Select photos of World Class White Trash, Bogue Brigade and Snakepit at Nate Trash's birthday party.
Distortion, Calgary, AB 
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Select photos from the Press Gang CD Release party  with Pelican Death Squad, The Foul English, Electric Revival & The Press Gang

October 29, 2016
Distortion, Calgary, AB 

Pelican Death Squad
 

The Foul English with their brand of "Dadcore" punk.

I love photographing The Electric Revival, not only because of the awesome music but for Dan's hair.  Just once, I wanted to get a photo of Dan's hair whips with his face visible and I was able to get quite a few shots I liked. 

The Press Gang, home from a very successful cross Canada tour. It was great to hear the new Album from start to finish and to finally have the new cd in my hands. You can get your own copy here

Tossing and turning until well after midnight, I can't say I was all that surprised that I slept through my 2 am alarm clock, still, I was a bit disappointed in myself.  Mr. Bastard had gone to Saskatoon the day before and I was looking forward to spending the day in the mountains.  I dragged myself out of bed, 7 am, too damn early for a Saturday and yet still too late to catch any of the good light.  These weekends go by so fast, I feel guilty when I waste a perfectly good opportunity to go photograph things.  I slunk toward the kitchen, warmed a cup of day old coffee in the microwave and then collapsed onto the couch.  I didn't quite feel sick, but I sure didn't feel well either. A mere flight of stairs had already felt like too much effort and I decided I would need to formulate a new plan that was a bit more gentle on the body than the intensive two day sunrise chasing photo frenzy I had hoped for.

I mulled over my options. I'd heard about something similar to the sunrise phenomenon that might also afford good photographic opportunities, and then it dawned on me. 

Sunset.

Of course!
It had all the qualifications I was looking for: golden light, reasonable hours of operation and I could even make up for the missed sunrise.  I did some calculations in my head, sunset at 6:30 pm minus one hour fifty four minutes driving and 5 km hiking equals I have to leave the house at 2:30 pm. So I left promptly at 2:30 and arrived at the trail head deep in the mountains two hours later, already six minutes behind schedule.  Sunset, with it's reasonable hours,  had one drawback as I grumbled about the amount of traffic I'd encountered.  I wasted no time and began lacing up my boots when I noticed a peculiar sound emanating from the rear of the jeep.

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshit.

The tire was losing air at a rapid rate and I didn't have a spare.

I dug around in the jeep for a pen and scrap piece of paper and scribbled out some instructions and a phone number. 

Mikey

Flat tire

Chester Lake Trail head

No Rush

Maybe sunset with its reasonable hours, wasn’t so bad, I thought, as a young couple wandered out of the forest right on cue. “Excuse me” I asked “Are you returning to civilisation?”  The couple stared at me. I remembered we were in a parking lot, in the woods and the parking lot was nearly deserted. I tried to smile and curled my mouth upwards in the least axe murdery way I could. “Civilisation, are you headed to town? I have a flat tire, can you text my husband for me?” The couple inspected my flat tire with pitying looks and readily took the piece of paper I scribbled on. Mikey was on his way home from Saskatoon last I’d heard, it would be  a few hours before he got my message. I thanked the couple and then started up the trail.

The whole sunset business had quickly gained another point, hiking alone in the day light is significantly less terrifying than hiking in the dark and I marvelled at the scenery around me. Birds chirped in the trees and I welcomed the sound rather than freezing in terror wondering what that noise was. The mountains soon appeared over the tops of the trees as I gained elevation and I resisted the urge to stop and photograph them, I knew that the view would keep getting better if I kept on. I reached the meadows before the lake as the sky began to glow a brilliant gold, and that’s when I noticed the bear in the distance.

