The Event Horizon:
Evan's Very Late Summer 2025 Newsletter
The Bugaboos, we learned, don’t mess around when it comes to soggy boots | Lydia Dunkin & Julian Larsen, BugaboosThe point at which light can no longer escape the gravitational pull of a black hole is known as the event horizon. A real-life cosmic gatekeeper, of sorts. In simple terms, it protects the singularity - an infinitely small and infinitely dense scientific enigma. Unless, of course, someone decides to take an interstellar-sized leap of faith.
Physics has not been my strong suit in university, so allow me some creative license with this metaphor.
Throughout the summer, a to-do list mainstay was to find a subject for this newsletter. My brain yearned for a lightbulb moment: some deep realization (cliché, I know) or powerful overarching theme that would help anchor my writing. But as it always seems to be, the summer swell was fantastic. I got swept into nonstop work, travel, and outdoor pursuits. By the time I swam back to shore, it was September, and I still hadn’t the slightest clue what to write about.
Really, the perfect theme had been in front of my face all along.
Chasing a career in photography is an event horizon.
Historically, straying towards irreversible gravitational pull without certainty hasn’t been my style. I liked track because it felt like I could train until I was ready to race. I still prefer projecting climbs because I know exactly when to expect hard moves. You get the idea.
In March, less than two months out from my first stint of full-time freelancing, I had concerningly little work lined up. Like the Endurance circling Gargantua (Interstellar fans, anyone?), I wanted nothing more than to stay in orbit - continuing to collect quantum data from the outside until I was sure I could make things work.
Unfortunately, quantum data can only be collected from beyond the event horizon. And that requires a leap of faith.
This summer, that manifested itself in the form of (among other things): living out of my van with no real plan, reaching out to “big dogs” as a nobody, and somehow, even attending a major outdoor brand party knowing basically nobody (Evan Wong at a party???).
(For those of you who don’t know, I despise most forms of large social gatherings. Especially parties.)
When you start out freelancing, you quickly learn that the only thing certain is, well, that everything is rather uncertain. Finances, finding work, charging camera batteries, and especially where I was going to wake up the next morning, to name a few. This summer was about embracing that uncertainty. Learning to reflect, refocus, change trajectory, take a breath, and take myself out of orbit.
Growing as a creative, storyteller, and person rarely happens without a leap of faith. Several of them, most likely.
I discovered, just like a good old fashioned 20-hour type-2 sufferfest in the mountains, there's a certain je ne sais quoiabout burying personal fears and committing - even if that means setting course for the event horizon.
a leap of faith
The kind of moment sprinklers were made for. For Squamish climbers, I suppose the Chief taps will have to do | Eric Carter & Brian Burger, Squamish“So, I heard you are living out of your car??”
A few weeks ago, I unexpectedly ran into a good friend on the bus home from school. She’s one of those friends I don’t see very often, but you’d never know it when I do.
This time, I think it had been well over 6 months.
“Tell me what the heck you’ve been up to this summer, I’ve seen bits and pieces on social media, but never knew what you were actually up to.”
I guess I did a bad job of telling people what I was doing and how I was doing it - my mother constantly grumbles about how bad I am at communicating my whereabouts.
This summer, I bounced around Western Canada chasing friends, weather, and spaces to create. My home base? A trusty 2006 Honda Odyssey, which my friend Nick and I dubbed: Battle Bus Prime. Oh, and the many assorted parking lots, highway ditches, and cafes I frequented between Squamish and Canmore. Eclipse Cafe in Canmore remains a personal favourite.
Like any broke 22 year old photographer, a fair bit of couch surfing also ensued (shoutout to my grandpa, the Ayers family, Kate & Dunbar Palace, Julian, Noah, Maddie, Sonia, Calais, and everybody else who generously lent a shower, stove, couch, floor, or all of the above).
Over 4 months on the road, I found routines, broke them, and learned that breaking routines was, in fact, the routine.
While Battle Bus Prime wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of luxurious vanlife; the fanciest thing in my van was a plastic shelf I dug out of my grandpa’s basement, it was still a notable improvement over paying rent in a mountain town (in my opinion). It had enough room to fit all of my gear plus a bed, and hey, what’s a bedroom worth if it's not doubling as a gear shed as well. My climbing gear lived on a middle row passenger seat, and my running gear in a bin at the foot of my bed. And no, not one of those nice built up van beds, think: twin-size trifold mattress on the floor of the van with queen-size sheets (sheets are far too expensive to have ones that are the correct size). In my opinion, the epitome of comfort. My clothes resided in the aforementioned plastic shelf behind the middle row, and I had a cooler stacked on top of my food bin behind that.
If I took a turn with any sort of speed, my clothing shelf would fall over and my cooler would slide off the food box and crash in the trunk. This led to needing to pack my bed space up and reorganize the van almost daily. C’est la vie.
More than just living out of a van, I wasn’t tied down to living in one place. For the first summer ever, I was able to spend quality time with my friends on the Coast, the Interior, and the Rockies. I also learned, despite being a self-described introvert, that I enjoy connecting with new people. In fact, it's become one of my favourite parts about photography.
I met so many amazing people, and looking back on this summer, that's what stands out most to me. The new friends I made.
