visiting overseas birders, and as China has opened it’s doors more readily to foreigners, Beidaihe became “the place” to go birding in China. It’s not a complete coincidence we’ve just moved here; just the timing is a bit weird!
The taxi driver takes us to a few hotels and we find one that is still open after some hours search! As we check in, we get “odd” looks from the staff, as if, like me, they’re asking, “Who comes to Beidaihe in November?” The hotel is grim, but warm; Chinese hotels can be brutally hot, the central heating blasting out enough thermal radiation to cook a turkey, if you could buy one! I am always stunned when I check into these places; the carpet has seen better days, unidentifiable stains decorate the dirty grey, wallpaper peels from mildewed walls, and, on this occasion, the perfect outline of a boot print on the wall above the television! Why?
Our new apartment was in a totally undecorated state, bare walls, concrete floors and primal wiring; we spend a couple of weeks soliciting the services of an interior designer and making daily trips into the neighboring town of Qinhuangdao. My mother always said, if you can’t say anything good then say nothing at all; I on the other hand say, vent!
The city was to play host to some of the 2008 Olympic soccer matches and was undergoing something of a face-lift; although I suggest a full chemical peel may be more appropriate. Typical of large Chinese cities, a grid of wide boulevards, now decorated with suitably chic Olympic statues, attempt to display an air of grandeur; however the endless rows of grim shop-houses, mounds of litter and seemingly the entire population of China crammed into an urban sprawl, always leave me cold and desperate to be elsewhere. There are only 3 million people here, a mere hamlet by Chinese standards, but they all choose to be out at once! Ironically, Qinhuangdao is twinned with no less than seven other cities around the world, including Toledo in the United States! Go figure that out? It does however have two McDonalds!
FROZEN RESERVOIR AT DAWN: BEIDAIHE NOVEMBER 2004
By the first week of December, all the creative decorative decisions had been made and, once again, I had to leave China for work. It was amazingly clear to us that spending the winter in our new home would probably drive us insane, so, after plowing through maps and guide books, we elect to spend the next three months in California. I have to go to Mexico on business anyway and the car we bought in Canada the previous summer is still stored on Vancouver Island; so, on the 4th December I board a United Airlines flight from Beijing to Los Angeles, negotiated an awful transit to Mexico City and on to Ciudad del Carmen on the Gulf Coast. As a side note: LAX, is probably one of the worlds’ worst airports, hardly a suitable welcome to tinsel town.
After ten days of tacos, walking on the deserted beach between meetings and more tacos, I head north again, and as a result of some nifty flight changes and a strong desire to be reunited with Juanli, I meet her off the Air Canada flight from Beijing in Vancouver airport. Unlike LAX, or Mexico City for that matter, Vancouver International is, as it should be, everything one hopes for in an airport; modern, squeaky clean and very efficient. As I sit in Tim Hortons (a Canadian icon in its own right) with a cup of fresh coffee, smiling happily across the Formica tabletop to reacquaint myself with the subtleties of my wifes face, I reflect, “It’s good to be back in Canada.”
Growing up in Scotland, with a Merchant Seaman for a father, for some reason, Canada had always been a draw for me. Vancouver always sounded so romantic; a modern, cosmopolitan city tucked away in its protective cove and harbor; gateway to the Rocky Mountains and the Great White North. Reading novels by Jack London and the poetry of Robert Service while tucked up in bed, I would drift off into dreams of giant bears, wolves and adventure. And once I discovered the Canadian rock band Rush in the late 1970’s that was it, I was as good as Canadian eh?
Earlier that year we had spent the summer and early Fall on Vancouver Island and had some great friends with a 10 acre place up north of Victoria, so, after the 20 minute bounce across the Strait of Georgia on the little Air Canada Jazz flight, we were met at the small, yet no less meticulous airport of Victoria.