I stopped dead in my tracks. The bear stopped grazing and turned towards me. We stared at each other across the meadows, sizing up the situation, frozen, neither of us quite sure what to do.  My heart beat at a million miles a minute, its times like this I hate hiking alone.  I debated with myself. Should I leave? Should I keep going?  I’m safe now, but what if it wanders closer to the trail while I’m at the lake?  I clutched the bear spray in my hand, my eyes darting between the golden light and the bear, between certain photographic opportunities and possible maybe certain death.  It was a tough choice until I noticed a gleam of white reflecting in the sun. Antlers.  It was only a moose-bear, more commonly known as a moose that only looks like a bear from far away to the paranoid hiker.  I relaxed a little bit and scurried towards the lake.

Moose-bears, flat tires and traffic notwithstanding, I had timed the trip a little bit too perfectly. Driving time and hiking time were well accounted for, and I arrived at sunset as I had planned.  What I forgot to account for was the absolute chaos that broke out once I arrived at the lake. Layers I had shed on the way needed to be put back on, right side out. The boots came off and then had to be put back on and re-laced.  My camera bodies had no batteries, no memory cards and no lenses attached and the assembly was a little difficult with my cold fingers. My tripod, nearly frozen shut, required coaxing to open and then there was the issue of a composition.

 I’ve grown accustomed to having some sort of a plan in place when I take photos, but having never laid eyes on Chester Lake before I had no idea what to expect. I had no plan for this place and it showed. I ran across a bridge with my gear in tow and immediately negated having used the bridge at all when I splashed into the outflow creek, nearly slipping on the algae covered rocks.  I set up a camera squarely in the middle of the creek and then promptly decided to switch lenses for each camera. I juggled all the gear precariously, somehow rescuing the leaning camera laden tripod without spilling an armload of lenses into the water. My backpack laid in the snow nearby vomited assorted accessories. I was uneasy about being alone, but entirely pleased that I had the place to myself.  Chaos doesn’t like an audience.

Finally, after a multitude of lens changes and filter swaps, I got into a system and snapped long exposures with one camera while using the other camera to shoot some telephoto photos in the opposite direction.  I finished one last long exposure and, seeing the swath of sunlight bathing the mountain face in a pastel pink wash, decided I’d need yet another lens swap and a slightly different composition for that particular shot.  I stuffed as much of the gear into the backpack, shouldered the tripod and carefully tiptoed across the creek once more.  I sprinted up the bank of the creek, threw the backpack in another pile of snow, plunked down the tripod, swapped lenses, readjusted the composition, removed a filter, readied the camera to take a photo, placed another filter back on and pressed the shutter just in time to see the last of the light leave the mountain face.

I missed it.

I bloody missed it.

I couldn’t believe it.

I stared around me in disbelief half expecting the sunlight to reappear but it was gone. 

I shook my head at the thought of coming all this way just to miss out by mere seconds.  I snapped a consolation photo and surly stuffed my gear into the backpack. I checked the time, sunset was definitely over and I’d been barely been at the lake for fifteen minutes.  It seems absurd to put in so much effort only to turn around fifteen minutes later.  At least I’d been shooting with two separate cameras, so it was sort of like I was there for half an hour.  By my calculations, I would have just enough time to hike back to the trail head and cook a bit of dinner before Mr. Bastard came to help deal with the flat tire.  I stepped back onto the trail in the quickly darkening forest and hurried back towards civilisation. Once back at the immobilized jeep with a pot of snow and oatmeal slowly turning into dinner on the stove,  I studied the back of my camera screen. I felt like a fisherman coming home with the catch of the day and raving about the one that got away. 

Vermin.

I couldn't have been any older than 16 years old by the time I decided that I would instate a lifelong objection to mice and mice related critters which I have deemed to be "gross" or "icky" This lifelong objection shall include, but not be limited to rats, voles, deer mice, field mice, shrews and packrats. Critters related to mice but classified as "cute" or "awwwww" shall not be included in the lifelong objection. 

One dark winter evening, I had entered our dog run after dinner to feed our dogs and refresh their water.  The only light shone from the bulb used to heat the dog house, but I'd performed the chore hundreds of times before and didn't need the light to know where everything was.  I could make my way from the house into the carport and through the gate to the pen with my eyes closed.  The evening I began my lifelong objection to mice, I refreshed the water bowls and went to grab some food for the pups, they wriggled with anticipation as I reached for the 10 gallon bucket high on the shelf above me.

