River images of the Rupert River in Quebec were taken at a -30F windchill. The rubber of the cable release froze, and so did my toes. The images don't do justice to the power and beauty of this roaring water in deep winter. These may be the last winter photos of these rapids to be ever displayed, for the Rupert river will die soon, damned, diverted, destroyed to power the hungry homes of Montreal.

The snowshoe tracks are of traditional Cree make, finely webbed to float atop the corn-starch like powder snow of the northern landscape and boreal forests near Waskaganish. One wonders what will happen to the soul of the Cree people when the Rupert river, which runs past the town, and I imagine through the hearts of the people, dies.

Newyears 2006. Late in the afternoon I found an auspicious spot and proceeded to tamp down a site with my snowshoes, then had a bite of carrot cake (not your average cake) and a cup of hot tea, and proceeded to saw blocks. Darkness fell and I lit my candle-lantern and continued to work. Seven hours from tamping down the site and some 100 blocks later I had a nice igloo, my first ever. I crawled in to my sleeping bag and lit the stove to melt some snow and make tea. I set my alarm to wake me before dawn. Much of the finest winter photography you see is taken after clearing storms. The sky cleared late, but the next system blew in before sunrise.

In the morning I took the first shot below while still snuggled in my warm down bag. After breakfast I took the next series of photos. That night I again set the alarm for predawn.

When I awoke there seemed to be clouds when I peered out the doorway, so lay back for a few minutes. When next I looked out the sky was hot pink, and I ripped open my sleeping bag with a snow-melting epithet. Mountain light can be astonishingly ephemeral and sometimes you only have a window of a few tens of seconds for the best of it. Dressing at speed, I continued to soften the walls of my shelter with curses that, if not creative, were at least heartfelt. My boot laces were so frozen that they wouldn't go into the grommets. A few choice words softened them up, and after pocketing a couple batteries (I sleep with them to keep them warm) I dashed out the door.

Outside, I took in the most intense mountain color I've ever seen. Not bothering with snowshoes I charged down the trail I'd made coming in the day before. Like a wild man I stepped from snowshoe print to print, and every tenth step or so I post-holed dramatically. Down I'd go and up went the camera like a drowning man reaching for air. No way was I going to get it covered with snow. Along the way I snapped the first shot in the best light. By the time I got around the trees the light had changed, but was still worthy. Twenty minutes later it was golden yellow, and lenticular clouds were shaping and shifting over the peak.

First nine images are from Cape Flattery. I arrived four hours before sunset and spent the time using Ephemeris (on my PDA) and my compass to figure out exactly where the sun would set. Then I scouted around for an hour or two figuring what I'd do when the light got (hopefully!) good. Then I lay in the sun, listened to the surf boom in the caves, and watched the Oyster Catchers and Cormorants and Bald Eagles. The first image of the Cormorants on the rocks look to me like they were gathered to watch the sunset. The Great Blue Heron shots are the kind you get when you just sit in a place, observing and taking it in. He was a thousand feet away at least, just a blue dot in the tree to the naked eye.

The frost images are from Neah Bay where I stopped in the late morning. I was focused on getting the full moon setting across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, but the frosty seaweed called to me until I looked at it in earnest and found all the beauty I could hope for.