VICTORIA, BRITISH COLUMIA WITH MT BAKER 120KM BEHIND
There is no plan, route or schedule; we let ourselves drift at leisure, just enjoying the feeling of zero pressure and an empty appointment diary. The house in the woods is a frenzy of pre-Christmas activity; a monster Fir Tree decorated with family nostalia and countless memories, dominates the vaulted living room; I revel in the daily routine of banking up the log fires and cleaning the grate. In contrast to our usually solitary life, the experience of this family gathering, good will and parties, in a large and civilized home is heart-warming.
The weather is glorious, uncharacteristically clear and crisp. We take daily drives down through the suburbs of Saanich and Oak Bay, leisurely strolls around Swan Lake and along the sea front past Clover Point; but the view south across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Olympic National Park in Washington State was always there, and a constant draw. On the 17th we celebrate my 38th birthday, and the thoughts of driving the empty road, just the two of us, spurred us into action.
In October 2002 Juanli and I had flown from our home in Cyprus to take a 4 week road trip across the US; arriving in Houston, traveling south along the Texas Gulf Coast to the Rio Grande, then steering northwest along the Mexican border to Big Bend National Park, New Mexico and Arizona. After a rest in Sierra Vista we went north through Sedona and Flagstaff, the Grand Canyon to Vegas and west through Death Valley, eventually hitting the Pacific Coast at Fort Bragg, before turning south through Napa wine country, San Francisco, delightful Monterey and finally Los Angeles.
COASTAL SCENERY NEAR PORT RENFREW: VANCOUVER ISLAND
Even though we have no plan, I had a thought I’d like to explore southern Utah and the Washington coast, two areas we’d never been, but seen enough exciting photographs to convince us of their beauty. As the latter lay just to our south, that seems the obvious route, so we book the next days sailing on the MV Coho, the ferry connecting Victoria to Port Angeles. The day is grey and overcast; ominous really, and for a moment we seriously consider the offers of staying for Christmas. We sit forlornly in a small queue of cars and RV’s at the dockside, the Coho looking reassuringly large and buoyant. Immigration was time-consuming but cordial, a Chinese passport always demanding a little more scrutiny and that extra question or two, but on time, we drive onto the ferry and I take my traditional spot on the bough, hopeful of spotting a few seabirds on the short crossing. A stiff breeze brings the salty air to our nostrils, but its not cold, just bracing.
Then we’re in The United States of America; liters of gas become gallons and kilometers turn to miles, the weather closes in some more and sadly, our first impressions of Washington State are uninspiring. We skirt the edges of Olympic National Park, the peak hidden in cloud, following route 101 west through mile after dripping mile of conifer forest, then south to the little logging town of Forks where we see a Bald Eagle, and on to Aberdeen. I always smile when I incongruously encounter a Scottish place name so far from “home”, especially as my namesake Samuel Benn founded this one in 1884. The weather has brightened and we stop at a supermarket on the edge of town for hot soup and French bread that we consume in the car. From our previous road trips we favor this type of eating to the ubiquitous burgers, pizzas, doughnuts and tacos of the American roadside.
The twisting turns of the road go on and on, the towns of Raymond, Astoria and Seaside drift by, and before we can get to the “dramatic bit”, evening catches us and the darkness comes quickly. We pull into Cannon Beach and start looking for a motel, the task taking no time at all, and we’re soon checked in. I quickly find the weather network, my staple channel when traveling, but there’s no good news; a massive low-pressure system is coming in off the Pacific and the forecast is for rain, lots of rain. The prospect of driving the entire coast road down to San Francisco in the wet isn’t too appealing and we decide to head inland to escape the weather.
