The Art of Misadventure: The Outtakes and Mistakes Of An Adventurous Photographer

By Dave Brosha and Curtis Jones

Experience the quirky missteps, humorous adventures, and professional development of a renowned Canadian photographer in this entertaining memoir.

Join Canadian photographer, explorer, Fellow of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, father, and writer Dave Brosha as he lays out a touching recollection of a life off the beaten track with a dash of adventure, a dash of determination, a dash of humour, a dash of self-deprecation, and two dashes of ridiculous.

Life shouldn’t be about a collection of possessions, but rather a melange of experiences. Dave leaves no holds barred in the retelling of some of his grand (mis)adventures as one of Canada’s premier adventure photographers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RMB Rocky Mountain Books
• Release date: Nov 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781771604642

Dave Brosha

Dave Brosha has had exhibitions of his work in the Northwest Territories and elsewhere in Canada as well as in the United States, the United Kingdom, Spain, and Germany. His images have appeared in Photo Life, Practical Photography, Canadian Geographic, Maclean’s, The Independent (UK), The Globe and Mail, The Sunday Telegraph, China News, The Guardian, Tehran Times, Montreal Gazette, Outdoor Photographer and many more. He and his family live in St. Ann, Prince Edward Island.

Book preview

An Introduction

My mom always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.

—forrest gump

hi, i’m dave. i might even be one of the daves you know.

As a man named Dave, I’ve had many misadventures. You might even say I’ve been artful in them — although we all know that art is in the eye of the beholder. You don’t need to be named Dave to have misadventures, of course; it just so happens that I am. You might be named Devon, Emma, Tyree, Ali, Alejandro, Tabitha or Samantha, and that’s okay. You’re quite allowed to have misadventures too. Chances are you’ve had a few in your time, and someone, somewhere, would love to hear them. I’d love to hear them too, if we ever have the chance to share a pint or a stroll in a park. Stories are the thread that have kept us all together, in community, over the course of history, from sitting around the fire to sitting around the hookah to sitting around the radio, to sitting in front of the fireplace, with friends, at the local pub. To share stories — to share a lived experience — is to be human.

To Devon, Emma, Tyree, Ali, Alejandro, Tabitha and Samantha — and everyone else reading this, even if there’s another Dave or two — I’m going to take you on a bit of a journey. Through time, through a life and through a hodgepodge of happenings.

Now, it should be stated that this is not intended as a biography, even though it will deal with stories — real stories — from a life. My life, to state the obvious. Rather, this is a non-sequential reordering of disjointed chapters. It’s a recounting of various puzzle pieces — pieces that make up a life, lived. It happens to deal with my life, and therefore some of the events in my life — but it’s really about the very notion of experience. Many books speak to the triumph of the human spirit and celebrate successes, or adversity overcome. This tome is a little different; it is an offering that dives into some of the things that went wrong, rather than right. It takes a certain flair — a certain eloquence of soul — to have a good misadventure. It’s one of the few things I’m eloquent at, to be honest.

Even the ineloquent have misadventures, though. We all do. It just takes some courage to be able to recount them — to be able to poke a little fun at oneself, and to look at where you may have failed. To be able to look back, and share forward. That’s what I’m going to do here. I’m going to share those stories, those snippets and those pieces that have collectively formed a larger life, lived. I’m going to present to you an exhibition of misadventures.

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Now, for one to have had a misadventure, you would think, logically, a person must have had a lot of adventures. In order to have many adventures, one would also suppose, a person would be somewhat of an adventurer. If you’ve followed this logic so far, the next presupposition might be that if one were an adventurer, they would look, feel and seem adventurous. Envisioning an adventurer is easy: try it! What do you picture? Rippled, sinewy muscles? A flowing mane of shiny hair? People in bright North Face or Patagonia apparel? At the very least, a long beard or braided hair that would cake epically with frost in the winter and would blow dramatically to the sides while evading dust storms in Mongolia. No beard or braids? Maybe the true mark of the adventurous is in a person’s eyes — windows to a deeply adventurous soul. Steely, deep eyes that may have seen the greatest beauty the world has to offer, and eyes that have surmounted some of its greatest challenges. Eyes that haunt you. Eyes that melt you. Eyes that scream, You will find me intriguing. Or else.

Sorry to disappoint, but I am decidedly average looking.

