Tag Archives: canada

Banff School Days

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The Banff Mountain Film and Book Festival is one of the most respected (if not the preeminent) adventure and outdoor film festival in existence. It is held for nine days every fall in Canada’s oldest national park, Banff. Afterwards, select films are screened in forty countries during their World Tour. I have been attending the World Tour in Pasadena for the last few years looking forward to a time when I could attend the festival itself (hopefully as a contributing filmmaker). With the release of G.O. Get Outside, this seemed like the ideal year to take that step.

While reviewing their site for submission information, I stumbled across their Adventure Filmmakers’ Workshop—an intensive 8-day program during the festival focused specifically on outdoor and adventure filmmaking. I decided to both submit G.O. to the festival and to apply for the workshop. The application process may have been more involved than my college applications and was the first time I have written a resume in several years. In the end, G.O. was not accepted to the festival largely because it was too rudimentary and instructional for the festival crowd. I was, although, one of the students selected for the workshop.

November 1st was a busy day. I woke early for a 12-hour shoot, went immediately to a Day of the Dead party afterwards, and then directly to the airport for my international flight to Alberta, Canada and the beginning of 10 long and fantastic days at the Banff Centre, an arts school situated in a national park. Each day there was as busy as that day before I arrived, packed full of some combination of classroom time, festival screenings, socializing and parties, and churning out a short movie. It was like being in college again—little sleep, lots of fun and productivity (and a little stress). I had been unsure about whether the workshop would be a valuable investment of time and money. In the end, it may have been one of the best decisions I have made in years. The instructors (Michael Brown and Keith Partridge) were extremely knowledgeable and all-around great people. My fellow students were also awesome people—everyone was eager to help each other and share knowledge. I hope to work with many (or all of them) in the future and I look forward to seeing what they all create. We also had access to facilities and festival events most attendees do not. I left with an inundation of pertinent information and valuable contacts it would have taken many years to accumulate.

As part of the program, we were broken into six groups and tasked with creating a short movie (everything from shooting to final post production and screening) within two days (while also finding time to party in town at night). Unbeknownst to us, a panel of judges incorporating festival filmmakers and employees of Red Bull and National Geographic were going to screen our shorts alongside of us and then choose their top three to play during the actual film festival. My group came in second place. G.O. didn’t make it into the festival, but our two-day student film did.

I’ve already started working on my submission for next year.

Goddamn Right

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Here is a compilation of some of the stuff I managed to capture during my first year as a GoPro owner. It’s too bad I didn’t take it more places. There were so many times I forgot it and wished I’d had it with me.

The Return

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Leaving the WCT — June 2010 from Fourchinnigan on Vimeo.

After completing the West Coast Trail, I spent a couple of days relaxing in Victoria. The weather was perfect. Then, I caught the ferry back to Vancouver where I shared a dingy hostel room with a very interesting Canadian from the East Coast. He had taken a Greyhound across country and been kicked off for fighting. His bags never made it to his destination. He, too, had stories of East Hastings Street, but despite his feigned distaste, it was clear he was intrigued by the place. Within the few hours we shared the room, he got sloppy drunk, snorted Oxycontin, begged me for a pair of socks,  disappeared to go hire a prostitute, and collapsed on the bed after 3:00 A.M. His plan was to look for a job "first thing in the morning." Somehow, I don’t think he made it. Shortly afterwards, I walked a block to the bus station. As the Sun rose, Greyhound drove me to Seattle. I slept more soundly on the bus than in the hostel. The final 36 hours were spent on an Amtrak train riding the Coast Starlight route back to Los Angeles. It was an interesting experience also punctuated with the rap stylings of a soused Canadian.

BC Summer — Part 2 (of 2)

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Near the end of May, I quit my job and fled to Canada for two and a half weeks. The first week was spent sight-seeing with Erika. The second week involved backpacking down the West Coast Trail. The last few days were spent riding the Amtrak down the coast to L.A. This entry will focus on Week Two.

