Feel the Wild Read online

I try to figure out the timing of the wave sets, but all my energy and focus are busy managing my sanity. I take a deep breath and speak out loud, announcing my intent and asking permission to cross. I am not religious, but I am deeply spiritual. I always ask permission before starting on a journey, getting on the water or even before setting camp. I close my eyes and surrender to the outcome and accept whatever life wants to do with me. It’s not that I’m giving up. On the contrary, I’m simply letting go of the fear that comes with the undesired unknown. As fear disappears, I reconnect with the animal in me, the one that comes from the wild and finds solace within it. In that moment I find myself at peace.

  I paddle forward toward the beach and, for a moment, I feel like I’m going to make it.

  I hear the beginning of a low, loud, deep rumble behind me. It sounds like a crescendo of terror. I close my eyes and still can hear it. A giant monster is rising from the depth of the ocean with its mouth wide open. And it is coming to swallow me whole. I can feel the air pushing from behind. This is going to be bad. Real bad. I have an almost six-metre-long kayak filled with gear. I must be weighting about 160 kilograms in total. If I’m caught in a wave, I’m going to dive like a giant kingfisher and tumble like a barrel over Niagara Falls. Bracing for the impact, I fill my lungs with as much air as I can. “Trust the animal in you,” I repeat to myself.

  The wave crashes over me. The weight of the Pacific lands on my back with such tremendous force that my second paddle snaps like a twig and disappears. The impact is so violent that it breaks my kayak in two, with a clear cut right at my seat. My boat is literally in two pieces, linked together by the rudder cable and the loose keel strips. The only thing keeping my legs inside the kayak is my neoprene skirt attached to the cockpit. If that weren’t the case, my body would be hanging right in the middle of two floating fibreglass hammers with razor edges threatening to crush my torso. My head is under water and the surf keeps pounding. I need to breathe. I need to get out of here. I pull on the handle from the skirt to release its grip around the cockpit rim, but the rim is broken. Pushing and pulling the skirt handle in all directions, I finally release and slip out. My head is above the water. I take a deep breath. I manage to grab a line on the kayak just as another wave crashes, sending me and my broken boat further in. My fingers are holding tight onto my broken vessel, my travel partner that has been with me for a year in Alaska, Vancouver Island, the San Juan Islands and along the coast of Washington state. Together we have seen Steller sea lions, otters, bears, mink, grey and humpback whales, amazing sunrises and breathtaking sunsets. We’ve caught salmon and rockfish, surfed, capsized, rolled and rode under hot sun, rain and cloudy and windy days. I will keep going, exploring more, but for my kayak, it is the end of the road.

  I’m not letting go. My eyes are closed. I am surrendering, letting the surf do what it must do. I am riding a wave of defeat. Hours ago, I was happy as a clown and paddling under the stars. Now I’m being brought down to my knees, the sword of humility over my head. I am not fighting anymore. My body focuses on holding on. My mind is waiting to feel the bottom with my feet. I don’t know how long it takes. I’m not counting the minutes. I just know that when I connect with the beach I feel relieved, happy and grateful. I am alive with only a few cuts, bruises and a crushed ego. I grab both ends of the kayak with both hands. I drag the fibreglass and myself onto the beach and pass the high tide line. I don’t even bother with the tent. I take my bivvy out, this waterproof envelope you slip your sleeping bag in, and collapse.

  During this five-hour trial, I experienced beauty, joy, happiness, deception, pain and frustration. I faced indifference from an entity more powerful than me. Lying on the sand next to my wrecked kayak, I am not angry or afraid. I am simply grateful, at peace to be alive, happy to leave behind the trauma and hold onto the lesson of humility the incident has brought me. I pull the zipper up, leaving blood marks from my wounds on the fabric. My mind and body are exhausted. I don’t have enough energy to even keep my thoughts active. The second they appear in my head, they fade out. With my brain slowly becoming aware that I am safe and sound, all tucked in, it fades out, taking me into the realm of dreams, away from the howling wind, the treacherous ocean and the dark night. Thanking the ocean for my hard-won survival, I fall asleep.