Over the course of my life (so far), I’ve gone from having a head full of luscious hair to dealing with the constant, shiny glare of light bouncing off my mainly clear scalp. This phenomenon intensifies by the year. My waist is always a little softer than I might want, and when I push my finger into it, that finger sometimes disappears. There’s more squish than thud around those parts. I am not tall, but I also wouldn’t consider myself short. My eyes are deep brown. Shit brown, as my mom used to say. I have a humble home in rural Prince Edward Island, and I have three extraordinary children. Every parent is supposed to say that, though, so I suppose even that is ordinary — even if it’s true. Even though my mother calls my eyes shit brown, I think she still considers me extraordinary.

Despite Mom’s opinion, I have my own. I have always thought that I have lived a life that is, to me, rather ordinary.

At least I have always felt it was, on the surface. I’ve just put one foot in front of the other, day after day, year after year, and just lived. It’s what we do, right? And if you’re like me, you may think your life has been, on the whole, pretty boring. Well, okay, boring is a bit of a harsh word. Maybe my life, or yours, hasn’t been quote/unquote boring, but perhaps a little understated? A little benign? A continuous succession of days, followed by more days, where all the usual things just happen daily: wake, coffee, shower, work, interact with people, errands, traffic, remember to pay the endless bills, relax, eat, family activities, a little tv, an evening wine, read, nod off. Repeat.

Some days, of course, deviate from this cycle. Not all days are linear, and some days a hike happens while on other days you find yourself making a trip to Costco for toilet paper. Some days a friend pops in for a visit, and on other days you’re heading to the doctor to see about an ingrown toenail. Sometimes you hear of something tragic, and on other days you’re jumping like a maniac as Joe Carter has just hit the World Series-winning homerun; your popcorn flies into the air on those days. Sometimes Mondays happen and other times — thankfully — Saturdays happen. Some days you love, other days you lust, and a lot of days you just feel, well, tired.

The hope, however, is that when the evening light fades and your body tells you it’s time to lie down and close your eyes and try your best for a good night’s sleep…that you go to bed, at minimum, happy. You hope that the day that passed — even if the day was all-too-similar to so many days prior — was at least, on measure, more good than bad. You also hope that the day that follows will bring a 24-hour succession of hours that’s pleasant — even if it, too, is just as unremarkable as the day that just passed.

Unremarkable.

At the time these words are hitting paper, I’m 43 years old. This means I’ve lived the better part of 16,000 days — or approximately 375,000 hours. And counting. That’s the simplest of measures of my life. Most of those days have been solidly boring, but thankfully — overall — happy. That, I’m happy to report. Life has ticked on for 43 years, and within those years have been countless hours of unremarkable. That’s not to say I’ve had a terrible existence. Within those hours are also countless laughs and smiles and conversations with friends and loved ones, cups of coffee, work projects completed, games of catch with the kiddies, walks through the park, elegant, impossible sunrises, and drives with no real destination. I live for all of that. I will continue to live for that. In fact, I can’t wait to do more of that.

Yes, within the unremarkable are many days of feeling reasonably accomplished, or creative, or simply satisfied. Today, for example, I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to the sound of birds chirping. I slid into the bathtub to soak a sore back and slowly came to life. I made a steaming cup of coffee (and I’ll probably make a couple more before this day is done). I cursed some fruit flies that were hovering near my bananas. I wrote 1,000 words. I paid my Visa bill, and I cringed. I answered a few emails. Later, after writing, I’ll head to the post office, and then I’ll pack up the kids and drive from Prince Edward Island to Nova Scotia to go visit Grandma. It’s summer and we’re just coming out of pandemic border restrictions; seeing family and loved ones feels paramount, and pressing. That’ll be my day, today. Simple. Unremarkable. Solid. A day well spent.

These types of days happen a lot in a life. They’re the baseline of my own life experience, and that’s all I can recount. My life living in Prince Edward Island, Canada, is going to be remarkably different from that of a goat herder in rural Egypt, of course. We have dramatically different lives, to be sure. I’m sure, though, the goat herder has many satisfyingly boring days too, and has good days and bad days and all the days in between.

Not everyone will have an endless succession of simple, satisfying days. Some people — no, many people — struggle, day after day. For health. For safety. To put food on their table for their family. To escape violence. Although not every day in my life has been easy — I’ve faced my own share of adversity — I can say unequivocally that adversity is not my usual. Real hardship is not my existence, or my overall life experience to date. I recognize my privilege. I’m simply recounting my story. Or stories. Because we all have them. You have them too.

