Ensconced within a centuries-old redwood forest in the Russian River Valley of Sonoma, just a 90-minute drive from San Francisco, AutoCamp promises a touch of luxury in the great outdoors. Nature enthusiasts will love bedding down in the big canvas tents furnished with a queen-size bed, plush linens and electrical outlets. Each one also has a patio with deck chairs and a camp fire.
Those wanting to experience camping without the chilly runs to the clubhouse bathroom should check in to one of the custom-built Airstream suites. Each one features a glam white-tiled bathroom, kitchenette, television and sound system.
Once you’ve settled in, pedal your complimentary bike to the nearby river or one of the many surrounding wineries. The clubhouse has a shop where you can get important supplies like beers and snacks, as well as an adventure desk. When night falls get cosy by the campfire, toasting s’mores and watching stars blanket the sky.
AutoCamp also has locations at Yosemite and Santa Barbara.
Swap civilisation for this epic sailing tour of Canada’s Haida Gwaii archipelago. The adventure kicks off with a scenic floatplane flight to your schooner, Passing Cloud, which awaits you on the northern fringe of the reserve. The indigenous Haida people thrived here for more than 14,000 years and you’ll learn about their culture while exploring the ancient villages nestled among towering cedar and spruce trees.
The archipelago is also a marine wonderland. Spot sharks, dolphins and humpback whales in the pelagic zone. Kayak the glassy waters of Burnaby Narrows in search of sunflower stars, moon snails and decorator crabs. Look out for sea lions and orcas at Cape St James. Back on dry land, sink your toes into the sand and tide pools before boarding your floatplane once more for a final glimpse.
A yellow and green snake slithers below my foot. It’s pretty and colourful, but it’s a snake nonetheless. I rewind my steps in slow motion then rapidly retreat.
This is the first hike of many during a week rafting and camping down 300 kilometres of the Colorado River from Marble Canyon to Whitmore Wash, and while we were warned about the snakes and the scorpions of the Grand Canyon, the thrill of coming foot to face with one still has my heart racing.
Calling this a hike is somewhat misleading. Climbing is a more fitting description. We are in the North Canyon clambering over rock debris. It’s a bent-over, hands-on scramble, and natural footholds and nooks are the only help we have to bolster up our bodies. Each exaggerated step strains my groin muscles and tests my flexibility. We are tiny flecks of colour dwarfed by the terracotta-red canyon walls and surrounded by tessellated rock that looks like a stonemason has been busy slicing out blocks to create a giant game of Jenga. Pockets of empty space and teetering rocks are left behind.
At the river, we make camp on a small strip of beach. It’s the first night and somewhat of a culture shock. This trip requires all hands on deck – a raft full of bags, cots, tables, chairs, kitchen, food and water awaits us, and a human production line forms to unload our precious gear. Jeff is our trip leader and swiftly runs through camp set-up, hygiene and etiquette. Washing is limited to wet wipes or a brave wash in the achingly cold river. All peeing must be straight into the river while a fashioned ‘regular’ toilet is set up each night for number-twos only. A tight wiggle in a sleeping bag is our only hope of getting dressed discreetly. We are going to get to know each other intimately, and fast.
A comical scene quickly unfolds as everyone deciphers the knack of erecting a stretcher bed for the first time. Sleeping exposed under the stars is an incredibly peaceful experience – the crammed celestial sky seems almost fictitious and the roar of the rapids drowns out any snoring neighbours.
Jeff gets the camp moving at sunrise with the waft of fresh coffee. We’ve been told to kit up in full wet-weather gear, morphing the group into Michelin men in oversized parachute-like outfits. The week will see us ride through a system of 80 complex rapids and fluctuating water levels. This is one of the few rivers in the world that uses a rating system ranging from one to the highest rating, a Grade 10.
I take lead position on the raft, prepared to cop the full force. I see the slick sinkhole of 23 Mile Rapid and brace myself as the nose of the raft slams down and an icy wall of water smashes overhead. The water outsmarts my gear and snakes a chilly path down my body. Even in the milder rapids, water rebounds off the sides and splashes unexpectedly like a slap across the face with a wet fish.
Travelling just 16 kilometres each hour, we have plenty of time between rapids to lie back and absorb the skyscraper walls as the river winds through a tiny fracture in a vast plateau. It’s a geologist’s heaven. The history behind the formation is baffling and the horizontal layers – each distinct in colour and texture – are unique timestamps. The further we travel, the higher the cliffs rise as the older bedrock base pushes the young layers to the top. The eroded Redwall Limestone creates a fun game of I Spy – we spot the pillared entry of Petra, a game piece from Battleship, the pipes of a church organ and a statue from Angkor Wat ruins. In downtime, we’re entertained with the wonderful concept called the beer bag – a netted bag that drags along in the icy water behind us as a natural esky.
Approaching camp at Main Nankoweap, we see a row of windows cut into the cliff high above us. These granaries of the Ancestral Puebloans date back to 1100 CE and represent quite the impressive feat to protect their stores. A tiny path wiggles up and we naively comment what an arduous hike that would have once been. We don’t have to imagine for long though, as it’s our afternoon activity.
It’s a slow climb up 200 metres with little flat respite to ease the burn. Each taxing step varies in height from a tiny prance to a giant lunge. Several admit defeat along the way, but I pace myself with regular breaks to safely absorb the view. The goat track narrows until we must navigate single file for the last steep pitch along a rubbled switchback ledge. The pain is forgotten immediately upon reaching the granaries as the elevation unveils the immense surroundings juxtaposed against the tiny blue dots of our rafts far below. The cloudy olive river zig-zags through the distinct rift in the deep rock bed. I feel humbly irrelevant.