We awake to the aforementioned precipitation and a strong onshore wind, pack quickly and continue south until we can head east on route 6 to Portland. I’m grumpy, as I’d been really hopeful of some great views, and through snatches of mist and gloom we do see glimpses of the coastal glory the area is famous for. On a clear sunny day with no traffic, I can imagine route 6 would be a delightful drive; unfortunately, in the pissing rain with large logging trucks crawling up the winding road, it’s a pain. What looked on the map like a short hop, takes a few hours, but as we reach a high ridge and look down on the city of Portland, the sun comes out and our spirits lift. However, navigating our way through the seemingly nonsensical road system to I84 was beyond my meager skill and we end up downtown, which to be fair, is very nice. It reminds me a little of Boston, architecturally attractive, with a mildly studious feel. In the suburb of Rockwood I can see the illusive highway, but finding an on ramp proves impossible! The weather by now is however splendid, and Juanli and I are enjoying this hide and seek game; no schedule taking off the heat.
DESERT FLORA AT DUSK: ARCHES NATIONAL PARK, UTAH
When we finally find our way onto I84, we slip into a mile guzzling cruise mode, stopping only for gas and belly fillers. There is a tedious, yet reassuring, familiarity with US highway driving; the scenery changes, but the road and services stay the same, generic fast food outlets selling generic fast food. We blaze across Oregon and Idaho in pleasant weather, but as we climb past Nampa towards Twin Falls, snow starts until the road is invisible and we’re cocooned in our little world following the taillights of a big truck in a snowy flurry. We’re on an empty section of highway, and as we pass Snowville at an elevation of 4547 feet in a blizzard I can’t help smiling at the irony. Eventually though, after 850 miles or 1370km on my Canadian cars odometer, the lights of Salt Lake City appear and we begin trawling for a motel; tonight’s winner being a decent Best Western near Ogden. I am grateful for take-out tacos and the 5lt box of Chardonnay I’d picked up in a liquor store the night before. Suitably satiated, I settle down to the weather channel, my road atlas and another glass of Chardonnay!
Dawn is crisp; fresh snow blankets the car park and has frozen on the windshield; I go for the lazy mans option and turn on the ignition, letting the cars warmth do the defrosting. My windshield washer bottle had frozen some time the evening before and didn’t thaw until 10 days later!
Seemingly we’d been fortunate and only caught the edge of the weather system that was now to our north dumping many feet of snow in Yellowstone National Park. With that route closed we headed for Moab, and the high road over the mountains through Price was a delight; having lived most of the last few years in more tropical climes, the novelty of snow didn’t wear off easily. I was ashamed to realize how little I knew about Utah other than a vague recollection of the Osmond family! The scenery was so grand and majestic; numerous signs for ski areas and expansive views over the massive lake. Moab too proved to be a delight; after a short 5-hour drive, descending into the red sandstone canyons and crossing the Colorado River, the small town has an instantaneous outdoor feel, and we check into the Red Rock Lodge for five nights and make our first trip into Arches National Park.
ARCHES NATIONAL PARK
For the rest of the week we spend our time between Arches and Canyonlands, which are vast, desolate and largely deserted. It is the Christmas vacation and most normal people are enjoying time at home with their families. On the 26th, Boxing Day, we took the long drive down to Monument Valley, but it was closed, the Apache being partial to Christmas apparently. I have to say, I was simply overwhelmed by the scenery, having half expected something less inspiring than the Grand Canyon, and it was photographically daunting. I’d only started taking landscape photographs a few months ago, and I wasn’t sure my skill was up to the challenge. But we tried, rising early and getting back to the motel late.
The weather stayed fine, but cold, around minus twelve degrees at dawn, and on our last day we were wrapped in every piece of clothing we had, and were still cold. We drove, before sunrise, to the Garden of Eden car park and set off up to the arches. Snow lay in little pockets and I stopped to compose a scene; I got increasingly caught up in the challenge and wandered at will among the rocks and ravines, assuming Juanli would be nearby. The sky lightened further, but no golden light spilled over the horizon; instead a flat grey covered the land, threatening snow. I step up and look around, my wife is nowhere to be seen, the first micro feelings of panic grip me and I call her name, but no reply.