As the years have progressed and the step count has grown impressively, every now and then I get reflective. Experiences and memories emerge from the depths through that backwards gaze. Oh Dave, buddy, remember that time? (I talk to myself, at times.) Oh, man, and remember that other thing that happened? That was really wild! And, wow…I guess this happened too! Stack these occurrences, these happenstances, these fragments of converging people and places and time together and, well, I guess life really hasn’t been that ordinary. But isn’t that just it? Aren’t we all rather not-so-ordinary when we really think about it? And isn’t that what makes this life extraordinary? Isn’t that the beauty of this all?

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Now, let’s step back a moment.

This is a book about misadventures. I mean, it says so right in the title.

But what is a misadventure? Why did I choose to write about misadventures? And why should you care? I’ll try to answer these questions, of course, but before I do, let us first look at what an adventure is.

I grew up loving a good adventure story. My earliest foray into the world of adventure was through classic books like The Swiss Family Robinson and The Hardy Boys and Treasure Island and Lord of the Flies. As a lad, I was fascinated by the idea of a person, or a group of people, overcoming obstacles. I dreamed, at night, of being shipwrecked and having to make do on a deserted island with whatever meagre possessions I could scrounge. I had romantic notions of building elaborate treehouses in the South Pacific, hunting and fishing my meals, dodging cannibals and licking fresh morning dew off jungle leaves. I had an incredible imagination and, as all 8-year-olds should be, I was naive and a hopeless dreamer. I wanted a spear for fishing and materials for booby traps against intruders and a life spent sitting by the campfire telling stories — with perhaps a hammock to sleep in at night. Just please, God, don’t let there be bugs while I sleep. Or snakes. Oh, and if the nearby fire could also keep itself burning through the night, much appreciated.

Eventually, I graduated from stories about deserted islands to reading about real-life adventures from real-life adventurers. I read of mountain climbers, Antarctic explorers and desert crossers. The words and works of people like Jon Krakauer and Joe Simpson and Cheryl Strayed and Ed Viesturs. These were real people doing extraordinary things and encountering staggering difficulty in impossible places. Their tales told of overcoming the odds (most of the time), or of friends and acquaintances perishing in the most memorable of ways. Their stories showed determination, heart and gumption. Their tales inspired.

I have always loved a good adventure story, even though I know they’re not for everyone. Some people consider that very concept, self-induced adventure, to be a meaningless pursuit in a world where so many struggle. I can’t say I completely disagree. Is it selfish to go down the path of adventure? Perhaps. Is it a waste of time, energy and even life, at times, for someone to dedicate themselves to a seemingly pointless goal when they could be putting that same energy to something practical — like planting tomatoes, helping the poor or picking up litter? Maybe. I like to believe, though, that a person can both seek out adventure and still have something left in the bucket for other things. I’ll go out on a limb here and say that when one meets a calling — when one pursues what they’re inspired or driven to do — it can actually fuel one’s soul and in the process fill a person’s bucket even fuller so that they have more, and not less, energy and desire to put into all the less adventurous pursuits in life. Like cooking their child’s favourite meal. Or bending down to pick up that trash on the trail for the betterment of all.

I, personally, have never had a death wish or a need to go out spectacularly. I will turn back from the edge of a cliff, both literally and figuratively, if something doesn’t look or feel right. I don’t mind, however, a sprinkling of carefully calculated risk in my life. I’ve always had a strong appreciation for anyone willing to experience this big, beautiful world around us rather than hide from it, or let it pass by. I’ve always had an appreciation for those who choose to be.

When we envision adventurers, we picture people who excel at being. Fit, determined, athletic, intense, weather-hardened men and women who can dig deep, go the extra mile, push on and complete impossible feats of stamina in the name of exploration, or pushing themselves to their absolute maximum (and beyond), or doing something that simply has never been done before. Although I am not an adventurer, I have so much respect for these types of humans, because I believe that we, the rest of us, must have the capacity to be inspired and to dream. Sometimes we need to look upon the successes — or even the failures — of others to nudge us along our own path. To help us believe that anything can be done — that anything is possible. Give me the stories of greater, and not fewer, adventurers. The world needs them — now, more than ever.

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Now that we’ve looked at adventures and adventurers, let’s look at the other side.

Isn’t any adventure (heading off into the unknown, overcoming obstacles as they arise), by definition, also a bit of a misadventure? It’s at the sharp edge of shit going wrong, after all, where stories really take root and capture the imagination; if something was too easy, it wouldn’t grab our collective attention in quite the same manner. If something was too easy, would we even pursue it? Would we recount the story, after, with the same gusto? We humans like to push ourselves, and take risks along the way; we take risks because there’s something to be gained on the other side of that very real chance of failure — it makes this journey through the days, weeks, months and years memorable. Sometimes taking the risk results in an overwhelming success; other times it results in the downside of risk being realized.