By day three I’ve lost track of time and regular life has faded away. A new seamless rhythm is in play and a team camaraderie has formed. Being stripped of luxuries and vanity is now liberating. Today’s highlight is Little Colorado River. At the mouth of the joining rivers, contrasting water colours swirl together as if a milk tanker has spilled its load. Calcium carbonate creates creamy glacial blue water and a snow-like frosting along the bank. Compared to the numbing Colorado River temperatures, this offshoot offers a balmy rinse off. Fashioning our life jackets into unflattering jumbo nappies, we slip into the cascading water. Bouncing off the rocks in the fast flow, I’m grateful for my padded ride. Throw in inflatable water toys and adults regress to playful kids who refuse to get out.
From this point we leave Marble Canyon and officially enter the Grand Canyon. The rock surrounding us dates back over a mind-boggling 1.6 billion years. We can now observe the Great Unconformity, a missing supergroup of rock layers representing a 1.2 million year gap in history. You can clearly see the top layer of young Tapeats sandstone sandwiched with the ancient Vishnu Schist, yet no middle layers of time. Where they have gone remains a great natural mystery.
My favourite part of the day has become lying in bed as camp is stirring, watching the rising sun play across the rock walls. The spotlight moves from just the peaks, then slowly lights each canyon layer with a warm glow.
Water has been released overnight from Glen Canyon Dam. This surge is significant because today is a conveyor belt of big rapids and this extra water just made them a whole lot crazier. Hance Rapid is just past camp and our first grade 10. The roar is heard well before we see the hint of white chop ahead. It’s a tricky weave through the menacing rocks just below the surface. No one is staying dry this morning.
Each rapid has a unique story and naming convention. Some get their label from the adventurer who conquered them (or didn’t), while others from their characteristics. We pass through Sockdolager, a boxing term for a knockout punch; Grapevine, described as more rocks than grapes on a vine; and Horn Creek, known for the steepest drop in the shortest distance. Hermit Rapid is the monster of the day. A nine-metre vertical drop bends our raft like a banana, and the impact lifts my body and deposits me into the lap of my neighbour behind. The roller-coaster continues through a succession of massive dips, a torrent slamming us each time.
I swallow my fair share of water as I’m laughing too hard to shut my mouth. Cheering as the raft is finally spat out, I wish we could do it all again.
Even after 370 river trips under his belt, Jeff still looks tense as we approach certain rapids. No run is ever the same. The rapids are forever changing and unforgiving of a minor mistake. It’s unfathomable to think of the first explorers in vulnerable wooden crafts navigating this river blindly. With these currents there is no reversing. They were 100 per cent committed with no idea of what they faced around each corner. Many explorers abandoned their boats and hiked out instead, but this in itself is dangerous. The river is not to be underestimated, even today.
Big Dune campsite is a long strip of beach bordering a plunging cliff line. We’re now at the 119 Mile point. Jeff creates a makeshift fire out of paper towels and olive oil to congregate around each night. With the wine flowing, a hearty rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ incites a dance party. The sheer rock face becomes the stage backdrop for an impromptu shadow play. Interpretative dance by torchlight, magnified and warped onto the rock, creates surreal entertainment for those watching from bed.
By day five the tree-topped North and South Rims are in clear view, towering nearly 1500 metres above us. The oldest canyon rock, layers of dusky pink Zoroaster granite and polished black Vishnu Schist, weaves down vertically like burrowing tree roots. Millennia of rockfalls have scattered immense boulders, now resting on impossible angles and tipping points. The slightest tremor would completely transform the make-up of the Grand Canyon in a split second.
Today’s hike is to Upper Deer Creek ‘patio’ and not for those with a fear of heights. The escarpment looms straight up from the water and it’s a challenging climb from the get-go. The 44ºC heat radiates off the rocks, singeing hands on contact. The final leg to the waterfall traverses a sketchy ledge. Facing the wall, I gingerly shuffle my hands and feet along like a mime artist’s impression of being trapped in a box. The ledge is boot-width in some places and the drop has no detectable bottom. The pay-off, however, is a refreshing soak as I sit, clothes and all, in the waterfall spa bath.
The extreme temperatures and dry air are taking a toll on our bodies. No amount of water or moisturiser seems to placate my dehydrated system. The fingers of a fellow camper have split like burst sausages.
The plan for our last full day is a long visit to Havasu Falls, but we are side-tracked by an impromptu pit stop at Matkatamiba Canyon. This narrow slot canyon cuts a tight v-shape channel through ribboned rock. The walls resemble the compacted layers of a Flake chocolate and a small stream flows through but is slick with algae slime. The only way up is to pressure climb: a technique of maintaining constant pressure with your body to climb without touching the bottom. Jeff wedges himself between the walls and pulls each of us out of the waist-deep water to start. Digging my backbone into one side, I push hard against the other with my feet. Each move is carefully considered as I inch my way up. It’s the point of no return. A slip is guaranteed to significantly injure not only me, but everyone else below me. Somebody on a previous trip had to be helicoptered off the river after a fall here. At one point I freeze. I’m horizontal across the canyon, painfully pushing my elbows hard into the rock to hold me, but I’m not secure. My adrenaline is racing as I am completely out of my comfort zone. Jeff clambers up and over like my Spiderman hero to provide a higher anchor point. It’s an intense physical and mental test, but the sense of achievement is exhilarating.
