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Outdoor Tips, Tricks, Inspiration and Activities | MEC Blog

*Boris Issaev fills us in on the story behind [Parkbus](https://www.parkbus.ca/), a bus service in Ontario that gets people from the city to the great outdoors. He co-founded Parkbus with Alex Berlyand in 2010.*

Hard to believe, but it was less than four years ago when I clicked “send,” and fired off an email to MEC with our idea for a bus that would run between Toronto and Algonquin Provincial Park. That email snowballed into a bus network that’s now used by thousands of passengers in Toronto and Ottawa, and is run by dozens of volunteers in collaboration with Ontario Parks and Parks Canada.

##### Campfire idea
My family and I moved to Toronto when I was 12. Our first years in the city were car-free, so I had to spend hot and smoggy summers in the city. It was only when I turned 18 and started driving that Ontario truly became “Mine to Discover.” Later on, I experienced France’s excellent rural transit system, and used shuttle buses inside US national parks. These experiences helped me conceptualize a city-to-park bus network, connecting urban Ontarians to the key parks in the province.

Alex Berlyand, my classmate and backpacking partner, was also all too familiar with the challenges of car-free existence. He’d visited dozens of parks in Ontario and out west, and often resorted to hitchhiking by the side of the road. He had travelled extensively around the world, and it seemed like North America was the only place where not having a car was a real obstacle to getting to the great outdoors.



In November 2009, Alex and I were drinking tea in front of a campfire on Algonquin’s Highland Backpacking Trail. We shared our frustrations and ideas around transportation, and decided to persuade a local bus company to run a few trips to the park. We needed something to back up our vision, though, so we approached MEC to ask if we could spend a day or two in their Toronto store to survey the shoppers and figure out if the demand for city-to park transit was there.

### From campfires to boardrooms
MEC’s initial help with the project, along with the enthusiastic support from Ontario Parks, led Alex and I to a whirlwind of meetings across Ontario, all while working our 9–5 jobs. A pivotal moment was when we met with the founder of the Ontario Biketrain program, Justin Lafontaine, who guided us into the world of tourism and non-profits.

In July 2010, we ran the first ever Parkbus – a 9-passenger white van driven by us and rented at a premium as we were both under 25 at the time. We didn’t charge our first passengers either, as it was just a proof of concept at a time when we had no idea that Parkbus could also become our job.



There have been many milestones for Parkbus since then, including joining Transportation Options, a non-profit specializing in sustainable tourism and transportation; receiving funding both from the Ontario Ministry of Tourism Culture and Sport, and the Ontario Trillium Foundation; and having Parks Canada join the program. Our destinations have grown to five parks, and Ottawa is our new hub in 2013. MEC’s support has grown as Parkbus became its collaborative partner in Toronto and Ottawa, offering passengers affordable equipment rentals and quality gear for sale, and providing marketing support.



### Finding our next campsite
Looking back at how it all started, it’s hard to believe we’ve made it this far. Time and again, it proves that pursuing a good idea is never a waste, and challenges can become opportunities with the right mindset. Four years ago we never would have thought Parkbus could get to where it is now, with all its partners, media coverage, passengers and destinations. More than ever, we see how necessary a service like this is to so many people who live in the city.



Our focus remains the same: to have a sustainable transportation network between cities and outdoor destinations in our backyard. We’d like to think that Parkbus is part of the solution to today’s disconnect from nature, and a step towards offering the kind of access that other places have. We work hard to make it more than just a bus service too, with on-board programming, an informational website, and volunteers that know and love the great outdoors. The project continues to evolve each year, as we look for new parks and cities to expand to.



The making of Parkbus | MEC Blog

The making of Parkbus

Years ago, when the MEC spring catalogue arrived in my mailbox, the cover immediately caught my eye. It showed a young woman wading the chest-deep Homathko River, with a mountain bike hoisted overhead. Half the image was taken above the water and half below.



### 

Known in the photographic world as “*under overs,”* I instantly knew I wanted to shoot something similar myself. It just looked so cool!

