There was a little breeze, a few roofed camping platforms, so we parked ourselves beneath one while the ’79 Holden Gemini baked out in the sun.
I was intrigued by the shapes, and the somber mood of the clouds, and by the reflection the unloading facilities cast on Burrard Inlet. I shot off a series of photos, hoping something would work.
Whistler is something of a second home to me, which is great. The resort provides all kinds of wonderful activities. Skiing, of course, and mountain biking. But also, swimming, canoeing, hiking, snow shoeing. Having a pint or four at the Dubh Linn Gate pub while Ruckus Deluxe takes the stage.
I hold the camera
Steady as I can, buffeted
Enjoying the sound of rushing air
The very brush of existence
The best journeys, it seems to me, are the unplanned ones, taken on the spur of the moment, reliant on the benifecence of serendipity. I understand why not everyone who travels would agree with this. For serendipity to work, one must believe in it. Listen for its song. Follow its voice when it calls. One cannot do this if plans are laid down like concrete foundations. Planning must be fluid, flow like a rivulet on a sandy beach, as easily diverted as the whim of a child with a stick.
The scenes are rightful pretty
Can’t stop to take the pic
Shoot across the dashboard
Will have to do the trick
From there
Three hundred
And sixty degrees
Of Canyonlands
Pix to Words 