After our final camp pack-down, we are taking a seven-minute helicopter shortcut out of the canyon. Downriver at 187 Mile is the Whitmore helipad, in reality is little more than a knoll midway up the cliff. The precision of the helicopter cutting past the canyon walls to land is extraordinary. With the rotors spinning, the pilot hovers on the ground just long enough for us to swiftly buckle in. The scope of this Natural Wonder of the World can only be realised from the aerial view. Our group flies out dishevelled and weary, but bonded by a proud sense of having conquered something quite special. A mere 0.4 per cent of annual visitors experience the Grand Canyon as the adventure we’ve just had. The focus is now firmly on removing the permeating film of grit covering our bodies. I can’t wait for a long hot soak in a bath.
Paddling furiously, we manoeuvre the kayaks into the middle of the cove and peer up at two specks soaring above the hemlocks and spruces. Caught up in the thermals, they twirl around each other, nearly touch, then circle again, gliding effortlessly through the crispness of the morning sky. The ritual is repeated over and over until they crescendo into the grand finale. Grasping talons, they lock together tumbling in free fall towards the ground.
“For a bald eagle, trust is everything,” explains Megan, our expedition leader. “What we’re seeing is a courtship dance. They’re testing out each other’s fitness and strength. That is, if they don’t crash…”
It’s spring in Alaska and love is not only in the air, it’s all around us. My affair with the last frontier started when I saw a snippet on TV of Susan Butcher winning her first Iditarod sled dog race in 1986. Gary Paulsen’s novel Hatchet came out the following year and I became hooked on all things Alaskan. From Travels in Alaska by John Muir to Alaska: A Novel by James A. Michener, the poetry of Robert Service and the works of Jack London, words on dog-eared pages drew the pictures in my imagination.
This is my fifth trip to Alaska. The ‘call of the wild’ keeps drawing me back. I’m not alone. Passion for the vast wilderness is written on the faces of the people. You see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices and feel the comradeship that comes from being in a place where survival depends on what Mother Nature throws your way.
Starting in Juneau, I’m travelling with UnCruise Adventures for two weeks through the Inside Passage. It’s late April and we’re on the first itinerary for the year.
“As an Alaskan, spring is my favourite season in Southeast Alaska,” says UnCruise CEO Dan Blanchard as we prepare to set sail. “Everything is fresh. Like the bears emerging from their dens, we feel renewed. It’s like an awakening.” Dan is similar to his vessels – built for adventure. A wild, madcap type of guy who’s more comfortable with his feet in the water than under a desk. And Juneau, the rugged capital of Alaska, suits him just fine.
Originally settled by the Auke and Tlingit tribes for the abundance of food sources, and later named after gold prospector Joe Juneau, the state capital (population 35,000) is only accessible by sea or air. It was a Tlingit chief who told Joe Juneau where to find the gold that led to the town becoming the home of the three largest gold mines in the world. Speak to any local and they’ll nod towards the mountains and mumble, “There’s plenty of gold left in them hills”.
It’s the same story all the way along the Alaskan part of the Inside Passage and across the border into Canada’s Yukon territory. When cries of ‘gold’ went up in 1896, it started one of the greatest adventures in American history. The Klondike Gold Rush saw a frenzy of around 100,000 gold diggers (known as stampeders) sail from the US west coast to claim their fortune. However, once they arrived, perilous journeys on foot over the inhospitable terrain filled with steep ravines, freezing temperatures and dangerous animals dashed the hopes of many. Most either died or turned back. It’s said 99 per cent of the gold in Alaska is yet to be discovered.
Today the rush for riches is of a different kind: tourism. By the end of September, more than one million cruisers will sail on mega ships through these waters. We see none of them. UnCruise vessels get into the myriad hidden coves and sheltered inlets the big ships can’t, so virtually the only people I see are my 49 fellow guests and the 32 crew.
“Whatever nature gives, we’ll embrace it,” says Megan, who aims to get out all the toys (kayaks, paddleboards, hiking poles, skiffs) every day. Some days we tuck into coves surrounded by old-growth rainforest and paddle the kayaks through the glassy waters; other days we drift past spring meadows dotted with early bloomers like the vibrant yellow skunk cabbage flowers.
From water level there’s a sense of immediacy and surprise. The soft eyes of a harbour seal suddenly popping up in front of the kayak, a sea otter floating along on its back, the blow of a humpback whale echoing across the water. And then there’s the day we paddle to the face of a glacier.
As one of the world’s most protected sites, Glacier Bay National Park is the holy grail of Southeast Alaska. Covering around 1.3 million hectares and home to more than a thousand glaciers, it’s a glimpse of how our planet might have looked during the ice age.
Surrounded by snow-covered mountains we paddle towards Lamplugh Glacier. It’s almost t-shirt weather. Sunlight captures the drips from my paddle and transforms them into mini starbursts. As we get closer to the glacier, whooshes of cold air sting my face and we start to navigate through the bergy bits and growlers (small chunks of ice) floating past.
“Keep your kayak straight and try not to bump the ice,” says our guide Matt. Positioning the kayaks on the edge of the exclusion zone, we crane our necks up at the skyscraper of ice. A maze of spidery black lines slice through patches of iridescent blue, topped with swirls of white that look like meringues.
But within the beauty lies the beast.
From somewhere deep inside on the left of the six-kilometre face, a low rumbling sound reverberates across the water, followed by a long moan that sounds like a sick cow. Suddenly there’s a thunderous crack and, within seconds, chunks of ice start tumbling down the face of a massive column. There’s a pause as the column teeters on the brink before smacking into the water in a cloud of icy shards. “Get ready for the wave,” yells Matt.