I pack my gear and run up the trail to the Windows, calling her name all the time: nothing. The heavy backpack and tripod are wearing me down, and as there is no sign of her, I conclude she must have returned to the car, so I turn my back and run down the trail, but again, no sign of her. By now I am quite freaked, I call again. Just then, out of the slate grey sky, the first snowflakes begin to fall. As I run back up the path, the snow falls heavier, until it’s a complete whiteout, visibility no more than a few yards. It’s cold, and it’s a serious situation now. Juanli is completely unprepared for the conditions; no food, no water, no communication and no survival skills. I know the area is the haunt of Mountain Lions, and my search becomes more frantic.
My only thought was to get higher, up into the rough ground between the North and South Windows, but the going was treacherous, fresh snow covering holes between the boulders and despite my anxiety, I had to slow my pace to a cautious crawl. For an hour the snow fell heavily and I crisscrossed the hillside calling Juanli, my voice carried off in the wind and suffocated by the snow. Then, like a specter, I see a dark shape huddled and slowly shambling down the slope, it was her, snow covering her hat and jacket, her small face frost-reddened and scared.
THE FIERY FURNACE AREA: ARCHES NATIONAL PARK
We laugh shyly at each other, perhaps not wanting to admit how concerned we’d been, casually I ask where she’d got to, and she confessed to having got disoriented when the clouds came down in the whiteout. She had wandered around the back of the arches and started downhill, thinking she was heading for the car; unaware, that in fact, she was descending into the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, she had realized her mistake and managed to retrace her steps up the hill to the crest of the ridge, where she had begun to hear me calling her name. I put my arm around her shoulders and we return to the car, the snow easing.
Later that day, after a memorable desert sunset, we stood together watching the moon rise behind Balanced Rock, sharing a glorious moment; then, getting back into the warm car, we drive into Moab and have a good dinner.
MOONRISE OVER MESA: ARCHES NATIONAL PARK
Back in the Red Rock I pour a glass of wine and relax in the warm bed, but flicking on the weather station, I see the situation is turning for the worse; more snow and icy roads are forecast: The entire southern Rockies were getting blasted with blizzards, the news stations showing impressive scenes of airport closures and traffic accidents. We had considered heading south and further east to New Mexico, thinking that a few days around Bosque del Apache and the amazing wildlife there would be fantastic, but the weather just looked horrid. The radar showed clear skies in only one direction, southwest.
At dawn the next day we started out on one of our epic drives, 1000 miles from the Martian landscapes of Utah, to the kelp beds of the Pacific Ocean at Salinas; California. Too much of it passed in a blur, tentative memories of barren landscapes down I15, thinking how ludicrous Vegas looked out there in the middle of nowhere; no thoughts of stopping there again. Then the long, long haul skirting the Mojave National Preserve, Joshua Trees and casinos beside the highway, fading abruptly to endless agriculture as we swing west towards Bakersfield, where the rain starts again.
By now I was tired, but stubbornness pushes me on across the flat land on sodden route 46 and a sigh of relief as we again pull onto 101. I was heading for Monterey, with fond memories of delightful accommodation and plenty of great restaurants, including an Indian! A tall, cold beer and a Chicken Jalfrezi were so etched in my mind; they drove me on, passed tiredness. Unfortunately, darkness and driving rain were too much for my eyes and when I see a Best Western beside the highway, I stop. It’s been a long day.
ON THE ROAD TO MONUMENT VALLEY: NORTHERN ARIZONA
Once again, take-out tacos and a glass of wine in a warm bed are my reward; and in one mammoth step, we were here; California.
Two days later we’re installed in a studio apartment in Daly City, a suburb of San Francisco, with rented furniture, cable TV, phone and Internet connection; we’d found our temporary home, just a few hundred yards from the swelling ocean.
It was, unfortunately, an unusually wet and cloudy winter; the jet stream was further south than normal and instead of washing the coast of British Columbia, it soaked the central coast of California instead. Floods and mudslides further south monopolize the news, and although we were grateful not to be freezing our asses off in China, it wasn’t often sunny and warm. With our photographic passions still leaning towards avian subjects, we toured around looking for suitable shooting locations, north to Point Reyes National Park, south to Big Sur and east to Yosemite.
