rhys logan images

Dally Chronicles by Rhys Logan

Blanca Lake by Rhys Logan

Winding through the dense woods as a heavy fog shifted and settled in on us I was glad we had gotten some thorough directions for finding the trailhead.  I had heard of Blanca Lake many times from countless friends and consistently witnessed the plethora of social media posts of its uniquely colored glacial water, amazing views and appeal as a high quality, must-do hike among Pacific Northwesterners. Despite a little inclement weather on a Labor Day trip with an adventure crew that even He Man and The Masters of The Universe couldn't hold a candle to, we were off through the foggy forest with the only things we really needed; some friends, some tents, ample beverages and an indefatigable attitude toward being wet.  

While we may not have been able to see much on the trek in, we had beaten a fair share of the crowds with an early start and convened at the lake's edge to assess our next obstacle; the actual lake.  With a solid flow into the gorge below and nowhere to cross we decided it best to just de-boot and fjord the frigid glacial waters to continue our expedition in search of a campsite. 

Find one we did and bringing our own blue skies via big blue tarp, we were able to withstand a freak hailstorm, a dusting of snow and plenty of rain before enjoying some camp coffee and chocolate chip pancakes to boost morale, along with our blood sugar.

With the mist rising and falling along jagged peaks and lichen covered mountains, a maze through boulders strewn across a glaciated path began to take us on a small journey to waterfalls, rock scree and unbelievable views only made better and more ethereal with a heavy bank of fog pressing in and around us. 

We didn't quite make it to the glacier, but its as good a reason as any, to go back. 

Homies, flasks, meat sticks and mud. What more could you ask for?

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B.C. Bytes by Rhys Logan

Sitting under the forest canopy I can think back and remember how deafening the rain was.

My arms were getting a little tired but only from shrugging my shoulders against the full, heavy droplets assaulting my new fishing hat, compliments of my sister for a christmas present.  It was working wonderfully. I may have been thoroughly saturated from about my shoulders down but my head and neck were sure dry and with a solid 8 or 9 hours left of floating, all small victories might as well have been milestones.  

With Chan trying to give me and Trav the rundown on our nymphing techniques (or lack of) we were searching for that beautiful color these BC trout seem to glow with.  Elusive fish beautifully sized, easily spooked and sneakier than forest ninjas.  We had made the three hour drive up to spend a couple days on the river and a night in the woods fending off Rainier-fed flatulence and mosquito militias out for blood. Both of which were horrendously, albeit hilariously exacerbated by believing it was a good idea to sleep in Chan's CRV and keep our dinner reservations in my Hyundai.

A few gulps of coffee and clif bars in the morning and we were underway, searching for good holes on the river, which were not easily ascertained with slightly flooded levels from heavy rain.  But we were fishing.  As one of the utmost relaxing and enjoyable past times as I have ever come to know, it sure beat sitting in front of my computer, and still does.    

While we may have been in the middle of the only massive rainstorm the entire summer had seen, it was ill timed but much needed. A drought ending drink that turned our brownish looking west side back to its familiar deep emerald and reminded us of the pensive calm that would set in a few months. That cloud-rolling and oppressive but beautiful quiet that blankets the peaks that only peak-a-booed us for the short 48 hours we were there. But soon the clouds parted and our motivation rose along with a few nice trout, coaxed by the sun and subsequent hatches.  

Just enough of a taste of that summer feeling keeps me sane during these long dark months, and like anything worth drinking, it always gets even just a little better with time. As I think of it now, even in the deepest part of January I can feel that calm energy wash over me, a subdued excitement if you will, matched only by the thought of, "Soon, very soon." 

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Chan and Christine by Rhys Logan

You know you're overdue for a post when you have a hard time remembering the navigation of your own website...

That being said it has also been awhile since I've posted new work anywhere.. And unfortunately the old adage, 'better late than never,' has been a mantra echoed in my thoughts that has seemed to make an attempt at excusing all kinds of bad behavior photographically, or rather "postigraphically". After all, images are meant to be viewed.  It is this point that I have struggled with most.  Lost in the vast mire of images coming out of all facets of interweb entanglement, I seemed to have forgotten that my work and subsequent dissemination of that work has led me to some of the greatest adventures of my life, as well as some of the greatest people. 

On the topic of great people; the Stones have been some of my greatest friends in Bellingham, and luckily for all of us, one my favorite thing to do is take photos of my friends.  I've lived with Chan and Christine nearly two years and it has been a transition in my life from many things, and I could not be more thankful to have been blessed with such good (and tolerant) friends who put up with my gear, junk, hours and general idiocy. 

This particular mission took us to an adventuresome land in search of a ripe pseudotsuga menziesii to practice our early European heritage, interpreted from a possibly druid-esque hootenanny. But who knows.

Find one we did and get a couple photos we did as well. Thanks Chan and Christine for being such amazing people, for fishing trips and bearing with my photo taking and literally, putting a roof over my head.  

And thanks for looking,