Mesmerised, we watch the swell create a pattern across the water. The front of the kayak lifts slightly as we ride a series of ripples that peter out as quickly as they formed.
Other days we swap the paddles for boots. We walk through old-growth rainforests under a dense canopy of hemlock, spruce and cedar trees. Branches drip with moss and walking the forest floor feels like bouncing on a trampoline. Everything is silent.
“Too silent,” says Megan, before shouting, “Hey bear! Bears don’t like surprises. By letting them know we’re here, we want to keep them away.” The guides also carry a range of deterrents like bear spray. Thankfully on this occasion they don’t need to use it.
It’s low tide when we hike along the rocky shores of Keku Islands, a string of tiny islets sheltered between two larger islands. “In Tlingit tradition, this would be a banquet,” says Megan. “When the tide is out, the table is set.”
Clinging to slimy rocks, wrapped in thick straps of kelp or tucked into sheltered rock pools, the rich intertidal life of limpets, crabs, mussels, oysters, starfish, coral, sponges and clams creates a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, blues and purples. Although the staple of the Tlingit diet was salmon, they cooked ‘beach tucker’ over an open flame. Kelp wasn’t only a source of food; it was also put to a more practical use, collected to create things like baskets and decorative jewellery.
Pulling a strap from the water, Megan explains the importance of healthy kelp forests. “The kelp here supports a variety of fish species, as well as whales, sea lions and sea otters.”
To learn more about the Tlingits we meet up with Dan’s friend Joe Williams, a Tlingit elder and Ketchikan’s former mayor.
To Joe, preserving his heritage is his life’s work. He tells how when he attended a Native American convention in the 1960s, he was told that by the year 2010 there wouldn’t be one person who could speak the Tlingit language. Fortunately, due to the work of Joe and others, the stories and traditions of the Tlingits and other Native Alaskan tribes haven’t been lost. “The younger generation embraces the culture because they consider it an honour,” he explains. “In our culture, we’re split into two groups called moieties. Everyone is either an eagle or raven. An eagle must marry a raven and vice versa. It’s all about the balance.”
I think back to all the eagles and ravens we’ve seen soaring through the skies and perching in the treetops. There is a true sense of equilibrium here, and you can’t help but marvel at the harmony in this ridiculously beautiful part of the world.
Central California produces some of the best wines in the world, but one particular winery in Paso Robles is doing it with a bit more panache than the rest. Tooth and Nail Winery, founded by Rabble Wine Company, is located in a castle, complete with an aquamarine moat that protects the winery’s premier vines and grapes.
When you’re done exploring the impressive castle grounds – which include a library, rooftop terrace, barrel rooms and epic foyer – a variety of wine flights are available for tasting from the friendly staff, and there’s a rocking food menu to provide some delicious ambrosia to accompany your vino.
Don’t forget to download the app to see Tooth and Nail’s labels come alive right before your very eyes. It’s the very first technology of its kind and definitely adds a showstopping element to your visit. Also, keep an eye out for the exclusive castle parties, which are legendary in the area.
I’m cold. Really cold. And I’m standing in my underwear in a wooden shack deep in Wyoming’s Bridger-Teton National Forest. This is not the scene of some erotic horror movie though. I’m about to plunge into the piping-hot waters of the swimming pool at Granite Hot Springs. It is fed by a 40ºC natural spring streaming down the snow-covered hillside. The heat has melted the surrounding snow and the 10-second shuffle across icy stairs and a slippery, humility-stealing boardwalk seems to take an eternity. By the time I reach the pool’s edge I cannot feel my extremities. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for the hot springs to toast me and, as I float like a cooked lobster, I think about the best part of this scenario – the adventure to get here.
Earlier that morning I’d left the famous slopes of Jackson Hole for a snow experience of a different kind. What I knew about dog sledding I’d learned from the big screen, where huskies mushed their way to rescue a freezing damsel in distress. Soon after arriving at Jackson Hole Iditarod Sled Dog Tours though, I realised I actually knew nothing at all. The movies, would you believe, are fictitious. First, Alaskan racing sled dogs are nothing like the huskies in the movies. They are lean, surprisingly small and look a bit like red kelpies. They are also very excitable and their barking becomes frenzied as we arrive.
A brief orientation sets us up with basic commands and notes about where to stand on the sled. The handlers are at pains to explain the dogs are our partners and the most important members of the team. Plus, they are all related to dogs that have done the Iditarod, a 1600-kilometre race across Alaska that’s often referred to as the Last Great Race on Earth.
With the foot brake (a deep hook in the snow) kicked up we are off. This is no Disney ride. The dogs are fast and I need to control them or we’ll slide off the track. It is a balance of riding the brake to keep control, yelling mush and pedalling to help with uphill speed.
The only sounds are the patter of paws on the snow, the panting of our team, me included, and the wind, some of which smells dog generated. A distant moose stares at us, nonplussed. The dogs take gulps of fresh powder to hydrate without breaking step as we wind through pine trees and into open fields. The views of mountains framed by forest are as breathtaking as the sledding. I can only imagine the stamina of the Iditarod champions and wonder if they ever get the chance to relax in a hot spring post race.
They say you should beware the woman scorned, but not if you’re a female musician. When Canadian singer Sarah McLachlan planned to tour with Paula Cole, she was told by a promoter no one would pay to see a show featuring two women. That was 1994, and she thought the notion was ridiculous. At the same time, Lollapalooza, which had launched in 1992, was attracting huge crowds, all while featuring few female acts on its bills.
