Salt air. Early mornings. Steady Ground. Wild seas. The west coast doesn't whisper, it roars.
Salt air and early mornings. Coffee in hand. Rods ready. The kind of weekend that smells like seaweed and diesel.
In Port Hardy, the land holds steady while the water thrashes and breathes. Salmon push upstream. Eagles circle overhead. The ocean doesn’t rest, and neither do we.
This collection came from those quiet, rugged hours between cast and catch. A few days on the edge of the coast where wild still means something.