I don't know what happened next, it all happened so quickly and I've been relatively successful at blocking the entire episode from my mind.

Did I reach inside the bucket for the scoop first, or had I clumsily knocked the bucket over before I knew what was inside?
Was my hand, clasped around the scoop, still shoulder deep in the bucket? Or perhaps it was the action of recoiling in horror that caused it to tip towards me.
When the contents of the bucket spilled over me, were the mice satiated from the dog food they had gorged on and happy to be free? Were they upset about losing such a wonderful food source? Had they been planning the ambush all along?
I may never know how that bucket of mice felt about being poured all over me, but I do know what 100 sets of tiny little claws feel like, and I know I don’t like mice.

But the thrill of the camera poised and ready just before dawn can make a girl do strange things. Brave things.

Standing in the farmer’s field early one morning, the countdown to the moment of sunrise in its final minutes. Prairie morning chattering in surround sound.  Early birds chirping loudly as they fly startlingly close to my head in search of the worm they were promised. Wind picks up and rustles golden wheat fields as the first light of the day warms the cool night air.  A peculiar scratching noise in the grass at my feet. What was that? I looked down and noticed the field mice ducking in and out of view between blades of grass. Was it the mice that made that squeaking noise? I think it might have come from me.

"GO AWAY!" I yelled. "SHOO!" Yeah. I shooed the mice away like an irate Disney princess, but the critters continued to rush around my feet, apparently un-phased by my yelling. I shuffled around nervously and stomped my feet as menacingly as I could but the mice laughed in the face of danger and defiantly bumped into my shoes. A mere three layers of rubber, leather and socks were all that protected me from their… touching.   I shuddered at the thought of their tiny little feet touching mine and briefly considered yelling out “FEE FI FO FUM” to remind them of the giant in their midst but thought that might have been a bit cliché.

Despite my best efforts at scaring them away, the mice were not vacating the premises, and continued along with their morning activities.  Right on cue, the sun began it’s grand entrance onto the stage. 

I turned my attention to the task at hand and tried to line up a composition but needed to get a bit lower to make it work.

I tried to get lower to the ground without bending my knees, keeping as much of my body above the grass as possible in case the mice jumped.  The composition needed to be just a little bit lower still.  I bent at the waist and teetered unsteadily, craning my neck to see into the viewfinder. I needed to be just a little bit lower still, and the sun was not waiting around for me to figure out how to do that without touching the ground.

I reluctantly bent a knee.  The left one. Slightly at first but as the photo came into view the knee began creeping towards the ground until finally it landed with a soft thud.  The right knee followed suit and my face, glued to the viewfinder was soon at grass level. The danger zone, but I was already too immersed in the camera to notice.  It wasn’t long before I was scurrying around in the grass on all fours like the very mice I had been avoiding. Once the sun was up and I clicked out of photographer mode, I realized what I had been doing without fear of mice for close to an hour. I briefly considered lifting the lifelong objection, until I arrived back at home to find some telltale little pellets on my kitchen floor.

Vermin.

One of the ways I like to scout out locations for sunrise photos is Google maps, and I've had a pin set on Rawson Lake for years. The picturesque, mountain bound lake is situated at the bottom of a big rock wall with enough open space to the East to promise some excellent morning light. My absolute favourite kind of location.  So why did it take me so long to get there?

I've used every excuse in the book to mask the fact that ultimately, I was just scared to go there alone.
"There's been a Mama Grizzly bear in the area"
"I can't convince anyone to wake up at 2 am and go hiking with me"
"I slept in" 
"The bridge is out" 
"This other spot is guaranteed to be good, why risk the unknown?" 
And most recently, "Is it really, truly, actually worth doing in a snowstorm?" 

Not that I've ever let a snowstorm stop me in the past, but at least the excuse worked out in my favour.  