It took McLachlan three years, but in 1997 the Vancouver songwriter proved her point. Her concept was simple: invite a diverse range of musicians, book venues, sell tickets and entertain the crowd. It was the same approach used by every other music festival going around at the time, but with one major difference: every artist on the bill would be a female singer or a band fronted by a woman. Lilith Fair, named after Adam’s first wife in Jewish mythology (the one who left him when he refused to treat her as an equal), was born.
At the time, McLachlan and her management team put together a wish list. The singer contacted friends and those she already knew, and her team reached out to the rest. In the end, 90 per cent of the artists they approached said yes. “The few we didn’t get were either in the studio or had been touring for a very long time and needed a break,” McLachlan said in an interview at the time. “We gave each artist the time and freedom to join the tour for however long they wanted, so the artists themselves determined how the bill ended up.”
On 5 July 1997, Lilith Fair kicked off in George, Washington. There were three stages – the smallest of which featured acts who’d only played a few gigs to that point (among the artists who appeared on it were Beth Orton and Dido) – and about 20,000 punters at each show. Headlining all 35 dates were McLachlan and Suzanne Vega; along the way they were joined by Sheryl Crow, Tracy Chapman, Jewel, Fiona Apple, Emmylou Harris and just about every other female singer who was playing music in North America at the time. The tour racked up US$16 million in ticket sales and became the top-grossing festival of the year. As well as top tunes, each show featured a village area, where retailers and non-profits, like Planned Parenthood, could set up stalls, and a dollar from each ticket sold was donated to local charities.
Buoyed by the response from the first tour, Lilith came back in 1998 bigger than ever, adding the likes of Liz Phair, Bonnie Raitt, Queen Latifah and Missy Elliott to the bill. “This is the best tour, man, and it’s all women,” said Queen Latifah during the festival. “I wanted to do this because I was excited about playing to a different audience than I might normally play to at a hip-hop show. The vibes are right.”
McLachlan had only ever signed on for three years of the festival and, after its 1999 iteration, she decided to give it a break despite success that not only manifested itself in ticket sales – about one and a half million people went to the festival during the three years – but also by putting competition winners in front of huge crowds, giving emerging artists exposure that secured record deals and by donating $10 million to various charities.
“We’re all well into our 30s now, and we’ve decided we want to have babies,” said McLachlan at a press conference in 1999. “This will be the last year for a good, long while. It could be three years, it could be 10 years, it could be forever.”
It would be 2010 before Lilith made a comeback, but it could never replicate the same success. Dates were cancelled when ticket sales were slow, and there was some harsh criticism from bloggers then the music press who labelled it feminist flag-waving in an era when women like Kelly Clarkson, Rihanna and Ke$ha were already topping the charts. “Unfortunately, most of the media seems to just glom onto anything negative,” McLachlan told NPR when it hit the fan. “And that’s all they talk about. And they go searching for it.”
It may, however, not be the last we hear of the female-friendly festival. Just last year the sisters from Haim said they wanted to launch their own Lilith Fair-style gig. At the New Yorker Festival, Este Haim listed her dream line-up of Lorde, Florence and the Machine, Savages, Chvrches, Taylor Swift and her band’s own mentor Jenny Lewis. “I did see Melissa Etheridge in concert, I saw Sarah McLachlan in concert, I saw Paula Cole in concert, and Sheryl Crow. All these amazing ladies had such an amazing outlet and place to play music, and it was really beautiful and I feel like that’s not available any more… We talk semi-jokingly but semi-seriously about making it happen. So stay tuned. I think it would be really magical.”
Benjamin Von Wong travels the world for six months of the year but he doesn’t really do holidays. His last “family vacation” (spent in Bali at his parents’ behest) morphed into an epic underwater photo shoot. The result was a surreal series of images featuring free-diver models, ethereal white gowns and the haunting backdrop of the USAT Liberty shipwreck.
The shots became an internet sensation (the behind-the-scenes video attracted more than one million views on YouTube) and set a new benchmark for the photographer, who has carved a niche dabbling in all things whimsical, fantastical and reality bending.
When he’s not chasing fish out of the frame 25 metres under the sea in Bali, or shooting zombies in a Game of Thrones fan-fiction in the snow in Quebec, Benjamin, 27, can be found leading photographic workshops around the world and teaming up with like-minded kooky creatives on mind-boggling projects.
The Montreal-based photographer, who prefers the title ‘visual engineer’, has shot extreme stunts on the walls of Jerusalem in Israel, captured capoeira martial artists fighting in the ruins of Villers-la-Ville abbey in Belgium and brought a city square to a standstill with a mammoth 450-person Where is Waldo (Wally) panoramic in Traunstein, Germany.
He’s also hijacked the world’s largest monastic library – the Admont Abbey in Austria – for a magical, Disney-inspired after-hours shoot.
There have been decapitated zombies, elaborate feathered costumes, mediaeval gowns, Slovakian ballerinas, armoured warriors, the odd stinky octopus and fire. Lots of fire. Pyrotechnics are a big part of the Chinese Canadian’s creative repertoire. In one shoot, at an English mansion in Manchester, UK, Benjamin had models posing with AU$5.8 million worth of sports cars while flames licked at their heels. The project is symbolic of his craft: bold, exciting and always pushing the boundaries.
Much of Benjamin’s work is for the love of his art and is more about feeding his creative thirst rather than making money. His is a career built on social media; the exposure brings in client commissions and speaking gigs to supplement his creative escapades.
“The idea behind these shoots is no one’s ever going to pay you to do it, so you may as well go ahead and do what you love and hopefully down the line people notice the shoot and hire you to do what you love,” Benjamin says.