A misadventure, at its heart, is what happens when you set out, confidently, in one direction and life says, "No way, hold up, not so fast." Life has other plans for you: one well-worn road might get washed out, the next road is peppered with potholes and the road after that has endless, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Misadventures don’t always result in a textbook success story. The road less travelled sometimes hurts.

Still, just as not every adventure is epic, not every misadventure is a life-or-death experience. Some are, of course, but many of the misadventures you’ll find within these pages are just little snippets of weird, of impossible or of the life absurd. These are the moments in an existence that sometimes make you shake your head in bewilderment: Did that really just happen? How did I find myself here? I could be anywhere, right now, and yet I chose a succession of events that led me to this unfortunate spot, right now. Somehow I keep doing it.

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So why should you pay any attention to this book, or the words contained within? Chances are you don’t know me, haven’t heard of me and won’t know me, personally, in the course of your life. I think I’m pleasant enough, however. If you ever want to get to know me, come to Prince Edward Island and I’ll share a pint with you. Why should you invest your time and energy in reading about the misadventures of a stranger? Give me a little rope, is all I ask. Give me a little leeway and I’ll try to hook you in. If you do, I hope you will cringe a little, smile a little bit more, but maybe — just maybe — you’ll end this book with an appreciation for the fact that everyone’s got a life story, and maybe you’ll see a little of your own in mine. Maybe you’ve got a more interesting story than you’ve ever given yourself credit for. Chances are, you do.

My story, in a nutshell: I was born in northern Canada to a Grade 5 schoolteacher and a housewife-turned-small business owner — Louis and Eleanor. I went to school, and then went to more school. I have five brothers and sisters, four of them still living. My mother is living, my father is not. In my life I have been, in order, a video store clerk, a traffic control person, a Tim Horton’s server, a convenience store clerk, a deejay, an ESL teacher, a quality assurance manager for a pipeline insulation company, a web developer/marketer, a hot dog stand owner, a sealift off-loader, a grocery store clerk, a hotel manager, an assistant operator at a power plant, a polar logistics assistant, a telephone technician, an internet help desk technician, a manager of process, policy, implementation and support (winner of the longest job title), a manager of a call centre, a marketing product development manager, a photographer, studio owner, freelance writer and an international travel and photography education company owner. I am a father to three beautiful children — they are my life. I play guitar, I love hiking and I mentor people. I am fiercely loyal and I like being outdoors. I look for the good in everyone, sometimes to a fault. I am excellent at multitasking. I am an extremely hard worker — but I love down time even more. I love cooking, Radiohead and Ricky Gervais television series. I make a mean rack of lamb, and I administer way too many groups on Facebook. I have been married to a great person, Erin, and together we’ve created three beautiful children together. You will see her name throughout this book. Eventually, Erin and I parted romantic ways — but we have maintained a beautiful friendship. I am thankful for that. I have since found love again, and I am also so grateful for that.

I don’t climb mountains (well, okay, once or twice). I don’t run marathons. I can’t swim with my head underwater for more than a few seconds. I have never had abs, and let’s be honest: I likely never will. I’m the opposite of a grizzled, lean adventurer — I’m always looking to lose ten pounds, and if I lose them, I always seem to find them again. I’ve never crossed the Greenland ice cap and I’ve never paddled the Nahanni. I’ve never had to fight off bandits in the middle of the night, and I’ve never had to escape from being kidnapped (although I know someone who has).

An adventurer, I am not. Still, I have a tendency to get in misadventures of both the inconsequential and epic varieties.

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I’ll get to the misadventures soon enough, but one final note before I do.

What you’re about to read is true. Everything I wrote in this book happened. In retrospect, however, it does sound a little crazy, but, quite frankly — you can’t make this shit up.

The experiences happened, to the absolute best of my memory (and checked against the memories of people who were there); it’s the exact words and conversations I’m taking a few liberties with. Do I know exactly what I said when I was 6 years old? No, and I doubt you do either. I’d be lucky to remember, without checking, what colour underwear I’m wearing as I type this. Bottom line, I have no clue exactly what my mother said after I ran away, or what Chris O’Neill said to me after I sucker-punched him, or the exact progression of words in my brain when I found myself face to face with three polar bears. I think I can imagine what those words were with a high degree of accuracy, but I’m going to take a few leaps here and there. The words may not be verbatim, but the spirit of the conversations, thoughts and interactions I’ll stand behind, completely.