Holidays
It’s me, not you
As the year comes to a close, I still have plenty of unfinished business. From unresolved reviews and ongoing experiments, to a laundry list of personal goals to finalize. That extra 15 pounds is not going to lose itself.
Add a year-end article about all the cool photography and travel I’ve done to that list, and motivation to publish something unique comes to a halt as I sit behind a computer.
Usually, starting a task is the hardest part of my process. Once I get going, man, I can wrap it up. Over-analyzing all the ways I might fail can be crippling. While I am getting better at overcoming this psychological hurdle by adding better habits and routines to my day, it is still present. Pete introduced me to James Clear and his mailing list last year and this little weekly push has helped me claw back some control of my creative process.
Years ago, I watched a TED Talk from Elizabeth Gilbert about the impossible expectations put on the creative people who feed us the art and “content” we crave. Although I haven’t personally read much of her work, I was captivated by her talk on overcoming creative roadblocks. She references American poet Ruth Stone’s battle with inspiration and creativity. It’s one of the best TED Talks I’ve listened to as I was finding my way in the world, fresh out of art school.
Eighteen years later, have I found my way? There were moments when it felt like I was on the path and times when the feeling of being lost was overwhelming. Being part of a generation of creators dealing with the cyber takeover has been challenging. I am a part of the transition generation who grew up analog and had to adapt to digital.
When I look back to those pre-digital times, I was more likely to take a risk, try something new and create something unique. It felt like the potential of failure was far less consequential. I tried some wacky things with my photography and had lots of fun doing it. From floor-to-ceiling installations in old Montreal churches to street art murals that would make you question if Banksy was there. I wanted to make meaningful work that spoke to people who could interact with it. Without the aid of social media, in the flesh, for the humans who happened to be there.
This was a complex installation in an old church. I photographed thousands of people from my rooftop in Old Montreal and montaged them into a 3D installation. Hard to explain, and it was even harder to conceive.
I’ve done some work for the suits, too. I guarantee you not a single one paid attention to these massive prints I mounted in their offices.
In 2008, while I was working on reviving 100-year-old photographic processes, I was trying to keep up with the digital revolution too. It was a fun but uncertain period for image makers. Digital cameras were low in resolution and slow in speed. I presented my grad piece, photographed with a 100-year-old, 8×10″ film camera. The final photograph printed to 6 feet in width; it was captivating, but also felt like the end of an era. I love the feeling of analog image making and the sensory satisfaction that goes along with it. From the sound of the shutter to the smell of the film developer, the process captivates the whole body. While I’d like to ignore how many years I’ve shaved off my life by inhaling darkroom chemicals, I’d happily trade that sensation for the digital jerking off I scroll through daily.
There has been no movie more influential than Julian Schnabel’s Basquiat (starring Jeffrey Wright and Benicio Del Toro) for me. Heck, even Bowie makes a cameo!
+90 is the phone code for Turkiye and it was the 90th year of the republic at the time of publication.
It’s for you if you are into photographs of skeptical and joyful old countrymen. And cats.
My friend Chris Hellwell joined me on one of the excursions to the village of Babakale, Turkiye. He wrote a nice little essay for it.
The product of 3 years of visits to the village.
In 2013, I published a book. It was difficult to self-publish in those days. Finding the time and resources to put it all together was nearly impossible. I somehow managed to convince Philippe Sureau, the founder of Air Transat, to invest in the book and BOOM, I had 500 copies of ink-printed, 9×13″ books on the way. They showed up on the back of a semi truck. I hadn’t realized how big a task it was to deal with 500 books. My house was a warehouse for months!
The book is called +90, and it’s a visual story about the people, kids, and horses in a small village in western Anatolia. All the photographs were made on a Leica M6 film camera loaded with Kodak Tri-X film and printed on a century-old Heidelberg press in Montreal by the Musée de Beaux-Arts. There are a few copies still available for those interested.
I live and breathe photography. I worship the light. I can’t walk a few blocks without observing shadows, patterns and textures. I watch people when I sit down; watch them drink their coffee and smoke their cigarettes. It’s a meditation that consumes me at times. I try to inject that passion into photographing mountain bikes, too. While I may not be the guy who will ask you to climb back up a million times to get the shot, I care deeply about how the image works. Most of my subjects make image-making a breeze, while some make it a bit of an exercise in patience. I want to provide you with the best stories at NSMB. The imagery and the stories that go along with them are aimed to quench your technical thirst but also tickle your intellectual side. I want you to look at art in every photograph. I want you to consume the articles slowly.