“The purpose is to create amazing work. At the end of the day what I want to do is get paid to create more things. I don’t want to become a desk jockey and manage print sales and manage a storefront and all that bullshit – it’s not really exciting. I’d much rather be out there shooting and getting new challenges and new experiences.”
Behind-the-scenes videos are a signature of the Von Wong brand and a valuable social media tool. Without his online community of supporters (70,000 Facebook followers and counting), Benjamin says he wouldn’t be seeing the world behind the lens. It has enabled him to tap into sponsors and gear, build contacts and showcase his talent. A 2012 month-long photographic tour of Europe was made possible through a crowdfunding campaign, and every shoot relies on an army of ‘Vonwonglings’ rallied on Facebook – from models, hair and make-up artists and costume designers, to production crew and pyrotechnicians. In exchange, Benjamin shares his tricks of the trade with his followers, and some get the chance to work with the wizard himself.
When we speak, Benjamin is at home in Montreal (although he’s loath to call it home because he’s so infrequently there). In a few days he’ll jet off to Cambodia, followed by China and Brisbane. Life is frenetic. He never knows where the next inspiration will come from or who will hit him up with a proposal that is too awesome to refuse (an admirer once succeeded in getting him to Florida on a whim to collaborate on a fantastical fallen angel shoot).
Then there are the projects that touch the heart. Last year Benjamin produced a video that helped raise AU$2.8 million to save a four-year-old girl battling a degenerative brain disease. Earlier in the year, he paid a surprise visit to a young Australian fan in Albury, Victoria, wrapping himself in a box as a 21st birthday surprise for the emerging photographer, who suffers from a medley of chronic illnesses.
Benjamin seeks inspiration in the people he meets and the places he visits. His motto is you should wake up in the morning and “grasp life by the balls” because you never know where an opportunity might lead. And he walks the talk.
It’s a far cry from a few years ago when, as a qualified engineer, Benjamin was working in the goldmines in the Nevada Desert, USA. In the doldrums after a relationship bust-up, he picked up a cheap point-and-shoot camera at Walmart and started experimenting. A few years later he was shooting events, then something snapped… He quit his day job in January 2012 with no plan and no regrets, and has been travelling the world, inspiring followers with his unique brand of photography, ever since.
Benjamin puts his success down to hard work and dedication, not talent. Although his on-camera charisma and daredevil persona sure help.
“Being a photographer is easy, right? You just press a button,” he laughs.
“The camera is a tool, you understand the basic mechanics of it and you’re set to go. If you know what you want to achieve then you just need to figure out which of the buttons to push. It’s like driving a car.”
A wise cab driver by the name of Quantel once told me, “Memphis is made up of three words: Graceland, blues and barbecue.” For the most part, he was absolutely right. Now, someone please hand me a coconut water and a Panadol because Quantel definitely forgot the fourth and most important word: hangover.
Flooding has started in Memphis as a massive rainstorm hits the lively southern city right on schedule for the weekend’s festivities. The consensus, on my United Airlines flight from New York, is that this is by no means an unusual occurrence. For the past four years, a conveniently timed and almost predictable deluge has graced Graceland directly preceding the festival. This has happened so often, the locals now lovingly refer to the Beale Street Music Festival as Memphis’s Music Mud Fest.
The 40-year-old Beale Street Music Festival (BSMF) is the three-day, kick-off event of the annual Memphis in May celebration, a month-long line-up of special events, competitions and shows to honour the city and its rich history. Every year the festival attracts more than 100,000 people from all over the country for a musical smorgasbord of big-name stars and local legends who play side by side at the humble waterfront venue, Tom Lee Park.
Originally a festival exclusively celebrating the blues, BSMF has, over the years, opened its offerings to rock, hip-hop and pop to accommodate the ever-expanding interests of music fans. This time around, a total of 69 performers, of both national and local acclaim, are here to be a part of the fun. Headliners include household names – Beck, Paul Simon, Neil Young, Cypress Hill – alongside a swathe of up-and-comers like Grace Potter, Courtney Barnett and Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats. Regardless of whether your musical druthers span country or rap, there’s guaranteed a little something for you here.
Music rumbles in the distance as I approach the gates to find a long motley queue of loyal festival-goers patiently awaiting entry. Hippie and hillbilly, black and white, young and old – this diverse crowd stands united with their ponchos and gumboots, having travelled from far and wide to fulfill their love of music.
Inside, three gigantic stages run parallel to the majestic Mississippi River, as an envious Arkansas watches all the fun from across the water. As I walk further into the grounds, the footpath transforms from cement to dirt and finally to mud. The heavy, wet air of the Mississippi mixes with the lingering scent of Black & Milds, light weed smokeage and the distinct aroma of fried food. That smell wafts from tents near the stages, where vendors are serving up local delicacies like gator on a stick, bourbon chicken and medieval-sized drumsticks.
The energy is playful and fun. Children chase one another past elderly couples wandering hand in hand. Mothers and daughters bond on blankets at the back, listening to Paul Simon as they clink with cold Bud Lights. Mud is flung through the sky as teenagers jump around the pit while Meghan Trainor belts out their favourite tunes. Everyone seems to be there for their own reasons, and yet somehow they all seem connected. While at one stage you see three generations swaying back and forth to Neil Young, you can walk one stage over to catch Yo Gotti, a hometown hero back for a big performance on his old stomping ground, performing to an eclectic crowd of booty-shakers throwing up their hands to the beat.