  These experiences, as overwhelming and challenging as they may seem, are defining moments in life. They shape our character. The way we deal with them defines what we believe in and how we see the world around us. For me, life is not about avoiding crashes but rather finding ways to get back up and transform these seemingly negative events into positive, productive experiences. The wreck reminded me that even when we have carefully made plans and everything is beautiful, life can be turned upside down in the blink of an eye. Ultimately, some things are not meant to be achieved the way we envisioned them. They demand respect and commitment; they are not supposed to be easy. Their value increases the more difficult they become.

  These are the lessons Nature provides us when we open ourselves to experiences.

  Self Portrait, Pacific Coast, Washington

  ISO 100, 2.77mm, ƒ/2.8, 1/720s

  Pacific Coast, Oregon

  ISO 50, 4.28mm, ƒ/2.4, 1/800s

  Pacific Coast, Washington

  ISO 100, 2.77mm, ƒ/2.8, 1/690s

  Pacific Coast, Oregon

  ISO 50, 4.28mm, ƒ/2.4, 1/40s

  Great Salt Lake, Utah

  ISO 100, 28mm, ƒ/22, 2.0s

  Pacific Coast, Oregon

  ISO 200, 270mm, ƒ/14, 1/400s

  Sunrise, Big Island, Hawaii

  ISO 400, 300mm, ƒ/6.7, 1/125s

  Don’t

  Let the

  Rain

  Stop You

  Self Portrait, Pacific Coast, Oregon

  ISO 250, 28mm, ƒ/8, 1/80s

  Sunrise, Strait of Juan de Fuca, Washington

  ISO 320, 300mm, ƒ/9.5, 1/1000s

  Tomorrow

  Independent of our tragedies, wars, losses and threats, the planet keeps going and the sun keeps rising. A beautiful sunrise will be beautiful regardless of the state of the world.

  Isn’t it refreshing? Isn’t it amazing to realize that, in the end, all our daily worries, all our anxieties, our stress, our doubts and our complaints have no place in the scheme of the universe?

  Mankind could come to an end tomorrow, yet the sun will rise again, reminding us that life goes on, as it has for billions of years and will do so for billions of years to come.

  Shadows

  There is only a sliver of the sun peaking above the crest of the mountains. For the past 30 minutes, I have been watching this disk of light descend, slowly closing the gap between itself and the horizon. Within the next seconds this star that illuminates the world around me will disappear, taking along with it the light that dominates and structures our lives. Colours will fade; what used to be a dynamic world of hues will turn into a monotone landscape.

  I wonder if perhaps the reason why the sky becomes so colourful during sunrises and sunsets is because it shows the migration of colours. These particles of light fly with the sun and bond themselves to anything that vibrates at the same frequency. In the morning, they precede the sun and announce the arrival of the day. In the evening, they are the last ones to leave, making us long for their return.

  Behind me, my shadow grows, seemingly alive. This imprint of myself, this silhouette of my existence, expands, reaches across the air and spreads over the land. While my physical presence is trapped within the confines of this body, its shadow goes beyond and connects with the world. With the sun now gone, my shadow merges with all the others and, together, immersed within Earth’s shady embrace, we become one.

  The light is powerful. It gives us the ability to see and define our environment. It warms and protects us. It allows us to control our
path; with it, we can plan, analyze, create and build. Because of it, we can breathe and feed ourselves. But light also carries a burden. It isolates. It categorizes. Instead of unleashing our consciousness, it buries it under a sea of judgments. We might be living on a planet that is part of a vast universe, but during the day, when we look up to the sky, we see none of our connection to the beyond. What we see is a blanket of fluffiness, a blue cover that appeases and hypnotizes us. What we don’t see is our place among the stars. What we don’t see is the truth.

  It is only when stepping into the shadow of the earth that the universe is revealed.

