I recently spent the weekend nestled in a cabin in the mountains between Banff and Lake Louise to celebrate another trip around the sun.  I could have happily stayed out there forever, but Creepy-dog was a bit concerned that we lived there now, and spent every night crying to go home.  Sleep deprived, I was determined to make the most of my time and set my alarms to make sure I didn't miss out on any good light to point a camera at.  As I sat at the kitchen table in the dark at 6 am, nursing a precious cup of coffee and calculating how long I could nap before the sun rose, I was painfully aware that only a few years ago the annual celebration would have seen me awake from dusk to dawn with only a fraction of the effort and only self inflicted pain. I finished my coffee, scrutinized the dark circles under my eyes, grabbed my camera bag and hobbled out the door, wondering if the local wolf pack would accept a cute new member by the name of Creepy.

The week before,  I had unsuccessfully scouted a location near Lake Louise for a potential sunrise photo, losing a pair of hiking poles in the process.  After trudging through the snow for a few hours, I determined that the best views were in fact, at the trail head parking lot.   Fortunately the scouting trip wasn't a complete waste of time, I had noticed a far more accessible location earlier in the day, and upon returning a week later, made it my first stop for sunrise.  

As hundreds of vehicles whizzed by, I slowly waded through open channels of the Bow River and quickly tuned out the sounds of the Trans Canada Highway. 

I kicked myself for choosing an East facing range to focus on with such an explosive sunrise behind me, but just as I suspected, the first light of the day lit up the peaks of the Massive Range to the West in a brilliant display of alpenglow. I tried my best to steady the tripod on mounds of ice over the open water, failing often but occasionally succeeding.  

After the sun rose, I met up with Mr. Bastard and Creepy for a quick little hike in to one of the quiet hidden gems in Banff National Park,  Silverton Falls. Located under a kilometre from the road, by 10 am I was in bed for my first nap of the day. 

Later, we drove up to Johnstons Canyon and upon seeing the chaos in the parking lot, decided the lesser known Marble Canyon in nearby Kootenay National Park was a much more desirable afternoon stroll.  

Mr. Bastard struggled up some of the trail at Marble Canyon while I lagged behind him, bragging about my grippy yak-traxed hiking boots and breezing up the snow packed hills. Unfortunately, my grippy boots couldn't save me when, to the delight of Mr. Bastard, I fell into a snow covered hole and did a dramatic slow motion face plant into the snow. I shut up about my boots after that...

(Mr. Bastard would like to state for the record, that despite his non-grippy boots, he didn't fall, not even once)

Bastard family portrait, me coated in a fresh coat of snow after a less than graceful moment

I decided the area would be my next sunrise destination, and early next morning I yak-traxed my way up the trail again and set up my camera and tripod on a bridge overlooking the canyon.  The stillness of a cold winter dawn enveloped me and everything in sight. Feeling very alone but not wanting to miss out on a potential photo, I fidgeted nervously as I waited for the sun to rise. Fiddling with the camera, re-positioning the tripod and cursing at the one tree in the frame that I couldn't cut out.


Suddenly, I heard a peculiar squeaking sound and my heart leapt in to my throat.  It's the middle of winter! What could possibly squeak out here? My mind settled on the most logical conclusion.

WOLVES.

My eyes darted nervously as I gripped my bear spray, looking for the squeaking pack of ravenous wolves.  They must be famished if they can only muster out such a pathetic squeak.  My hands trembled as I started to move my camera gear back towards the bag to pack and make a hasty exit.  The tripod legs brushed against the bridge railing, squeaking as they folded in.  With solid evidence refuting my hypothesis about a pack of ravenous squeaking wolves now laid before me, I still required a few deep breaths to calm the nerves and steady the camera.

"It's only the tripod" I muttered to myself.
I yelled out "IT'S ONLY THE TRIPOD!" injecting a little bit of humanity into the stillness of the morning.
I felt better, and with the sun rising, there was no more time for silly fears.  
I snapped a few photos of the composition I had decided on the day before, but noticing the light on the mountains in the distance further down the highway I abandoned my post and sprinted down the trail.



Only a few kilometres down the road, it became clear that I was going to miss out on the light I was chasing, and turned the truck around to head for home. Feeling a bit dejected, I pulled into a little rest stop to try to salvage some scenery and early morning atmosphere while I still could. I waded through thigh deep snow, using the squeaky legged tripod to keep me upright. It wasn't long before I found a little pocket of photographic goodness.  I smiled as I knelt down in a pool of open water among the snowdrifts, snapped a photo and vowed to return before I had even left.