Not in the mood for a big crowd? You’re covered. Stop by the Blues Shack, hidden between towering stages, for a more intimate experience. Here you might see local blues veteran Leo Bud Welch sitting alone on a stool with a guitar and harmonica. He’ll destroy you with his painfully brilliant music.
Variety of performances aside, another home run for the organisers of this unique spring festival is its affordability. For seasoned festival-goers, a weekend of music can be upwards of a thousand dollars (sorry, did someone say Coachella?). Yet at BSMF, even music aficionados working hard just to rub two coins together can gather the funds to join friends and family for a truly enjoyable three days of memory making. Food is affordable, beer is comparatively cheap, and sponsors like Rockstar, Fireball and Marlboro hand out free products all weekend. Vices? Check.
Another huge bonus is the fact you can come and go as you wish, a privilege seldom found at other festivals of this size. The boisterous, dangerous (in a good way) bedlam of Beale Street is no more than a short jaunt away.
Speaking of which, it’s time to jump into the fray.
The final act of the night has played its encore, and an ocean of smiling strangers begins its exodus to chapter two of the night’s festivities: the after party. As I trudge up a small hill with my fellow carousers, the dreamlike neon playground of debauchery that is Memphis’s Beale Street shows its seductive face on the not-so-distant horizon.
Armed with my press pass, I embark on the noble mission of exploring all 42 music-filled drinking establishments they’ve managed to cram into these three bacchanalian blocks. I do this for you, and your benefit alone. Yes, I know, you’re welcome.
To give a full rundown of this street would take a lifetime, and three extra kidneys. But here’s the skinny: relatively new but notably fun, the Tin Roof boasts two levels that open up to a main stage. With two separate bars on each level and twerk music videos playing on all screens, it attracts a young crowd there for one thing and one thing only: the inevitable hangover.
The historic, two-storey Jerry Lee Lewis has something for everyone. Veer right at the entrance and visit Keith downstairs for a drink and some history. This bartender has witnessed 20 years of music and drunkenness behind his bar, which serves the stage where stars are born. This is a real local spot where, until 5am, the drinks flow constantly and live music from aspiring artists plays. What is special about this place is its dynamic. Where there’s an unexpected amount of culture in this particular room, I walk across the hall to the other ground-floor bar where I proceed to meet a young man named Neebs, who wastes no time sharing his newly tattooed shoulder bearing a monkey fingering its own arsehole. I take my beer upstairs to where the music thumps faster than my heart rate and from where I can watch the chaos below.
If you’re feeling bluesy, Daisyland is the place to go. Converted from Beale Street’s old movie theatre, it’s here you can see one of the world’s top 100 DJs every month – it’s your one-stop shop for the Dirty South club scene. VIP areas with bottle service and plenty of wiggle room rest in the middle of a gigantic dance floor with a good view of the stage no matter where you stand. The mezzanine is still intact upstairs, and it happens to be the place to go if you want some privacy from prying eyes. Remember though, what has been witnessed cannot be unseen.
You also have to go to Coyote Ugly Saloon, if only to relive your favourite movie of the twenty-first century. This delightfully trashy late-night jam brings a backyard-party feel and blends it with strip-club fanfare. Beer is served by scantily clad waitresses from fully iced eskies resting atop empty whiskey barrels. From here there’s a perfect view of the variety of alcohol-fuelled amateur dance performances on top of the long wooden bar. The signed lingerie of past patrons hangs overhead like trophies of a battle won.
The highlight of the night is Purple Haze. I help light a local’s cigarette on the street, and the next thing I know I’m being guided past wait lines, behind velvet ropes and into the VIP section of Memphis nightlife’s not-so-hidden gem. It’s a block from Beale Street, which tends to deter a majority of wide-eyed tourists, who are drawn toward the energy of the main drag like flies to a bug zapper. Stacked with two huge bars, a pool table, an enormous dance floor and hula-hoopers extraordinaire on stage for your visual distraction, this place has it all. Open till 5am with a great variety of music, it’s the perfect location to find your sixth wind of the night and party till the sun comes up.
Memphis in May knocked it out of the park – Tom Lee Park to be precise – with a unique celebration of American music and culture. If you come prepared with your rain gear, an appetite and a bottle of aspirin, you’ll have an amazing time no matter who you are. Speaking of which, can I borrow one of those aspirin? Remember, I did it all for you.
Noah looks a bit like a fish out of water. He’s wearing dark shades, clutching a beer can, and an unruly merkin is the only scrap of attire covering his, ahem, manhood. If it wasn’t for his staff and robe, which is sporadically lifted to reveal a pair of pale buttocks, I wouldn’t recognise this so-called pillar of Christianity. Around him a menagerie of wildlife is emulating an orgy of biblical proportions. Zebras, tigers, cows, hippos and a dominatrix rhino are writhing about on the floor, shrieking with pleasure and creating a beastly spectacle.
And here I was thinking the Rugby Sevens was all about sport. Maybe elsewhere on the planet, but this is Vegas, baby, and the party trumps play. Men in fluoro tutus and women in eeny-weeny stars-and-stripes bikinis shuffle through the turnstiles. Superheroes rub shoulders with jelly-bean men in full-body Lycra, a Statue of Liberty queues behind an Egyptian sphinx, and a pregnant nun waddles past carrying a tray full of beer.
“It’s like fantasy land, an escape from reality,” says South African Peter Busse, as he stands with a mate outside the entrance to Sam Boyd Stadium in Las Vegas, wearing a bright green mohawk wig and knocking back a can of beer. It doesn’t matter that it’s not quite midday.