I arrived at the trailhead for Rawson Lake promptly at 5:30 am to find that a wall of snow had formed seemingly out of spite along the trail I planned to walk.  I sat there, willing away the clouds and sipping my coffee.  I geared up for the hike anyway but then returned to my seat inside the truck. I perched there studying the clouds and sipping my coffee. I drove away towards the highway only to turn around 5 kilometres later and return to the trailhead.  I sat in my truck sipping coffee and contemplating the clouds.  I drove away again only to return for a final round of shaking my fist at the clouds and sipping my coffee.

Somewhat relieved, I gave up Plan A in favour for Plan B.
The continuation of the snowstorm at Plan B lead me to opt for Plan C.

Plan C was abandoned after only a single photo when the potential of Plan D was realised.
Half a tank of gas later I arrived at the conveniently located roadside Spray Lake just before the sun arrived.
In the end, the choice was a good one and I watched as sunlight flirted with the wall of clouds I had left over an hour before. But it was as if I was being rewarded for my flakiness.

Still, I had been so close to finally seeing a sunrise at Rawson Lake that nothing else would suffice in its place.

It wasn't a week later that I found myself at the trailhead. 

Again.

Determined not to make any more excuses.  

Like, for real this time.

The weather conditions were perfect, the bridge was in place, I had just enough time to make it to the lake before the sun and I supplemented two cans of bear spray in lieu of courage and hiking companions.

I set off into the woods, wielding camera lenses and yelling my battle cry of "boats! Boats! BOATS!" into the darkness.  Steadily I climbed, not daring to take a rest lest my fortitude relied on inertia.  The promise of light tumbling down the sheer rock face kept me moving until the mountain appeared through a break in the trees and I froze in place, breathless.  A hint of dawn illuminated the cliff in front of me, it's imposing beauty doubled by the calm reflective waters of the lake. High up a dusting of snow and clouds swirled  in an ethereal dance and for a moment I forgot every problem, every excuse and every fear I had. 

It didn't take long for rumour to spread  Moments after our arrival we heard the sordid details from some friends in the campsite next to us.  Allegedly, at 5 o'clock that morning, the campers across the road had woken to the sound of a mother black bear and her two cubs sniffing around their tent and digging into a bag of potato chips.  We surveyed the camp site from a distance, noting the items left on the picnic table and concluding the campers definitely had not learned any lessons about bear safety.  But then attention turned to the campground itself and it's lack of bear proof garbage containers. Maybe bear sightings were such a rare occurrence in the area that I could just push the idea of bears roaming wild in the streets at 5 o'clock in the morning out of my head.  More likely however, that the place was known as one of the best buffets in town among the local wildlife.

We were staying in a resort like campground on Lake Windermere for the weekend to celebrate the impending marriage of two friends, but with me being the kind of friend who shows up to a party with a disembodied head in the back of her truck, I was able to sneak away to partake in some photography with my little pal Deadgar. Unfortunately the time for me to sneak away happened to coincide with the bear laden pre-dawn hour of 5 am.

My pal Deadgar

Above:  Deadgar 

I woke with a start to the shaking of our holiday trailer. The clock read 5 am, the same time of day the bear had been sighted, could it be back and trying to get into my trailer? Do bears have internal clocks that wake them up so they grudgingly get out of bed to go foraging every morning? Did the trailer even actually move, or did I?  I laid in bed for a while pondering my sanity and decided that I was somewhere on the scale between "I like to wake up at 5 am to take pictures" and "I'm okay, I just have vertigo" I got out of bed and peeked out the door, it was dark but as far as I could tell there were no life threatening dangers between me and the bathroom across the campground. I gathered supplies for my morning shower, a can of bear spray in one hand and flashlight in the other.  As an afterthought, I also packed some soap and threw a towel around my neck before setting out for the daily pilgrimage to the bathroom. 