In a sense, I was homeless this summer. But it didn’t feel that way. Being surrounded by a community of people you love is far more of a home than any permanent place of living ever will be.
homeless?
Summer Gallery
There’s prickly limestone, and then there’s Stanley Headwall prickly limestone. Connor Runge & Sean Bradbury on the aptly named Wolverine Petting Zoo | Kootenay National Park
A good day on rock never fails to lift the mood. Julian Larsen & Alex Koen relax on the summit of the South Early Winter Spire | Washington PassGood light in the alpine is the best main course you'll ever have. Unfortunately, it comes with a side of major benighting. Nick Ayers & Noah Macdonald begin the complex descent off Avalanche Mountain on an attempt of the Sir Donald Range Traverse | Rogers PassThe Back Office:
Evan's Winter 2025 Newsletter
Breaking trail before dawn - our favourite start to a day. | Noah Macdonald, Icefields ParkwayAt the heart of any photographer’s drive is a simple love for chasing light. In one regard, it’s the act of capturing movement and telling stories - painting with light; on the other, a constant chasing of computer screen light to the last place we thought our job would take us - the back office.
Oh, the dreaded back office. It conjures visions of windowless rooms, stale air, harsh computer screen light, LinkedIn sound effects, and occupational mountain FOMO. Despite its invisible presence, the back office is a critical part of any business. Like the setting of a skin track, you don’t get powder turns unless the back office is breaking trail - it supports and enables the rest of the business to function.
Through the blissful early stages of my photography journey, I believed success in the creative industry came purely from having a standout portfolio. I poured all my energy and time into getting out with my camera. However, part of turning photography into a career is understanding that you are as much a businessperson as you are a moment-capturer.
Lately, I’ve been doing a whole lot of track setting, and not much powder shredding.
My back office this semester is an upper-floor window seat in the Music, Art, and Architecture library, tucked in the corner of the always bustling Irving K. Barber Learning Centre (IKB for many of you). My seat faces directly west, meaning it doesn’t get sun till later in the day and avoids bane of my computer work productivity: screen glare. The immediate foreground boasts some of the nicer views at UBC - popular campus walkways, the greenspace surrounding the Ladner Clock Tower, and the gorgeous architectural array of windows known as the Koerner Library . As you shift your perspective to the horizon, you catch a glimpse of the northwestern edge of campus - the ocean and mountains just beyond.
I work best beside windows, best near greenery, best with white noise, best in wide open spaces, and certainly best before noon. Best when the energy of a place keeps me focused on my work, but encourages me to be present in my surroundings.
While UBC libraries are often jammed to capacity, mornings consistently provide the perfect quiet-but-not-silent workspace that my creative flow thrives on. Most students are in class or taking a late-start morning at home, save for a few regulars who I silently acknowledge almost every morning. This semester, instead of my typical habit of sitting listlessly through morning classes (often morphing to sleeping through them as the semester progresses), I skipped them in favour of productive work sessions in the back office.
I often begin with emails, written on the bus for efficiency, but reviewed in the library for clarity. Then into a bit of editing - intentionally placed here as a break from word-heavy thinking. I’m still a photographer first, and hours of words is a surefire jaunt straight to major brain fog. As many of you know, I am a notoriously slow editor - it's always a good laugh when someone jabs, “I can’t wait to see these photos in 3 or 4 months.” An embarrassingly true statement, all too often. Lately, I’ve found having a consistent time of day for editing better keeps me on track - though only marginally. Then, back to words. Pitch decks, introductory emails, mindless LinkedIn searching, Instagram and website scanning. The shitty part of being a freelancer, but a part whose importance cannot be understated.
In the last 10 minutes of each hour, the walkways are overwhelmed with students, gradually thinning to a few late-for-class stragglers. Usually, this is my cue to move to the next item on the never-ending to-do list. I appreciate the simplicity of timekeeping my day to the rhythm of a bustling university campus.
Shortly after noon, the library becomes noticeably busier. Most of the morning regulars are gone and are replaced with the noisy, stressed-out crowd of midday library goers. I try to wrap up whatever I am currently working on, and pack up. I exit the same doors I came in, taking in some much-needed fresh air. Even in the best of spaces, indoor air still gets kinda stale. I head for the Nest - lunch or a midday run often up next.
Surprisingly, I look forward to tomorrow morning in the back office.
thoughts
Jump turns in the hallway to the gods. Horrific bootpacking conditions sure make for excellent skiing. | Noah Macdonald, Grand Daddy Couloir“You sound like a kid who just found out Santa isn’t real.” Noah’s voice came over the radio as my body sagged into the steep, 45° snow. Sweat dripped out of my insulated ski helmet – an extremely poor choice of gear mind you – and snow fell through my open shell pant vents, finding its way into my boots. Ah shit, the worst 80 vertical meters of my life.
I thought I knew what bootpacking felt like. I’d seen all the photos - perfectly spaced bootprints forging up the most inspiring of ski lines. It looked majestic, and I desperately wanted that experience for myself . So there I was, trenching through hip deep snow, losing a step for every two, and complaining incessantly over the radio.
. . .
The Grand Daddy Couloir slices down the Bow Peak headwall in dramatic fashion. Dead center, dead straight, with towering side walls and perfect 45° slopes. It’s the platonic ideal of a couloir . . .
