Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

Head down, I watch my snow boots creep across the lake, one shuf­fle-step at a time. Joel doesn’t shuf­fle. He hus­tles, hunched beneath his cam­era bag as he rush­es for a dis­tant spot of blue. Ice wiped clean by the wind: the per­fect frame to lead into the fast-approach­ing sun­set. It’s neg­a­tive three degrees. As I mur­mur into the scarf swathing my face, words form frosty pel­lets in the fibers. I can do this. I can do this. A chant intend­ed for my ears only, the lake responds. Bu-BUM. A deep drum beat, issued from some­where far below. A heart­beat, so much stead­ier than my own.

A half-mile east, tents and propane heaters dot the lake as ice fish­er­men jig for trout. Two of them, John and Ymir, assured me the ice is safe – eleven inch­es thick. My fear isn’t ratio­nal, yet it’s real. Every step ter­ri­fies me. I fol­low every step with another.

 

We’re end­ing 2014 with a five day road trip in the Cana­di­an Rock­ies. Joel comes up here every win­ter. It’s a sacred place for him; he sang Hozier’s Take Me to Church as we drove the Ice­fields Park­way. This is the first time I’ve joined him. There’s always been some rea­son not to: busy writ­ing Hooked’s pro­pos­al, busy writ­ing the first draft, busy. I’ve always sent him off with a kiss and wish­es to be safe, get some good shots.

Now that I’m final­ly here with him, I’m learn­ing that “be safe” and “get some good shots” aren’t nec­es­sar­i­ly com­pat­i­ble goals, and we have dif­fer­ing per­cep­tions of risk. We spent our first after­noon scout­ing sun­set in a moun­tain-bor­dered mead­ow out­side of Jasper. Joel crashed through tes­sel­la­tions of creeks with­out hes­i­ta­tion. I cringed at every crack.

That night, I didn’t keep walk­ing. I dug my heels into a tuffet of trust­wor­thy earth, unwill­ing to go any far­ther, and waved him on. The tree-line on the far side of the field wel­comed him with boughs extend­ed, hold­ing the day’s remain­ing light in green arms full of snow. Back­lit, he appeared dark, an impres­sion of imper­me­abil­i­ty that was as mis­lead­ing as the sun dog we’d seen ear­li­er in the day. Joel is trans­par­ent. He’d want­ed so much to share his beloved moun­tains with me, secret­ly hop­ing their spir­it would move me as it does him, that won­der and joy would sur­pass anx­i­ety and dis­com­fort. That I would make his faith my own. Instead we watched the sun­set from sep­a­rate view­points – Joel crouched behind his cam­era at his cho­sen com­po­si­tion, me pac­ing a labyrinth of uncom­fort­able ques­tions. Where are the lines between being there for the per­son you love, and being there for your­self? Expand­ing your com­fort zones, and hon­or­ing your bound­aries? By the time the last embers of col­or had fad­ed from the peaks above, I’d stomped a hol­low of answers into the snow. I couldn’t read any of them.

Back in Jasper, we talked about our dif­fer­ing reac­tions to the out­ing. It wasn’t any­thing out of the ordi­nary for Joel. The land­scape pho­tog­ra­phers he most admires all work alone in remote set­tings, explor­ing the fringes of the day by head­lamp. My fear baf­fled him. “They were just lit­tle streams; the worst that could hap­pen is you’d get a wet foot.” He won­dered aloud if there’s any­thing I love that scares him. If there’s any­thing I chase the way he chas­es pho­tos – charg­ing onward to a des­ti­na­tion known only to me, unfazed, while he won­ders why I would pos­si­bly choose to do such a thing. Why I would need to.

Three days lat­er, I am still hear­ing my response, a steady­ing echo behind this lake’s heart­beat and my own. Writ­ing. I believe in sto­ries like Joel believes in moun­tains: lean­ing on them, grate­ful to have found one thing sol­id enough to hold me up. It was­n’t a sur­pris­ing answer, nor was it what Joel had meant. He’d been look­ing for a phys­i­cal par­al­lel, like the way he delights in scam­per­ing steep ridges and I defin­i­tive­ly do not. But it was a true answer, and like a bone glint­ing in a wound, the true­ness of it mes­mer­ized me. It has dogged my heels through every pre-dawn hike and hill­side scram­ble in the days since, and now, shuf­fle-step­ping my way across this eleven inch ice on a med­i­ta­tion of art, fear, and love.

Joel and I are both artists. Whether by image or by words, we both have a need to cap­ture and share our expe­ri­ences of the world around us. But there’s a dif­fer­ence between his art and mine, and it’s as sig­nif­i­cant as the dif­fer­ence between eleven inch­es and one. Joel sug­gests I sit these mis­sions out. Know­ing where his next shoot will take him – know­ing how I’ll react – he says sleep in, stay in the motel, we’ll meet up in a cof­fee shop after. I shake my head, unwill­ing to accept kind­ness I can’t return. As a mem­oirist, I tread across ice far less sta­ble than this. I agree to be vul­ner­a­ble, risk­ing expo­sure, judg­ment, shame, for the relief of an hon­est, scary sen­tence – and in doing so, I yank my loved ones onto the ice with me. My art doesn’t include an opt-out. That’s why I’m still walk­ing. Know­ing the priv­i­lege of the option to turn back, I force myself to go on.

Drag­ging my gaze up from my boots, I study my sweet­heart. He’s a char­coal log in the dis­tance, shoot­ing low, lying on his bel­ly to peer through the viewfind­er. He can hold this posi­tion for hours. Nev­er com­plain­ing about the cold, nev­er los­ing patience. Ful­ly engaged with his art and him­self. Leav­ing renewed, soul-fed, even if he doesn’t end up with a great shot. This is how I want to know my part­ner, even when I don’t under­stand what he does. Even when it scares me.

He’s spent the past few years teach­ing me how to know him this way. My writ­ing has scared him. He doesn’t always under­stand the places I’m will­ing to go – the places I feel I have to go. But he’s nev­er sug­gest­ed I not write. He’s stood by my art, know­ing my deci­sion to expose my life means expos­ing his.

 

The sun fiz­zles with­out any of the flam­boy­ance Joel had hoped for. He packs away his cam­era and folds up his tri­pod, and togeth­er we walk back to the shore. We talk about what a beau­ti­ful evening it was any­way, and how eager we are for din­ner at the brew­ery next to our motel. My body moves more agree­ably, head­ing towards land.

We’ve just got­ten back to the car when Joel notices a pur­ple edge scal­lop­ing the west­ern hori­zon. “Oh, shit. Is that going to spread?” He stares, wait­ing to see if the rib­bon will unfurl, and glances back to the ice.

Go.” I prod him. “You have to go.”

Curs­ing him­self for hav­ing left his spot too soon, he tears back down the snowy slope and across the lake. This time I stay on the bank, and I watch with a smile.

 

Joel Brady-Power, Vermillion Lakes

 

To see some of the shots Joel got from this trip, vis­it Joel Brady-Pow­er/500px and Joel Brady-Pow­er Pho­tog­ra­phy