I silently made my way through the dark campground, tip toeing past rows of tents and their peacefully snoring occupants. I opted to forego my usual tactic of yelling out "boats! Boats! BOATS!" to scare away bears in lieu of being a courteous fellow camper.  The sounds faded to silence as I approached the yellow light cast from the bathroom windows. I reached the bottom stair to the building and as I took a step upwards something snorfled underneath my feet.  I jumped up the next four stairs, flung open the door stumbled inside and crashed into a wall. I fumbled around in the dark, did the door push or pull? PUSH OR PULL?  It was pull. I violently pulled the door closed and turned the lock. Then I unlocked it in case someone had to pee. Then debated leaving the outside door unlocked but locking the door to just the women's side but eventually reached a decision to just leave both doors unlocked because whatever the hell had just snorfled at me obviously couldn't open doors very well if it was sleeping underneath a set of stairs. 

This day was not off to a good start. 

I showered, and after a few deep breaths to lower my heart rate, stepped outside to take stock of the situation. The space between the stairs was no bigger than a foot wide and using my superior reasoning skills I deduced the snorfling creature living underneath said stairs would have to be quite small to fit and therefore couldn't be too detrimental to my health.  With newfound confidence, I traded in my soap and towel for camera gear and cup of coffee and meandered my way to the beach.  

I switched back and forth between a wide lens and a telephoto, pointed my camera every which way and ended up feeling a little bit like the bears decided not to leave anything that was just right for Goldilocks. If I looked one way, I was dissatisfied with the view, another direction had too many campers in the frame, another direction yet held promise but the light wasn't interesting.  Nothing was good enough. Finally, I decided to try another tactic altogether and hauled my camera gear, coffee and a disembodied head (Deadgar) up a hill.  Below me, tents and campers sprawled out in as far as I could see, but if I kept the camera pointed in a particular direction, it was just right.   

A Matter of Perspective

Mr. Bastard claims it was misinformation and flat out lying on my part.

I merely mentioned it was approximately 3.5km to Lake Agnes, and that to get up the Big Beehive was an additional thirty minutes. I may have also said something along the lines of "just because the sun is going down, doesn't mean we'll be hiking in the dark". Technically that was all true.

I may have left out some pertinent information for Mr. Bastard though.  Things like the distance to Lake Agnes mentioned was only one way, that extra thirty minutes tacked on to the Beehive portion of the trip didn't actually account for exploration time or getting home again.  Also, despite the sun visibly ducking behind a mountain in front of our eyes, the sunset was closer to 10 pm, though that intel may or may not have have been from a few months ago during the summer solstice. Still, it was light enough to hike without flashlights by the time we were headed home, barely.

I'd been wanting Mr. Bastard to see Lake Agnes for himself for months now, and we had planned to do some hiking on Friday afternoon anyway. It seemed like the perfect opportunity as long as we could get the timing just right and somehow I'd actually convinced Mr. Bastard to opt for an evening jaunt to Lake Louise instead of going to a "very fishable lake" in the much closer and quieter Kananaskis area. You see Lake Louise in the throes of summer is a hell hole for the people like us, who prefer to avoid crowds of people and line ups at all costs. The lake is beautiful, yes, but the beauty is usually accompanied by clenched jaws and a murderous gleam in our eyes as we circle the parking lot in search of a space and then wade through the sea of people around the lake shore.  If you're like us, you usually avoid the area and go elsewhere, but you might be surprised to learn that it's actually not so bad at Lake Louise in the summer if you arrive at off peak times (shhh, don't tell anyone). For me, that time is usually around 3 am so I can be half way up the mountain by the time the sun rises and the tour buses start rolling in, but this particular day we arrived a little after suppertime. The lake in front of the famed Fairmount hotel was still fairly crowded, but we can usually gain extra solitude points with a determined and deranged look on our faces. We've really mastered the look, although our entirely black outfits with skulls on them probably helps in clearing a path - pro tip: it's also extremely useful in shopping malls around December.  Once we made our way through the selfie stick wielding hordes and ventured into the forest, all was quiet. 