But how? My first guess was Steve Ogle, the photographer who took the cover shot, had used a waterproof point-n-shoot camera, carefully aligning the small lens with the surface of the river. So I borrowed a buddy’s waterproof camera for a kayak trip and gave it a shot, but no luck. Those early attempts all appeared blurred, and either showed everything above surface, or below – but never a mix.



Next I investigated waterproof housings. Not wanting to invest the thousands required to buy a proper diving case for my DSLR, I decided to risk one of the cheaper ($120) plastic bag-like solutions. (*Note: my camera survived this ‘plastic bag’ experiment, but you must be VERY careful any time you mix cameras and water, for potential disaster is always lurking*!) During a trip to the Hakai on BC’s central coast I captured a few so-so images of friends diving for crabs and starfish, but was ultimately disappointed with the results. I knew something was missing.



Later that year, *Canadian Geographic* assigned me a story on the Nature Conservancy of Canada’s new flagship property, [The Darkwoods](http://www.canadiangeographic.ca/article/saving-darkwoods). When I heard rumours of streams clogged with bull trout during the autumn spawning run, it provided motivation to explore under-over imagery more thoroughly.

Research revealed under overs require specialized equipment: specifically an oversized dome port, measuring 9in. or more in diameter. Unfortunately, such things don’t come cheap. The housing would cost more than my entire assignment fee, and represent several months of work.  But wanted to nail a great story – it was my first time shooting for the magazine – so I went ahead I ordered an under over dome port from SPL Surf Housings in California.

Weeks later, on the edge of a chilly mountain stream in BC’s southern Selkirk Mountains, I pulled on a damp [neoprene wetsuit](/en/ideal-for/watersports/products/clothing/wetsuits-and-neoprene-clothing/c/1058?q=%3Asales-rank) and then carefully licked my new dome port to prevent it from fogging. Then I slipped in.

Pool after pool I found large bull trout, displaying full fall colours, most 70cm in length or more. How glorious! One apparently fell in love with its reflection, returning again and again to rub against the domeport as I shot! I later described the magic of that day in a column for the [Globe and Mail](http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/travel/travel-news/a-wild-chase-for-bull-trout-in-my-own-backyard/article4199332/).



I remain a big fan of under over images. They offer a unique glimpse of the world; one we could never see with our eyes alone, but a vision that feels natural and true. I continue to use my dome port – from travels to the Caribbean island of Saba to sea kayaking in Kyuquot Sound – and anytime I’m near water, I find myself seeking new and inventive under over opportunities.



The world of under over photography | MEC Blog

The world of under over photography

You dream, you plan, you negotiate with your significant other for sufficient time, then you just hope for good luck.

After landing under a brilliant sapphire sky on the Grand Plateau Glacier in May, we would have little of it. For photographer Steve Ogle, Prince Rupert fisherman and ski mountaineer Dean Wagner, and I things started well. Fairweather is a mountain of dreams that straddles the Alaska-BC border, whose 4,663 metre summit (the highest point in our province) soared above us in an arc of windblown snow and ice. More than 200 years ago Captain James Cook named the peak on a rare sunny day as he sailed through the Gulf of Alaska; these days it has the reputation among mountaineers as the most inappropriately named mountain in the world.

This trip would be different, we deluded ourselves into believing. As we listened to the buzz of the Bush Hawk’s engine fade into the vast icy wilderness of Glacier Bay, we were cheerful, almost ridiculously optimistic, shuffling around the snow in t-shirts to establish our base camp. Fairweather’s summit appeared so close, it seemed as though we could reach across the sky and touch it.



May 15. Two weeks have passed since we touched down. Wind blasts with nerve-shattering force. Somewhere above this maelstrom, I detect the roar of a jet. I fantasize about business class passengers ordering cocktails and watching an in-flight comedy.