My first photography outing of 2016 was on the coldest day of the winter, I’d left the house without a clue where to go and had been aimlessly driving around the city for hours, feeling completely uninspired. For me, trying to capture a photo I’m happy with before having at least a location in mind is usually a recipe for disaster. With the sunrise only minutes away, the morning’s effort to crawl out of bed, go out in frigid temperatures and commit the rest of the day to exhaustion was soon to be a massive waste of time. On track for disaster, something finally clicked and I had the idea I’d been waiting for. 
I sped over to Nose Hill Park and paid a visit to a tree that I’ve been photographing since I was but a wee fledgling landscape photographer. I’d never put in a decent amount of effort at that particular location, and with minutes to spare before dawn I was able to compose a photograph that I’m still really happy with. When the sun peeped over the horizon and set the frosty tree ablaze, I knew it was going to be a good start to the year.

Luminosity

Red Rock Coulee has been on my radar for ages, my birthday gift to myself this year was a luxurious car camping trip in the middle of January where I spoiled myself with a $4 pack of cheese strings and some warm premade caesars. I had to cut my trip short due to a winter storm, which made me really want to see the place in the summer. 6 months later I returned for another attempt at seeing a nice sunrise, instead I got more than I bargained for when I woke to find myself in the path of a wild prairie storm. Being completely alone on the prairies, surrounded by lightning was an unforgettable experience, although a tad bit nerve wracking.

Rodney

Lake Agnes is high on the list of favourite places of mine. I love to visit in the early hours of the morning before the sun and the crowds arrive. However one of the highlights of my year was spending a night above the lake during the summer solstice to watch the sun go down and wait for the stars come out. Even better was the leisurely downhill hike for sunrise.

Fairy Tale in Lake Agnes

When we made the decision to wander down Highway 22 early in the New Year, our plan was to pick random roads heading West to see what we could find for a nice Saturday afternoon drive. We found some lovely areas tucked away in the South West corner of Alberta, but eventually we also found some trouble.

The deeper we got into the mountains, the more snow we found and eventually we were driving in some ruts in the hard packed snow. Twenty kilometres away from anything, out of cell range, on a steep mountain road with a cliff on one side, the hard packed snow gave way. The jeep sunk. We were stuck. We had unknowingly ended up driving the jeep on a snowmobile trail.

With darkness falling quickly we debated what to do. Do we stay the night and walk out in the morning? Do we try to keep on going and try to make it to the next town? Could we get the jeep turned around without going over the cliff? Though we had supplies packed in case we had to spend the night, our adrenaline was through the roof and our normally hyper Creepy-dog cowered in the back seat of the jeep.

With the help of some shovels and some rather tense manoeuvring, we managed to dig our way out and get turned around. This is the triumphant Mr. Bastard and Rambo (the jeep) posing in a freezing cold wind tunnel shortly after returning to solid ground. It may not have resulted in the best photos, but it was definitely a memorable moment for us in 2016.

It’s not often I get to hang out with my little brother, it’s even less often I can convince someone to wake up at 3 am and start walking up a mountain with me but I got to do both at the same time with a sunrise hike up Abbott Ridge in Glacier National Park. The opportunity to watch the sun peek over Mt Sir Donald while sipping a cup of hot chocolate with my little brother ranks as one of my favourite moments this year.

Mt Sir Donald

My most memorable moment of 2016 - Rawson Lake at Sunrise

I have attempted to get here for sunrise on multiple occasions in the past few years and failed, most of the time due to the fact that I find hiking 4 km alone in the dark more than a little terrifying. Rawson Lake seemed to be the unattainable location and I had built the place up in my head a little bit. A dangerous thing to do, as I could have been setting myself up for a major disappointment.
However, this fall, after sitting at the trail head two weekends in a row trying to convince myself to leave the safety of the truck I finally made it. As I approached the lake in the moments before dawn and saw the head wall gleaming through the trees, the beauty of the scene left me breathless and the only words I could mutter into the silence was a hushed "wow"
I was treated to a gorgeous sunrise and the nice feeling of having achieved a goal before hearing (probably imagining) an animal in the trees behind me and took that as my cue to leave.

A Very Rawson Morning A Super Rawson Morning

Happy New Year everyone, thanks for following along.

Select photos of World Class White Trash, Bogue Brigade and Snakepit at Nate Trash's birthday party.
Distortion, Calgary, AB 
All rights reserved, for licensing requests please use the contact form

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.