Inside, the American national anthem plays to a hushed crowd, an Air Force flyover blasts over the stadium and the field erupts in fireworks. Sixteen nations from around the world have descended on Vegas for three days of brute contest. At stake is a berth at the Olympics in Rio, when rugby will return to the Games for the first time since 1924 (the top four teams at the end of the World Series season automatically qualify).
The Sevens is kind of like the Twenty20 of rugby. Based on rugby union, but with half the number of players (seven instead of 15), the game consists of two seven-minute halves and is lightning fast. In Vegas competition is hot and so is the weather. It’s winter but it is unseasonably steamy and feels like the sun is radiating off the Nevada mountains, which can be glimpsed through the open end of the stadium. No wonder the beer is flowing so freely.
On the concourse, a group of burly Samoan Americans has set up a three-litre keg of beer on a rubbish bin and has clearly had a few refills. One is dressed as a sheikh, another stands out in a high-vis vest adorned with a necklace of Christmas baubles and boobs. “The balls are Samoan, the titties are white,” he says, cracking up, clearly enjoying the gag. “We’re trying to film The Hangover Part 4.”
In the stands, there are many others who, if not nursing hangovers now, soon will be. “It’s unreal, sucking the life out of me,” confides one Aussie, who’s been playing the Vegas scene hard. Surprisingly, the Aussie contingent is quite small and relatively subdued. I find a young bunch of blokes wearing green and gold sitting on the back bleachers behind a man in khaki sporting a Bindi Irwin wig. They’re eating obligatory fried chicken and fries and have used the rugby as an excuse to come to Vegas. “It’s what you’d expect, just loose,” one of the blokes tells me as his “mad rugby mate” jumps to his feet yelling: “Smack him!” It’s the first match of day two – the USA versus South Africa – and the crowd, heavily weighted towards the home-side, is pumped.
Soon the Aussies take to the field, executing a blistering 26-nil lead over Scotland by half time. Brawn and bravado are replaced by bronzer and ballet kicks as the Sweethearts cheerleaders run onto the field, all hot pants, flicking hair and cute-as-pie waves. Play resumes and a lone bagpiper blurts a mournful tune from under a distant light tower, a woman wrapped in an Australian flag watches intently, while nearby a Scot in a kilt gesticulates wildly as a Loch Ness Monster bounces at his groin. There’s also a cow. A cow with a sign that reads “eat more chicken”. Before I have time to contemplate what that’s all about, it’s all over. Australia has annihilated Scotland 40-14 and ‘Down Under’ is blaring from the speakers.
That performance deserves a drink. Back on the concourse I bump into a Canadian–American wearing tight, red maple-leaf jocks paired with a sequined stars-and-stripes jacket with tasselled sleeves. Ardy Farhangdoost is part of an official rugby touring group and hasn’t missed a Vegas tournament since the Rugby Sevens first started playing here five years ago. He’s become something of a mascot for the sport, recognised by fans as ‘Canadian Speedo Man’.
“I have no shame and I just love the game, the atmosphere, the costumes,” he says. “I know with the fans the more obnoxious or ridiculous [my costume], the more it stands out.” Today Noah and his ark of animals are giving him a run for his money. They’ve commandeered an area opposite one of the stadium doors and have formed a human, or rather an animal, pyramid. Nearby, an eagle clutches a golden trophy – symbolising the host nation’s hopes for the tournament.
“One of the greatest parts about rugby fans is that they’re uninhibited, no judgement, it’s a very accepting culture,” says Noah, aka Johnny Warner. Quite profound coming from a man who looks like he’s wearing road kill for underpants.
These fans make the Ashes Barmy Army look coy. This is truly an event that transcends sport. And it’s so quintessentially Vegas – loud, proud and completely gratuitous. In the car park, scores of stretch limousines line up to take the punters home – most of them no doubt staying on the famous Strip. Few will get much sleep, and they’ll be back to do it all over again tomorrow.
On the final day, a crowd of more than 25,000 crams the stadium to watch the final between the Kiwis and Fiji. (For the record Australia came a respectable fifth, taking home the consolation Plate.) Pale blue flags billow over spectators, and the stands throb to a soundtrack of chanting and drumming.
Turns out I’m sitting among the Fijian supporters (who knew there was such a large population of Fijians in the USA?). By halftime Fiji has scored 21 and New Zealand has yet to hit the scoreboard. The crowd has been whipped into a fervour and a commotion of cheers and applause breaks out a few rows in front of me. A woman is sculling beer from her shoe, sufficiently sloshed that she doesn’t mind the foot-funk on her brew.
Two spectators – including a woman in a pink tutu – leap onto the field and a game of cat and mouse ensues as security guards chase them around in a scene reminiscent of a Benny Hill sketch that only serves to further enliven the crowd. A portly guard seizes his moment, throwing himself on the male invader, who is at once flattened and rendered immobile. The tutu woman continues to flounce around the field until two guards take her down. The man is cuffed and the woman is escorted off in a fireman’s lift, all the while the crowd chants: “Let them go! Let them go!”
When the final whistle blows, New Zealand has salvaged some dignity but goes down to the Fijian victors 35-19. A trickle of spectators breaches security, taking to the field. There’s a polite order to keep off the ground, but it’s too late. The floodgates have opened and a tide of fans pours onto the turf. This is Sin City and rules are made for breaking. I spot Ardy among the sea of people, running about in his jocks with a cape rippling behind him, and am reminded of something Noah said the previous day.
“Saturday shall be-eth a rugby day. And we’ll be here for evil Sunday.”
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