TUNNEL VIEW: YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK, CALIFORNIA
BIRD PHOTOGRAPHY IN THE BAYLANDS
The most convenient and rewarding, though less scenic, is our discovery of Palo Alto Baylands, an area of tidal pools and salt marsh off route 101, not far from Stamford University. A good selection of birds including Avocets, Dowitchers, Stilts and Duck frequented these wetlands, plus a supporting cast of Hummingbirds, Phoebes and Birds of Prey in the surrounding fields. Unlike China however, where birds are trapped for food and the caged bird industry, they’re all quite habituated to humans and allow close approach and excellent photographic opportunities.
This became our regular haunt, and over the next two months we spent many, many hours here. It was during this time I developed a lot of my bird photography skills, learning to read bird behavior to predict the shot, rather than the futility of attempting to react. I studied flight paths, daily routines and the influence of the tides and wind direction on individual species.
FORSTER’S TERN FISHING: PALO ALTO BAYLANDS, CALIFORNIA
This familiarity, study and understanding, coupled with willing and approachable subjects, led to a rapid development of technique. The majority of my prior bird-photography experience was of the “walk about” variety; go for a walk with the camera and see what pops up. Good images can certainly be achieved in this manner, but it boils down to a lot of luck, rather than good design.
Taking two of my American Avocet images as examples, I hope to demonstrate how pre-visualizing images plus an understanding of subject behavior and weather can help achieve potentially more satisfying results.
1: Avocet Wing-stretch at Dawn
American Avocets are striking birds, pearly white, black wings, long legs and an incongruously upturned bill. They have evolved to take advantage of a certain niche, feeding by sweeping their bills from side to side in shallow water, filtering out small aquatic creatures disturbed from the mud. At Palo Alto their daily movements are very much dictated by the tides; as the water falls in San Francisco Bay, the birds leave their roosts and fly into areas that will soon be exposed, or shallow enough to feed in. A few hours later as the tide comes in again and the water level becomes too deep, they fly off to roost in small, disjointed flocks until it’s time to repeat the cycle.
Both these times provide plenty of photographic opportunities; there is always a certain amount of squabbling going on, pre-breeding disputes break out, and little groups can often be seen dancing around, accompanied by a lot of calling and wing-flapping.
However, I noticed a pattern beginning to unfold; near the end of the roosting time, before they would fly off to feed, it was common for the birds to preen; that is, have a good wash and pick at their feathers. At these times I always imagined Narcissus, as the vain individual preens its self and casts looks in the watery mirror to check its reflection. It is also very common for the birds to stretch out, much like an athlete prior to exercise. To my eye, the most splendid of these stretches, is where both wings are lifted high above the birds back and the head lowered, just to iron out any kinks in that spine!
AMERICAN AVOCET WINGSTRETCH AT DAWN: PALO ALTO BAYLANDS
Throughout January I had seen birds do this often, but it took me a while to fully understand the rhythm of it and the first seeds of a shot were sown.
This is a winter plumage female bird doing a vertical wing stretch just before taking off. The shot is made all the better by the mirrored water and the golden light of dawn. Being there at the right time took a lot of work, to get the combination of no wind and a clear sky with the tide at just the right height for the bird to have just finished roosting and ready to fly off and feed. The golden light lasted for only a few minutes; before that it is too dark, and soon after you lose the softness of it. It’s just a great series of conditions that came together at the right time. I used a tripod to support my Canon 1Ds and 500mm lens and shot at 1/400 @ f11. I chose that aperture to ensure everything was very sharp; I was pretty close to the bird having got there while it was still dark. I spent nearly every day for two months photographing these Avocets and this was the only time all the right conditions came together. For exposure I used evaluative metering +1/3 of a stop, as the white bird is against a pale to mid-tone background.
