A conversation with Daniel Fox of the Wild Image Project about his spectacular crash landing and plans for next year.

For Daniel Fox, like the poets and philosophers he quotes on his Wild Image Project Pinterest page, journeying into the wilderness forges connections, shapes character and brings life into sharper focus. The same elements that inspire Fox make the Quebec native’s photographs and Minute of Nature video series compelling viewing for armchair adventurers. “I try to bring a certain sense of humility to human’s relationship with nature, and I think that’s something that’s been lost and people are struggling to find that balance,” he says.

Earlier this year, Fox launched his most ambitious expedition to date, a 1,000-mile paddle from Victoria, British Columbia, to San Francisco, raising funds to send underprivileged youths on a NOLS Alaska sea kayaking course. After 30 days successfully navigating the Washington coast, Fox found himself soaked, shivering and trapped after dark beyond the breakers just south of the Columbia River. Three months after washing ashore on an Oregon beach, Fox shares the details of that harrowing night. —Virginia Marshall

The Oregon coast has many long stretches with nowhere to land. Once you start paddling, you just have to keep going.

If I had to do it again, I would postpone my departure from Astoria. I knew before setting out that the paddling conditions were not the best.

It started as a beautiful evening; the plankton bloom was going crazy. But at my scheduled safe takeout at Indian Bay, the swell was wrapping around and hitting the beach with full force. The bioluminescence lit up the breakers in the night. Even though it was totally dark, I thought I’d be able to manage.

Just as I go for it, I hear this massive roar behind me. That’s the most frightening thing. It sounded like a monster rising above me.

It totally took me by surprise. I capsized, my paddle broke in two. I rolled up with half the paddle, got knocked over again. Between waves, I managed to self-rescue and grab my spare paddle.

The capsize hit me harder than I had anticipated. I was wearing a drysuit; I thought I could spend the night on the ocean. Thirty minutes later, the wind started to blow hard and I began to shiver. That changed everything.

Being so close to civilization was a bizarre experience. I could see the houses just 200 meters away, but between us were these huge waves.

The water was just a silhouette. I watched the breakers, then picked my time and went for it.

The second wave fell on top of me—that’s when the kayak broke in two.

My biggest worry was that I was floating right in the middle of these two heavy, gear-filled pieces of kayak. If the pieces collided, they would crush me. The skirt was attached to the broken cockpit coaming—I had to play with it for a while to remove it.

Worst-case scenario, I knew I could swim to shore. Because the wind and the current were not pushing me offshore, I never thought about calling for rescue.

I held onto the kayak and waited to get pushed to shore. After 15 minutes, I felt the sand under my feet. I pulled out my sleeping bag and fell asleep on the sand. 

It was a really humbling experience. It was a beautiful day and then everything turned upside down. That’s nature, that’s life. You have to be grateful for what you have. I still have my life, my legs. It reinforced everything I believe in.

I’m going back next summer to finish the trip to San Francisco.

If I had succeeded in one shot, it would have been too easy. I think we lose sight of that. It’s the Pacific coast, it’s supposed to be hard.

This article first appeared in the December/January 2015 issue of Paddling Magazine.

The day’s first light graces the highest point on the canyon wall and slowly begins to work its way down towards the river, illuminating layers of rock and time in the process. Shadows bend and morph by the minute, revealing unnoticed pockets and dimensions, a single sandstone wall becoming many as I drift by and gaze upon its array of intricacies. Droplets of water fall off the outstretched oars as they methodically dip and rise, dip and rise, dip and rise. 

The rhythm of lapping water is my morning music, my mantra, my prayer. Like holy words repeated over and over again, it stills my mind and centers my soul. 

Birds flutter and chirp, and in between spans of tranquility, the river narrows, tumbling over rocks and boulders. Waves build and break. Currents swirl and boil in a seemingly chaotic mess of froth and white.

We float along, listening to this language, reading the water. Treading only along currents that invite us, we are careful to heed the warnings of other paths. The river speaks to us, and by listening we are connected to it and to the beginning. We travel deeper into the heart of this place, and in doing so travel deeper into ourselves. In side canyons we rediscover the awe and wonder of childhood, exploring and laughing and loosing ourselves, existing only in the moment at hand. In others, we find ourselves overwhelmed by emotions we had stored in our own narrow, deep, hidden place. The language of water is now written on us as tears make their way down our face.

We sketch images. We write words. We take photos. We sit and stare and breathe deeply. We do whatever we can to hold on to this place. Though some of us shall return and others never again, we all know there will be times we will long to look back and to remember vividly in hopes of resurrecting these feelings again.  There were moments we felt strong, when we pushed ourselves, and others when we simply faced the challenge we had no control over. 

Staring up at moonlit canyon walls and a sliver of stars overhead, we realized our smallness and became comfortable in it. We shared stories and laughter. We celebrated the days of our birth, and professed our commitment and our love. We listened and looked each other in the eyes. We connected. And maybe in the end, that is the greatest gift of this canyon. It inspires and encourages connection, with each other, with ourselves, with the waters and the world around us. 

Here, we awake expectantly. We look forward to that first morning light, excited for the places it shall reveal. We listen for the soothing rhythm of oars as they kiss the water’s cheek, whispering holy words as they dip and rise, dip and rise, dip and rise.