One evening, I bicycled right into a wide-open condo construction site near the North Arm of the Fraser. There wasn't a soul around. I felt obliged to climb one of the cranes.

I returned the next night, when I wasn't drunk, and established my credentials as a rubbernecking innocent by using my camera and tripod. "Oh, this presentation centre is pretty. I'll photograph it."

Then I entered the site. First I used a portable toilet near the entrance, giving onsite security, if there was any, ample opportunity to shoo me away. No one did, so I grabbed my camera and took another photograph. "Oh, this crane is pretty."

Then I sauntered into the development next door, of which only the foundations have been laid. Picking my way past stacks of rebar and coils of wire, I descended a ramp to the basement. I circled around to the base of the taller of the two cranes, took many deep breaths, and started to climb.

Very slowly. I had to pause at each level to calm down and give myself a pep talk. Also to look around for flashing lights.

At the top, I found the cab locked. Hunched over, clutching the railing, I shuffled halfway out on the machinery arm, placing my steps above the crossbars while refusing to look further down through the catwalk grating under my feet.

I had to sit down to fumble my camera out of my bag and take a couple of shitty, unaimed photos.

Then I climbed down. Very slowly.

Altogether, it took me an hour. The crane was maybe fifteen storeys high (I counted ten sections). I didn't have fun, and I wouldn't do it again. Indeed, far from making me feel proud and powerful, that crane-climb emasculated me.