As the above dialog shows, it was a case of understanding the behavioral, weather and tidal requirements to get the image; I “knew” what the bird was going to do, I wasn’t reacting to behavior, but pre-empting it.
2: Avocet flight Portrait
This second image uses the same principles, just requiring a different set of circumstances and understanding a different element of behavior. The basic one here is this; birds virtually always land “into” the wind, simply, it helps them slow down. This male bird was beginning its molt into summer plumage and started defending a territory. Every time another Avocet would come anywhere near his little patch, he’d fly off and have a scuffle, then fly back to his favorite feeding spot. I’d watched him do it dozens of times, and again, just had to wait for a day when the wind was coming from my right, the sun rising over my shoulder and the tide to be in the correct phase.
AMERICAN AVOCET COMING INTO LAND: PALO ALTO BAYLANDS
Like humans, birds adopt many routines in their daily life; combine this with knowledge of the predictable tides, sunrise and sunset and most images are then only a matter of time.
Both Juanli and I felt we made great progress during this period, but soon enough, living in a small studio apartment and revisiting the same places to shoot the same birds, we began to feel a little jaded. After three months away from China we missed home; that book you want to re-read, a guitar to play or a favorite restaurant with friends and drinks. Also, having not worked since December, there was a certain amount of pressure from directors to “do something!” We know too, that spring migration will soon be starting at home and we’re keen to try out our new skills on Chinese birds.
Spring was really coming fast as we went through the tedium of giving up the apartment, packing our gear into our little car and canceling cable. As we’d spent 7 of the last 12 months on the north American continent, we felt we should spend some more time in Asia again, so our plan was to head back to Vancouver, sell the car and head for China.
All too soon we’re standing by the packed car, wearing just shorts and a t-shirt in the late morning sunshine of a beautiful Californian day. Looking up to the empty window of our old apartment, I suddenly realize how quickly I had settled into this life; a wonderful supermarket just down the road selling anything my heart could desire, fresh, ripe, clean; smelling wholesome and healthy. Reluctantly, we drive off; take a left onto John Daly Boulevard and a right onto Skyline, the grass of the Olympic Club Golf Course looking so verdant, and the water of Lake Merced blue and sparkling.
TIME STANDS STILL: SAN FRANCISCO BAY, CALIFORNIA
Cruising with the windows down, subconsciously in no hurry, the relentless waves of the Pacific crashing a melancholy chord as they break before the sandy beach. We keep to the scenic route, through the opulent suburbs of El Camiro del Mar, the lovely Lincoln Park and the Californian Palace of the Legion of Honor. And then it’s there, the iconic and globally recognizable Golden Gate Bridge; the crimson paint glowing above the frigid water, the Island of Alcatraz, still menacing and full of ghosts, to our right. It is such a stunning city and deep down, I don’t think I want to leave.
As we hit the Redwood Highway through Sausatilo and Corte Madera the traffic builds and we slow to a crawl, the prospect of a long drive north isn’t inspiring and I’m feeling low. Why are we leaving?
Eventually, north of Novato we speed up and progress becomes easier, the magnetic draw of the old life recedes with distance. I don’t know how long we drive, I just know with every mile I relax, and suddenly consumed by the open road and a new vista over the next hill, am satisfied with the rewards of the vagabond. The sun dissolves into the ocean on our left and we stop for the night in Eureka.
LAST LIGHT: CALIFORNIA
Dawn brings fog and more eerie melancholy; the road winds, twisted and tortured through Redwood National Park, everything damp and dripping, and by the time we reach Crescent City I notice route 199 will take us quickly across to I5 and a blast north to Vancouver. We’re suddenly gripped with the realization that if we get going we can be in Canada by this evening, sell the car, and end this chapter.