  In the shadows, we might lose our sight, but we gain more intimate senses. Our hearing heightens and our smell tunes in. Control gives way to intuition. Instead of focusing outward, we must journey inward. Instead of reaching out and introducing ourselves, we must become vulnerable and let the world in. In the darkness, we process, contemplate and dream. In the absence of light, all and everything are equal.

  Total Solar Eclipse, Painted Hills Oregon

  ISO 200, 400mm, ƒ/22, 1/50s

  Self Portrait, Chichagof Island, Alaska

  ISO 1000, 21mm, ƒ/6.7, 20s

  Inner Fire

  I am sitting in front of a campfire, staring, my eyes locked onto an invisible place just above the burning logs. My mind is lost with wonder, mesmerized by this magical display of nature. Of all the fundamental elements (air, earth, fire, water), fire is the only one that has the power to molecularly transform the nature of things. It is the only one that doesn’t exist unless it is created. It is the only one that consumes so that it can live. Its benefits emerge only when it is controlled and contained. Left to its own devices, it grows, spreads, ravages and consumes. It is a power that can bring lost ones back to safety, yet it can reduce to ashes the biggest of castles. Since the beginning of time, flames have inspired and terrified, cleansed and scorched, built and destroyed. It is easy to understand why, in Hindu mythology, the god of fire, Agni, represents the essential energy of life in the universe.

  And this essential energy is within us too – our inner fire.

  The people of Tibet believe that Tummo (translation for inner fire) truly exists and can be controlled through a breathing meditation – a practice that increases and manipulates the body’s temperature. That fire is said to live within, below the navel chakra, a fact that even our science-based culture recognizes daily without always realizing it. The expression “fire in the belly” is about more than having ambition, stamina, vigour and passion. It is that primal energy that fuels everything. By connecting with our Tummo, by meditating on our inner fire, one can activate its power of transformation. As our flame grows and expands, it rises and spreads, reaching throughout all other chakras, cleansing our body from all energy blockages, warming our hearts and bringing love and compassion. As with the element of fire, our inner fire demands balance and control. Too much fire within and we are overreaching; if it is always on, our body dries up and our mind burns away. If we don’t have enough, then we lack the desire to move, live and stand up for our beliefs.

  Fire

  There are thousands of them, sparks of ember rising from the fire and flying into the night sky. Their incandescence leaves traces against the darkness – an erratic tapestry of temporary glowing streaks. My stare, previously locked on the burning log, starts moving up. It picks up on a spark and follows it as it ascends and reaches to the stars. My imaginative mind can’t hold itself and creatively realizes that it has figured out where stars come from: millions of tiny embers from millions of campfires, over millions of years, that have flown high into the universe and settled. Once, these tiny beings of fire warmed our hearts, bodies, hands and skin. But now, hanging up above and out of reach, they warm our souls and make us dream about the infinite possibilities that lie beyond.

  Around the campfire, friends gather. Through the grapevines, I hear many conversations. To my right, people are talking about the fish caught earlier, the same fish we are now cooking on hot stones just inches away from the fire. There is a salty and crispy barbecue aroma lingering around that is tantalizing and enticing our hungry stomachs.

  To my left, I can hear the excitement in recounting the day paddle of discovery, exploring two nearby bays. The great heron that croaked at us, annoyed at having his secret stash of food disturbed. The sight of a marauding mink hopping on rocks covered with seaweed and barnacles. The family of deer grazing, tucked between trees, looking at us, probably wondering why any creature would wear so many bright colours and carry such a distinct plasticky scent.

  In front of me across the fire, I can’t hear what the other people are talking about. I might not be able to hear their words, but their bodies are speaking loud and clear. I can see the happiness on their faces, the glow of life in their eyes, their hands waving in the air with excitement.