Once at Lake Agnes we made ourselves a bite to eat and a cup of coffee while Creepy-dog attempted to chase squirrels, her leash wiping out a cup of coffee in the process.  I took off my shoes and splashed around in the lake for a few minutes in order to take a single photo.  It helps to justify carrying the extra weight of my camera all the way there, even though I tell myself it's good exercise whether I take the camera out or not. When we were finished our dinner and evening cup of coffee, we continued our way around the lake and over the Beehive for a few minutes (and a few more photos) before finally heading home.  

It was a beautiful way to spend an evening.  The weather managed to save some sunshine for us and the views were spectacular. In fact, the hike may have been so enjoyable that I think Mr. Bastard has even forgiven me for misleading him, though he vanished along with his fishing rod the next day. I'm guessing it was a precautionary fishing trip in case I tried to trick him into another 11 km hike.

Ever since my visit last January, I've had a sneaking suspicion in the back of my mind that Red Rock Coulee, tucked away in the South East corner of Alberta, might be even more photogenic in the summer.  I was finally able to confirm that suspicion early last week when I packed up my truck and set out on an afternoon drive.

In stark contrast to my last trip, the parking lot was fairly busy when I arrived and several groups of people were roaming around the boulders, snapping photos and chatting among themselves. I hadn't really expected the company and since I had dressed for a long hot drive I felt terribly out of place standing in the parking lot wearing only a pair of sandals and a sun dress.  I quietly flipped down the tailgate of the truck and crawled underneath the canopy as gracefully as I could manage (which is to say, not very gracefully at all), stealing glances over my shoulder to make sure the people I was currently displaying my underpants to weren't paying attention. They weren't, or if they were, at least they were being more discreet than I was.  I emerged from the cocoon of the truck no longer resembling a $2 whore, grabbed my camera bag and checked the time.  Three hours forty four minutes until sunset. I had some time to kill.

Above: Instagram worthy self portrait without needing to drive out of the the parking lot

I set down my camera bag, opened a can of soup to cook for supper and grabbed a beer from the cooler instead. 

At three hours thirty six minutes to sunset, having eaten my supper, I decided I may as well poke around and decide on a few compositions to shoot later in the day. Like a gleeful kid in a candy store, I skipped my way towards the boulders and the thousands of opportunities they presented.  

At one hour seventeen minutes to sunset, having decided on a few choice boulders to focus on, I perched on top of a picnic table and watched the last group of people leave the parking lot.  They piled into the car, arguing about where to go for dinner even though Mom repeatedly said "I'm not hungry". I wished I was hungry so I could cook more soup and have something to do. Instead, I sipped my beer and picked off interesting lines in the distance with my telephoto lens and occasionally flailed at the mosquitoes.  A storm was brewing in the distance and I wondered if it would ruin the sunset for me. 

At one hour six minutes to sunset, the sun began to duck behind the storm clouds, casting a pale pink light across the landscape.  The normally impeccably punctual sunset was over an hour early, and I still had not finished my beer.

Shit.

All hell broke loose as I scrambled to get in position before the light faded away for good, frantically changing over to a wide lens and throwing myself into the dirt.  On my drive that afternoon I'd been concerned about meeting a rattlesnake, but as the sun set behind the clouds it was the snakes who were more concerned with me as I slithered across the terrain.







After the sun set and the dust settled, I crawled into the cozy bed under the truck canopy and waited for my alarm to ring. Finally, at 3:50 am, my clock gave me permission to stop trying to sleep and I poked my head outside.  With over an hour to wait until sunrise, I lazed about in the drivers seat of the truck and boiled a pot of water on the console beside me.  In the distance, a storm was brewing, possibly the same storm that had so rudely interrupted my sunset last night.  A streak of lightning flashed across the sky as I poured the water into metal cups for my coffee and oatmeal. I didn't even have a chance to put the cup of coffee to my lips before another bolt of lightning illuminated the landscape.

Shit.