I fumble around in the twilight. My hand finds the zipper. I squeeze through the tight space between the tent opening and the adjacent rock face and into the cold sand. Before me are the remnants of our failed fire. I stand, squeeze past the tent, and inspect the clothesline. Our quick-dry clothing is still drenched. The air is too damp for anything to dry. Oh well. I exit the cave and step down onto the beach. The rain has ceased for the time being. The sky is still overcast, but the rising Sun is strong enough to illuminate a gray haze. A light mist rolls across my skin. I stare out into the ocean for a bit. It’s cold. My body tends to run warm, except in the morning. No point in lollygagging. The sooner I get moving, the sooner my core temperature will increase. I hike down the beach to a small cove where I stashed my bear canister. Still safe. The bell sits atop it unmolested. Steven slides out of the cave. Time for breakfast. We sit in the sand huddled around my tiny stove and watch the ocean. The world is waking up. Birds fly past, waves roll in, the Sun fights to be seen, and perched on a rock yards away sits a bald eagle. It watches us as we eat our modest breakfast. We laugh. In America, it is Memorial Day. As we share breakfast with a bald eagle, we realize we are having the most patriotic Memorial Day of our lives. We are in Canada. It’s day three on the West Coast Trail.

A few years ago I realized my life wasn’t headed in the direction I wanted. I was coasting. I had become complacent. When I imagined my life had I lived in centuries past, I liked to think I would have been an explorer boldly trekking across newly discovered wild lands. Yet, little in my present life leant credence to that thought. Other than moving across country, struggling to find a living, and taking public transportation around Los Angeles, there hadn’t been much adventure in my life for years. At least not the kind I longed for. I knew I needed to make some big changes and I struggled to decide what those changes should be. Suddenly, fate intervened. My greatest fear came to pass—my great grandmother died. She was an old Cuban lady who spoke very little English, yet somehow communicated with everyone. Everyone called her ‘Mima’ which essentially means ‘mother.’ It was a very apt name. My family had lost its collective maternal figure. Nothing makes life seem more precious than death. It was time for change and I couldn’t wait any longer. Shortly after, I instituted several changes in my life including ending an eight year relationship with my then girlfriend that was being held together by familiarity and convenience. It was time for big changes and time to evaluate my life. Much changed over the next couple of years. As I became more proactive in my choices, I found myself finding more successes in all aspects of life—business and personal. One of the decisions I had made was to integrate adventure back into my life. Hiking, backpacking, climbing, rafting, and other outdoor pursuits became a priority. The more time I spent in nature, the more I learned about myself. It was making me stronger—physically, emotionally, and psychologically. When I read about the West Coast Trail in British Columbia, I knew it was a chance to push myself further.

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The West Coast Trail runs 75km—that’s roughly 48 miles—down the Western coast of Vancouver Island from Pachena Bay to Port Renfrew. It is known for brutal storms and a history of disastrous shipwrecks. An early version of the trail was known as the “Life-saving Trail.” Its purpose was to give survivors washed ashore a solid chance of making it to civilization alive. Now, it is a week-long backpacking challenge for those who want to experience beauty and hardship in the Canadian wilderness. The descriptions I read of the WCT excited the adventurer inside me: suspension bridges, miles of mud pits, hand-operated cable cars, surging tides, river crossings, dozens of tall ladders, rocky beaches, and unpredictable weather. I knew I wanted in.

The last few years had been going well, but the time for drastic change was coming again. I decided to quit my job and embark on the path of full-time self-employment. But, first, I would go to Canada. What better way to baptize a new path than the West Coast Trail? My friend and coworker, Steven, was also quitting for similar reasons and agreed to meet me in Victoria, Canada. Together we would face the WCT before putting our individual professional lives back together. I knew the trail would be both fun and miserable. I expected both. My secret hope, although, was for an epiphany along the way.

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Read the rest of the story and see more pictures…

BC Summer — Part 1 (of 2)

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Near the end on May, I quit my job and fled to Canada for two and a half weeks. The first week was spent sight-seeing with Erika. The second week involved backpacking down the West Coast Trail. The last few days were spent riding the Amtrak down the coast to L.A. This entry will focus on Week One.

