Stained Tabletop

This plastic table was part of a hidden squat camp I stumbled over while working in the desert plateaus of the British Columbia interior. Tucked in a gully at the base of a cliff, hidden from the train tracks, someone was making a life in secrecy. The camp was many miles from town and an hour's walk from any roads.

The effort involved in removing oneself from society has always intrigued me. There must exist more than a thin vein of mistrust, more than a streak of independence. At its core, the soul must be steely. If told, the story would be a fascinating one.

Though I had more right to the area than the camp's resident, I still felt like I was intruding. The stains and scuffs on this table echoed the mood of the gloomy day as it began to writhe and form a storm. I hastily photographed the little scene before making my way up the banded cliffs, through the hanging gullies, across the fallow fields, and back to my work vehicle.