Again, all hell broke loose as I scrambled for my camera and tripod.  Sunrise be damned, it's not every day you're presented with a lightning storm in a location as scenic as this.  I shimmied through the gate of the barbed wire fence and set up my photo gear for a series of long exposures.  I just needed one shot to work, maybe two or possibly three but definitely no more than four, five max.  The bolts struck the ground in the distance, silently at first but then the thunder became audible.  I glanced around me and noticed I was becoming surrounded on three sides by lightning.  With each thirty second exposure, the lightning strikes approached and I stopped losing count between the flashes of light and the sound of the thunder.  Just a few more shots to make sure I've got something usable as I fumbled around in the dark with the camera.  With every passing exposure, I was becoming acutely aware of how positively reckless it was to be standing on top of a coulee in the middle of the prairie with a metal tripod in my hands and I backed away with every click of the shutter, as if it would make a difference. I was in a game of chicken with the storm, and I was never very good at that game.

The rain began to fall, gently at first, but with rapidly increasing intensity. Then the wind began to howl and pelted the rain against my face. I decided to pull the plug and bolted back towards the truck, throwing the camera and tripod into the front seat and starting the engine.  The windows fogged immediately and hail began to bounce off the windshield. I wondered if being hit by lightning would fry the electronics in the truck and decided against sticking around to find out.  I threw the truck into drive and peeled out of the parking lot knocking the remaining pot of water onto the floor. I'd forgotten all about breakfast, my cup of oatmeal sitting hardened and cold in the passenger seat next to my camera.  Within a few hundred metres, I'd driven out of the rain and a beautiful sunrise lit cloud was forming in front of me. I frantically looked around for foreground interest, and finding nothing, decided a few exposures in the ditch would have to do before the storm was on top of me again.

Above: I named this photo "Rodney" because Dangerfield (get it?) apparently nobody thought it was funny. Wow, that joke fell flat...

I'd expected Red Rock Coulee to be more photogenic in the summer and I was right, but never in a million years would I have guessed that a visit to the prairies could be outright exciting.

XRay Cat, Crystal Mess, Copsickle, The Motherfuckers, Days N Daze and Leftover Crack
June 29 & 30 - Dickens Pub - Calgary, AB
All rights reserved, for licencing requests or to see more photos from the set, please use the Contact form

I can't even count the number of times I've seen the movie Twister. You know the one, that mid 90's gem starring Helen Hunt, Bill Paxton and their convoy of scientists and weather junkies chasing storms across the country. There's rivalry, there's romance, there's convoys (I love convoys) and best of all there's danger and excitement in the form of twisters!  If that hasn't got you hooked, there's flying cows. Who doesn't love flying cows?

So every summer when the weather starts churning out storm after storm, I sit at my desk in my office all afternoon, watching the storms blip across the radar on all three of my favourite weather websites.  Having found myself with no desk to sit at on Monday afternoon, and with Environment Canada issuing strong weather warnings across Southern Alberta, I decided to take a little drive to see what I could see. 

I didn't make it very far.

I didn't even make it out of the city.

Something stopped me dead in my tracks.

It wasn't a twister, it wasn't even a storm, it was four nice old trees in a field blooming with canola. The very antithesis of excitement, unless you're a photographer.

I waded through the thistle lined ditch in my flip flops and snapped a few pictures.  Not bad, but they could be better. I noted the location and figured the trees would look pretty nice at sunrise with a good chance that I could even line up the sun perfectly in between them.

Having quickly abandoned the notion of becoming a bonafide storm chaser, I returned home and moments later the storm hit our house. Rain. Hail. Lightening. Thunder. Flash flooding across the city! I watched the storm, darting between windows, but didn't venture outside.

With all the day's excitement, I didn't sleep a wink and when the alarm rang at 4:30 am, I was happy to finally get up for the day and make my way to the trees again.

A pair of deer called to each other in the brush a hundred metres to my left.  Another few deer barely visible through the tall canola grazed lazily a few hundred metres to my right. Birds darted through the sky in the distance. A raven parked itself on the fence post next to my truck, observing me with curiosity and cawing out the occasional story.

Only hours before, the city sounds had been overpowered by nature's fury but now they were silenced with nature's serenity. When the sun arrived, I was ready with my camera for a different kind of chase. 

Canola Sunrise