Except for a handful of brief, between-storm forays, we’ve been pinned in our tent by spring storms dumping more than a metre of snow. Temperatures have plunged into the -30C° range. I have read my two books twice. One of them, Cormac McCarthy’s grim apocalyptic tale Blood Meridian, does little to boost spirits but serves to pass time. I have even scanned the labels of my long underwear, which oddly makes me dream of beaches in Vietnam and Thailand.



We monitor weather forecasts from Alaska’s National Weather Service multiple times daily like a call to prayer, growing to despise the computerized voice crackling over the handheld radio as if it is personally responsible for the horrendous weather. This time however, the voice delivers a few shreds of optimism in the form of a high pressure ridge that’s forecast to settle over the Gulf of Alaska. Our cheers are muted, having been suckered numerous times over the past couple of weeks into making a summit attempt only to be turned back by savage wind, cold and murky clouds. Yet late that night when I awake for a midnight pee, the wind has stopped and the night sparkles. In the morning, the sky is bluebird and the air is calm. Only a few wisps of wind are visible whipping snow from Fairweather’s whipped cream ridges.

We inhale bowls of oatmeal, pack lunches and climbing gear, pry our feet into boot liners and frozen plastic shells. Setting off, we skin across the flats of the Grand Plateau until it rears up steeply. Movement is invigorating but we’re stopped in our tracks by a cascade of ice and snow burying a nearby pass where we skied weeks ago, as if we need more reminders of our tenuous existence in this alpine. In less than two hours we pass through this avalanche alley, stash our skis, and force down some water and a steel-hard energy bar. Steve slaps his hands together and I wiggle toes trying to generate circulation. After roping up, we retrace our route across the bergschrund then ascend toward a low-angled dihedral that splits a vertical slab of ice. The col is tantalizingly close and when we crest the headwall we’re greeted by a surreal sight, the sweeping aquamarine crescent of the Gulf of Alaska 4000 vertical metres below us. This impressive height in just 20 kilometres from the tide line, making Fairweather one of the highest coastal mountains in the world.



We traverse the col until the west ridge rises into the sky, weaving around crevasses and crossing others, occasionally pausing to test with our ice axes the strength of snow bridges before committing our weight. I stop to lean on my ice axe and gulp mouthfuls of air. Steve and Dean do the same; the sight makes me think of the adage, mountaineering is fun only in hindsight, or something like that. My altimetre reads 4,210 – another grueling 450 metres to go. Gazing upwards, I piece together a route among cracks, drifts and gargoyles of ice.



I concentrate purely on the next 100 metres, unwilling to be tempted by the deception of another false summit. But the next time I look ahead, the slope decreases and before us sits the broad  plateau of Fairweather’s crown and beyond, the wildly corniced ridge of Mount Quincy Adams. Together we shuffle the final few paces to a wind-hammered knob of snow, the hostile but beautiful apex of BC that in a busy year might see the boot prints of a half-dozen souls, and in some years none at all. On one side, an ocean of ice and mountains, on the other, the wild blue north Pacific curves to the western horizon. Above us a jet liner traces a silent white arc across the blue sky. In a single instant, the mental torment of idle days spent waiting out storms beneath this brooding monolith of snow and ice washes away. Our trio gathers for a requisite hug, our shouts heard by nobody but ourselves. Dean produces a small flask of Jagermeister saved for the occasion. I look at my watch, 2:15pm. Six hours after leaving the tent this morning, and two weeks after flying in from Haines. Steve boldly removes his gloves then kneels to tap out a SPOT text to friends and family: S-u-m-m-i-t-!

May 22. Back on Vancouver Island, I’m lazing around in shorts in my backyard, fingers and toes numb. I peruse an email from a meteorologist with the National Weather Service in Alaska in response to a query I made about the weather in the Glacier Bay region. I knew it was bad, but how bad? He tells me that the first half of the month witnessed some of the coldest and wettest weather ever recorded in the Gulf of Alaska region. Sometimes you’re lucky, sometimes you’re not, but we made it.





MEC Blog

The making of Parkbus

The world of under over photography

Fairweather: inappropriately named mountain of dreams