We’d come across the world to avoid a cold, dull winter, with no plan or agenda; we were leaving fulfilled, overly so, challenged by how quickly we’d become enamored by the trappings of the Golden State. I could be so easily lulled into the comfortable life; a place on the coast, ocean views and some of the best landscapes in the world within a days drive. But, at the same time I know that drifting into the comfort zone is negative for us; we need that ever-receding horizon, the sense of the unknown, fresh challenges and no routine. It’s what makes us thrive, our relationship growing with continued adaptability.
I5 does what it does best and we blast north; seeing signs for Crater Lake National Park, then Mount St Helens and Mount Rainier, gives me pangs of regret; “next trip” I tell myself. By 5pm we’re entering the expansive urban sprawl of Tacoma and Seattle, the traffic building with rush hour predictability. As I ease off the gas and settle in, a safe distance behind the next car, aware of my space and concentrating, I turn my head to the right and chat with Juanli. The car in front stops and I stop too, half a car length behind, we continue to chat. Suddenly we’re hit hard from behind, violently thrown forward into the back of the car in front; for a fraction of a second all is still, then another crushing impact piles us forward again.
A pick-up had plowed into us at 50mph, followed by an SUV; we both have whiplash injuries and are faced with the logistics of dealing with all this less than a week before leaving the country. The police arrive and we all give our statements, exchange insurance details and a recovery truck takes us to a wreckers yard, where our poor car is laid to rest! We have a lot of gear, but after about three hours get a cab to a local motel and make some calls to arrange a rental car and talk to our insurance company in Canada. ICBC dealt with things amazingly well and a couple of days before I fly out, they already have a check for the written off car.
Back at the house in the woods on Vancouver Island we spend a week recuperating, our injuries uncomfortable rather than debilitating. Juanli is flying out a few days before me and I hang out with my mate Chris, a mega-keen local birder. On my last day, a crystal clear one with no clouds and a gentle salt-scented breeze, we photograph American and Common Wigeon on a little lake near Clover Point, looking across the Strait of Juan de Fuca as the MV Coho sets off from the harbor. We sit on the deck at Swan Lake watching a Pied-billed Grebe fishing within yards of us, and a Bald Eagle passes over in a lazy glide. Finally, as dusk sets in, we crouch low beside a rushing river in Goldstream Park and enjoy an American Dipper feeding in the freezing cascade.
AMERICAN WIGEON: VICTORIA, BRITISH COLUMBIA
The pieces are all falling into place; mentally I’m preparing myself for heading back to Asia. The long days of driving, the countless hours beside tidal pools waiting for the shot, hiking through Mt. Tamalpais State Park and on the beaches of Point Reyes, chasing the experience.
I take the early boat from Swartz Bay to Tsawwassen, the ferry port of Vancouver; thousands of gulls and auks are feeding in Active Passage, a narrow stretch of ferocious water squeezed between Galiano and Mayne Islands. A pod of 12 Killer Whales glide past and all the passengers rush to the starboard side for views. I drive through the flat fields to the airport and dump the hire car and drift into the shining airport again; check in and head for the Gold Lounge for a quick drink before boarding. As we climb, the mountains rising above the north shore of Vancouver are like a breaking wave, the city laid out in a rational grid, but contoured by Stanley Park, I settle into my seat and ponder the next 14 hours; back over the International Date Line, losing that day I gained on the way east!
Beijing is invisible below us as we descend, shrouded in smog, air with plenty of personality! And then with an almost audible “click” I’m in a cab, telling the driver in Chinese where I want to go, and again, I’m a foreigner in a foreign land.
A few days later we cycle into Qinhuangdao for some exercise and lunch; Beidaihe is being released from its winter incarceration, the sea ice breaking up in the bay, a few bold flowers pushing up through the brown leaf litter; shy and vulnerable. We lock the bikes in the crowded centre of town and are instantly swamped by people; busy, purposeful, determined, unyielding, and ungracious. I feel frustration rising and suppress a scream, but let it go and shoulder my way through the pack into McDonalds.
“Wo yao yi ge Big Mac”
“I want a Big Mac”