Tristan Vol. 4 Chapters 7-9 with Audiobook

By: Asa Montreaux

The first leg of our journey took us south—far south. Antarctica, the frozen heart of the world, stretched out before me in vast, blinding whiteness. The research station where we were staying was a small cluster of metallic buildings, braced against the unforgiving wind. Maisie and I had arrived with a team of climate scientists who had granted me special permission to document their work. I could hardly believe I was here, standing at the bottom of the world, camera in hand, ready to capture what remained of the glaciers before they disappeared forever.

The cold was beyond anything I had ever known. Even with layers upon layers of insulation, the wind cut through, a silent predator. Maisie clung to my arm, her breath visible in the freezing air. "This is madness, Tristan," she said, laughing through chattering teeth. "I can’t feel my nose."

"Just a few more shots," I promised, adjusting my lens. In the distance, the ice sheets stretched endlessly, a kingdom of solitude and silence. I framed a shot of the jagged peaks, their tips darkened by the sediment carried over thousands of years. The scientists had told me that these glaciers were shrinking at an alarming rate. I wanted to capture the urgency, the sheer tragedy of it.

Later, inside the station, I sat with Dr. Alvarez, a leading climatologist. "What do you hope your photos will do?" he asked me as he sipped a cup of steaming tea.

"Make people see," I said simply. "Not statistics or reports. I want them to feel it. To look at these landscapes and realize what’s at stake."

He nodded solemnly. "Then you have to show them the loss. Show them what is already vanishing."

And so, for the next week, I did. I photographed the collapsing ice shelves, the dwindling colonies of emperor penguins, the fragile beauty of a world on the brink. It was both exhilarating and devastating. Maisie helped where she could, documenting our own experience, capturing me capturing the world.

By the time we left Antarctica, I had filled hundreds of memory cards. But the journey was only beginning.

Chapter 8

From the ice, we traveled to the burning heart of Africa. The contrast was jarring—the frozen silence of Antarctica replaced by the relentless heat of the Sahara. Here, I searched for another kind of loss: the creeping devastation of desertification.

We met with local communities in Niger, where entire villages were being swallowed by sand. Crops that had once flourished now withered beneath an unforgiving sun. The elders spoke of rivers that had disappeared, of animals that no longer came. I took portraits of their faces, lined with stories of survival and endurance.

"You think people will care?" Maisie asked one evening as we sat beneath a sprawling baobab tree, watching the sun bleed into the horizon.

"I think they have to," I said, reviewing the day’s shots. "They just need to see it the right way."

From the desert, we traveled to the rainforests of the Congo, where illegal logging was tearing through ancient trees, displacing entire ecosystems. The destruction was almost surgical—vast swaths of land stripped bare. I documented the chainsaws at work, the aftermath of what was left behind.

One afternoon, as we trekked deeper into the jungle, we found something unexpected—hope. A group of conservationists, local villagers working together to replant trees, to preserve what they could. Their hands were caked in soil, their smiles weary but determined.

Maisie grabbed my hand, squeezing it. "This is what people need to see too. Not just the loss. The fight."

I nodded, lifting my camera. "Then let’s show them."

Chapter 9

The final leg of our journey took us to South America, where the Amazon whispered both warnings and promises. We spent weeks moving through the rainforest, capturing the delicate balance between life and destruction. Every step we took felt like stepping into the lungs of the planet, breathing in the last untouched air.

But my mind was already drifting toward home. Toward Vancouver. Toward what came next.

Maisie and I spent long nights in our small tent, reminiscing about childhood. She told me stories about growing up in Burnaby, in the Mid-West—of sprawling landscapes and quiet nights beneath endless stars. I told her about my own childhood, the moments that shaped me, the people I had left behind.

"Do you think we’ll be different when we go back?" she asked me one night, her voice quiet in the dark.

I turned to face her, tracing a strand of hair away from her face. "We already are."

She smiled, a soft, knowing thing. "And what about your essays? Are they ready?"

I exhaled, thinking about the words I had been shaping alongside my images. Each photograph needed a story, an argument, a call to action. "Almost."

"I want to read them," she said, resting her head against my shoulder.

"Soon," I promised. "When we get back."

Because we would get back. Soon, we would return to Vancouver, bringing with us the weight of the world, the stories we had gathered, the truths we had captured. And when we did, we would begin again.

A new chapter was waiting. And I was ready to write it.