I care. I really fucking care about what you get to see and read. It takes an immense amount of work to present you with these pages daily, and I appreciate all your comments and wisdom. I am just a simple man from the mountains who loves bikes and photography.
Steve Vanderhoek takes no chances. He only works with known variables when the level of risk is high.
Freeride is Alive and Well
But let me talk about someone else for a second.
Freeride’s Sweetheart, Steve Vanderhoek, returned to The Burn with a heavy crew, including Brage Vestavik, and started building one of the most consequential lines ever scratched in. The Burn is dear to me, so I joined for a couple of build sessions to help conceive it. I previously built a line for Steve and myself in the zone. It’s hard building stuff out of 20-foot tall logs on the edge of a cliff. It is also hard to build features that I’ll never ride in my lifetime for Brage and Steve.
“Do you want us to build the landing for your upper line, or do you want to build your upper line for what we build down here?” I asked Brage. He looked at me, all confused and said: “That’s not how I ride things. I’ll figure it all out when I’m riding it.”
I chose not to be present for “the day.” There were injuries and scary moments, from what I hear. There were no catastrophic falls but it was stressful regardless.
I appreciate the manual labour of trail building. On your hands and knees, carving massive features onto the mountainside. Or a simple little singletrack through a moss-covered forest, not unlike analog photography. Hands in sodium thiosulfate, slaving in dark rooms, working on the invisible art of leaving silver deposits on celluloid.
I fucking love photography and bikes.
Agate Beach. 100km/h winds and a rock hound’s dream location. Also a perfect location to take a 40km bike ride on sand flats to the tip of Rose Spit.
At the foot of Tow Hill, there are stories carved into rocks. The hike is quite chill and gives you a great vantage point.
Heading North
Karin and I embarked on a trip she had been dreaming of for a long time. Taking the 17-hour ferry ride from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert is one for bucket lists. Dubbed “The Inside Passage Ferry” for the fjords it slithers through, it presents a wildlife and landscape show I can only describe with the unsatisfying, “you needed to be there.” From Prince Rupert, we took another 7-hour ferry across the Hecate Strait, which turns out to be one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the world, thanks to powerful winds, enormous tides and waves so tall you can see the ocean floor between them if the conditions are right. Luckily, it was foggy and calm for our crossing.
Haida Gwaii was a memorable visit with a pace that forced our hearts to beat a couple of clicks slower. We drove down forest roads as far as we could in our van and then hopped on our bikes to explore more rugged and remote roads of Graham Island under pedal and electric power. E-bikes allowed us to see some incredible landscapes and Haida relics off the beaten track. The 24-hour ferry rides and all the driving in between were a perfect opportunity to crack open an audiobook. There was no listen more perfect than John Vaillant’s The Golden Spruce. I learned more about the logging industry, the rugged North and the crazy Canucks during that listen than I had in my 25 years in this country. Everybody who spends time in the woods, calls themselves a conservationist or is curious about the First Nations, must read this witty and informative book. Mr Vaillant has a great way of engaging the reader in extremely roundabout ways, teaching you 6 different things that are unrelated to the story at hand, without neglecting the plot. The narrator, Edoardo Ballerini was unexpected. His accent and delivery are perfect for the story.
Old, weathered and unbothered by any new mountain bike tech.
The truth is, our canvas of 2025 was painted dramatically by the declining health of our dog, Sasha. In August, I sat down on the living room floor with my one hand on our lovely furry companion as she slipped over the rainbow bridge. I knew, at that moment, nothing would be the same. I cried for Karin, who had done everything for her. I cried for myself, realizing I no longer had the perfect creature to carry my hardships—someone I had humanized to withstand the weight I couldn’t bear alone.
I cried for how much we would miss her every day. Time won’t heal the gash she’s left behind. 14 years… is just not enough.
I am looking forward to what lies ahead in 2026. I promise to do more meaningful work and speak up loudly for the voiceless. I owe it to the world.