British Columbia. No, it isn’t part of the U.K. and it isn’t in England. It is Canada’s Southwestern province (kind of like a U.S. state). B.C. is known for being strikingly beautiful and full of bad-ass outdoor activities. Nearly half of the most gorgeous and exciting ads I see in adventure travel magazines tend to depict British Columbia. It is also known for rain and we got plenty of it. For every day it doesn’t rain in Los Angeles, it does in B.C. That’s a lot. But, hey, if you want a region to be green and full of life, it needs lots of rain.

Erika and I had been wanting to visit the area for a while and we aren’t afraid of rain. We wanted to see as much and do as much as we could in a week. Thus, we did a little research, but didn’t make any definitive plans. When traveling, that can work for and against you. We flew into Vancouver—so barely in Canada, you can throw a rock and hit Seattle—and rode the train downtown. The B.C. tourism website recommended a very inexpensive place near downtown. Awesome. We made our way there. We ignorantly assumed anything the tourism board listed in their literature was kosher. We learned otherwise. The hotel we stayed in for two nights was in an area of Vancouver called East Hastings. If you didn’t just get goosebumps, you’ve never been to or heard of East Hastings. We should have known better when a slightly crazed and possibly homeless woman tried to talk us out of going there. The Olympics allegedly rerouted their parade to keep it away from East Hastings. While in B.C., every time I mentioned the words "East Hastings," the person I was speaking to would grimace and relay their own horror story of the area. When we arrived, the streets were packed. Every type of prostitute was accounted for: young, old, transvestite, ancient. Nearly every person on the street was disheveled, high, and desperate for something—mostly for another hit. Some were picking at the crushed roaches on the concrete hoping a little grass was there among the mashed paper. Some were yelling belligerently at others across the street. Others conducted "business" in alleys or on the sidewalk. We strode through and entered the hotel. After assuring them Erika was not a whore and we intended to stay the whole night, they gave us a key to a shoddy room three floors up. We spent a bit of time in the attached pub downstairs (which was quite likable) and decided not to venture out after dark. The next morning we saw two teen girls passed out in a doorway with bloody needles in their arms.



Vancouver wasn’t all junkies and sex workers. We spent a few hours at the Capilano Suspension Bridge and went zip-lining at Grouse Mountain. Northern Vancouver is the lush wonderland we expected from B.C. We wanted to see as much of the region as we could and we didn’t want to spend a third night in East Hastings so we hopped the extremely inexpensive ferry to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. Do not be fooled, Vancouver Island is no tiny piece of land off the coast of Vancouver. It is an enormous 12,000 square mile island over an hour from the mainland. The ferry that takes you there is basically a mini-cruise ship with small restaurants, arcades, and a playground. It carries many passengers, their vehicles, and various big rigs each way. As you cross the channel, you have ample opportunity to admire various small islands and sea life.

Nanaimo is a small city.  We had heard it had good SCUBA diving and a small island called Newcastle Island. We were saddened to find out no diving trips were available on short notice, but we were able to ride a small dinghy to Newcastle. There, we hiked along beaches abundant in purple stars and through woods filled with banana slugs. We had a seafood dinner on a floating restaurant in the harbor accessible only by boat. As we walked back to our room, we came upon a rabbit warren in a small seaside park. From Nanaimo, we rode a Greyhound bus to what would be my favorite of the three cities we visited—Victoria.

Victoria is a beautiful city. It is the capital of B.C. It has beautiful architecture and—as one of the oldest cities in Canada—has a rich history that is visible all around. We visited a museum, watched IMAX documentaries, toured Craigdarroch Castle, took a ghost tour, and walked all over town admiring the city itself. Unfortunately, even Victoria has a junky problem as I saw a man surreptitiously shooting up on the steps of a Community Christian Center. Local parks also had small trash bins for used syringes. We spent two days in Victoria. Steven met us there the second night. The next morning Erika would return to the U.S. and Steven and I would begin the six day journey called The West Coast Trail.

More photos after the cut…