The five-hour bus ride from London Gatwick airport to the Birmingham express terminal was extremely reassuring. Looking out the window and observing mere mortals simply walking across the street left me awestruck. This is no longer Canada, I thought. This is the U Fu*king K. Knowing that made all the difference.

I love traveling. But I loathe airplanes and everything associated with them. That includes being packed in like a can of sardines, forcing your legs to suffocate in the small amount of space underneath the seat in front of you (even worse if you’re taller than six feet), the unpredictable moments of turbulence that make your heart race a mile/minute, and the excruciating sound of a 3-year-old child weeping and kicking the seat behind you. I had a feeling that my flight was going to include all of those things and more.  

The initial lunge over the mammoth-like boulder had distorted my balance, like an amateur tight rope walker. The sturdy wooden stairsteps provided a firm platform for me to cement my footing however, each subsequent step felt meters away from the one preceding it. Each overarching lunge induced flashbacks of my grueling leg workout just days prior. The thought of possibly having to tow my dilapidated body out of bed the next morning began to intimidate me. As I tried to steer clear from these thoughts, I sternly reminded myself, do not let this be your motivation.

“CAUTION: This trail is NOT a walk in the park!” These were the words plastered, in bolded letters, at the very top of the information board, situated at the entrance of a forest embroiled, narrowly composed tunnel like, gravel trail. On the top left-hand corner was a “BC Parks” logo. How amusing, I thought as I broke out a fragmented smirk. As we proceeded through the vastly abandoned campground towards the trailhead, another caution sign, with what appeared to be a silhouette of an awfully rotund and bulky canine, had clutched onto my attention. The words beneath the ominous figure read, “BEAR IN AREA.”

The sound of ice crackling was like the sound of gnawing at potato chips, whirlpooling back and forth in a large body of saliva. Housed inside the comforting soles of my sneakers, my awfully bulky and bleached-esque faded feet were savagely being nibbled away at by the strikingly impermeable and carnivore resembling aroma of frosty air. This kindled a crave within me to spawn albatross-like wings and migrate to the majestic coastal sea lines of Costa Rica.

January 1st, 2021. My eyes were glued to the myriad volume of raindrops feverishly running down the windshield while situated in our parked vehicle, like tears rolling down a child’s pudgy cheeks from the stingingly poignant scent of raw onions being chopped up. We stepped outside the vehicle, stood upright, and looked both ways. Utter and complete desolation, reminiscent of a ghost town. Not a single soul drifted across my cramped vision. I thought to myself, what an astounding moment in time this is.

Thursday May 16th, 2019. Approximately 9:00am PST. Camera gear, check. Flimsy cellphone, check. Deflated wallet, check. Toronto Raptors affiliated hoodie and core classic black 9TWENTY adjustable hat, check (that one is a no-brainer). All that was left was for my cousin to waltz down into the garage, ignite the engine of his 2015 Honda Civic, and we would be off to the races.

Sunday August 9th, 2015. Approximately 10:15pm. The palpitating sounds of ire raindrops plummeting the grim like surface mixed in with the rambunctious echo of swirling thunder clouds and the menacing melody promulgated by scathing wind currents walloping at the mercy of tyrannical climatic overlords, gave me the impression that the man upstairs was not too happy.

Many may look at this image and see an eccentric combination of leading lines that congregate along vertical and horizontal gravitational boundaries. Many may regard the presentation of multiple three-dimensional structures to be quite magnifying and others may contend the asymmetrical positioning to be quite offsetting.