  For a moment, I contemplate the impact fire has had on our evolution, not only transforming our eating habits but also – and I would argue even more importantly – transforming the way we interact. Beyond the purpose of hunting and security, it brought people together. Fire staged the birth for storytelling and laid the foundation to building communities. It created a place in time for people to bond, share and connect. Here, in the outdoors, surrounded by a world that pre-existed me, I am connecting and bonding to my fellow humans and to nature in the same way my ancestors did a million years ago.

  Ambers from campfire, Pacific Coast, Washington

  ISO 400, 22mm, ƒ/4.5, 3s

  Self Portrait, Patagonia, Argentina

  ISO 1000, 18mm, ƒ/3.5, 15s

  Stars

  It is dark. There are no colours, only black and white tones and various shades of grey. Daylight illuminates the world around us, but the night transforms everything into a monotone landscape. For a moment, I wonder if this seemingly bland reality has a purpose. I pan from left to right, trying to find a destination. Not finding what I am looking for, I look up and then I understand. We spend our days looking in front of us. Always trying to see what is coming.

  But the night belongs to dreams and the stars are the only place you can find them. I wonder if this is why Asian text flows from top to bottom, as if to insinuate that everything in life starts with a dream. My eyes are fixed on this black tapestry made of an incalculable number of white pinholes. My pupils dilate, trying to capture the massive size of the universe. Millions of specks of light, so distant from our planet that their location is measured by the number of years light takes to reach us. Seeing them reminds me of the infinite possibilities our world holds; we still know so little about life. My thoughts of monotony are long gone now as I lie down on the sand, gazing at a world that is only reachable through my imagination, through my dreams.

  Humans have been looking at the stars for millennia. Stars have been a source of inspiration, mystery, and faith and a tool for orientation. They have also been a way for us to understand our relationship with Nature, life and the universe. In a world where more than half the population lives in cities, we can forget there is even a night sky. Sometimes our eyes barely rise above the horizon. Our sense of the vertical is mainly from tall buildings. And if we do one day find our way to look past the tops of those skyscrapers, we find an almost blank canvas with a few sparse shining dots.

  But a night sky is a limitless source of creativity and fascination. Like painting by numbers, we can trace imaginary lines from star to star, giving life to worlds that know no boundaries – shooting stars and northern lights, props for magical stories. As much as we learn about the universe in museums or on television, there is nothing like experiencing the night sky saturated with stars and the bright Milky Way lighting up the entire landscape. It is overwhelming; it is humbling.

  We must never forget to look up and dream.

  Cattle Egret, Buenos Aires, Argentina

  ISO 100, 3
00mm, ƒ/5.6, 1/500s

  Bison, Antelope Island, Utah

  ISO 320, 70mm, ƒ/5.6, 1/2000s

  Breathing

  My diaphragm contracts, creating a vacuum within my lungs that sucks in the air, bringing in molecules of oxygen on which my survival depends. These two organs, each the size of a football protected under my rib cage, contain more than 2500 kilometres of airways. This intricate system of organic conduits in various sizes carries the earth’s gases all the way to 700 million-plus microscopic broccoli-head-look-alikes called alveoli. These anatomical structures, in turn, perform an action that has defined the very nature of life since the beginning of time: they take and give back. Oxygen is stripped away from the air and carbon dioxide is returned. As my diaphragm relaxes, it forces the lungs to release a breath of equal proportion but of a different composition. My exhalation will feed a different kind of organism, which will proceed in a reverse manner – delivering oxygen while absorbing carbon dioxide.

  Every time I inhale, every time I exhale, I am reminded of my interdepen-dence in a reciprocal cycle that has been going on for millions of years. Each molecule that enters my body has been recycled billions of times, breathed in and breathed out by living and past species for eons, and will be for eons more.

  My lungs are the embodiment of this reciprocity. Their main purpose is to connect me with the universe and with Nature, to take from it and give back. As much as one would want this to be a one-way relationship, it simply cannot exist without my participation. Breathing in is taking from Nature and breathing out is giving back to Nature. The more I breathe in, the more I breathe out. The more I take, the more I give back.