Loud sounds in the forest can be a tad disconcerting.
Especially when you’re lying on your belly photographing a flower, you’re a hundred metres from your vehicle, your left foot is swollen from a gout attack and you couldn’t run from whatever your imagination decides is making that loud sound — cougar, bear, sasquatch, zombie — even if you weren’t a geriatric with a sore foot anyway.
Yeah, disconcerting.
But at least it was a nice morning.
It was raining lightly when I’d left the city but by the time I came across the battling swallows, the sun was shining softly through the morning haze and the wind that had been blowing had backed off to a light breeze.
Parkering ved veikanten kunne jeg høre de søde stemmene til svaliene som svøp bak og frem, jagende hverandre mens de snakket med sine partners i nesterområdene. De ser aldri ut å slutte kampen, selv når de er plassert, fortsetter de å skreke mot hverandre. Jeg kan ikke forestille meg hva deres fjerdrakteroboter tenker om det.
I planned to head towards the foothills to witness how the recent rainfall highlighted the vibrant hues of spring. The weather report predicted showers throughout the day, and since it had rained during the night, I anticipated that nature would appear refreshed and rejuvenated. New foliage along with the subsequent bloom following the early spring blossoms should create an enchanting spectacle.
And in that regard, I didn’t let myself down.
Despite the recent downpour leaving the paths muddied, sunlight once more illuminated every surface with glistening droplets. The fresh poplar shoots adorned with vivid green foliage stood silhouetted against the watery sheen overlaying the blurred backdrop of greens and browns. Tiny circular rainbows danced within each drop resting upon or beside the willow catkin clusters. Moreover, the hue of the algae discovered at a spring source close to Jumpingpound Creek seemed almost fantastical.
The vibrant hue of algae never fails to be striking. Even beneath the ice during mid-winter, it frequently appears luminous. However, now that the ice has melted and sunlight bathes them for numerous hours daily, the verdant coloration of these microbial communities reaches its peak intensity.
Algae forms all over the place and it can get to be pretty nasty when the heat of summer arrives but here in this cold-water pond it was downright beautiful. Looking down on it through the polarizer on my lens I could the filaments and blobs of the cell clusters but what I found more interesting was all the stuff that was floating on it.
The previous year's foliage, released from the icy grip they'd landed upon, rested atop fresh green carpets. Alongside them, feathers belonging to six distinct bird species also dotted this layer of vegetation. Various debris such as pine needles and cottonwood fluff were interspersed across the scene, with traces of pollen carried by the wind resting gently on the surface of the still waters below.
Since the water was exceptionally clear, I took out my small underwater camera to snap some photos. Should you find yourself viewing the images accompanying this tale, you may assume I altered them somehow. Not at all; that’s precisely how everything appeared.
Yeah, surreal.
The clouds were scurrying above as a gentle rain began to sprinkle down, prompting me to make my way into the woods following the stream and ascending towards the higher part of the valley. However, before long, sunlight pierced through the canopy when I reached an open meadow further ahead. Stopping to take in the view, I noticed a few small patches of pink amidst the fresh green grass, which encouraged me to step outside for a more detailed inspection.
Limping over the rough terrain was agonizing — gout flares are wicked and completely unpredictable — yet it was worthwhile when I finally sat next to a small meteor streaking across the sky and pointed my camera. It was the first one I've witnessed this year, and capturing an image felt essential. However, as I peered at the camera’s display screen, I caught the sound.
It started as a growing, raspy growl, somewhat feline but with a rougher edge. There was nothing delicate or quiet about it. Initially, I thought it could be a raven due to their wide range of sounds. However, the subsequent roars were prolonged and even louder.
There’s certainly more than enough for me. Screw my foot, I stood up and limped back to the pickup. Whatever was causing that sound could wait; I wasn’t going to stay lying face down to investigate. Over the coming weeks, there will be many more shooting stars. I’ll capture some photos then instead.
The subsequent belly flop was much calmer.
On this occasion, I found myself within a wet woodland dominated by pines and spruces along the cliff’s edge, which offers a panoramic view over the expansive valley where Sibbald Creek and Jumpingpound Creek converge. This location is renowned for its abundance of wildflowers; however, I had arrived slightly too soon as they were not yet in bloom. Despite this, I frequently encounter Calypso orchids around this period, making their discovery my primary objective during this visit.
Not today, but the forest floor had lots of other interesting things. So down I plopped.
Before me lay a blanket of damp, yellow-green moss alongside a decomposing piece of wood. On this rotting timber stood tiny ecosystems of fungi, lichens, and various minuscule organisms. These resembled tree trunks without branches or small cups at their tips. Part of the moss also appeared similar to mini palm trees.
I came across an incredibly small fir tree, barely as long as a fingertip and no larger than a patch of lichen dislodged from above. There were also some purple leaves which I couldn't pinpoint—possibly dwarf cranberries—and swirlys of vivid yellow lichens. Almost everything here was tinier than my thumbnails.
As gentle rain started tapping down, it soaked both my back and already wet belly, prompting me to carefully rise to my feet and make my way back to the truck. This scenario was exactly what I had wished for: light rainfall, calm winds, and soft lighting—ideal conditions for capturing vibrant spring colors.
On my journey back, a mother grouse gracefully positioned herself for me; she was so near that I could observe the clouds mirrored in her eyes. Further along, at the beaver ponds located near Sibbald Meadows, a male common merganser glided through the tea-colored waters. The vibrant red of their bills never fails to captivate me! Plus, they have striking orange feet. Truly elegant creatures.
After that, I carried on down into the Kananaskis Valley, but first, I needed to pause and fork over money for an annual pass. Can’t say I’m complaining though.
The Barrier Lake was quite low, presumably lowered to accommodate the upcoming snowmelt, and its water had a gentle green hue. My plan was to head towards the Mount Lorette Ponds to search for additional signs of green algae. However, when I drove past the access road leading to the boat launch, I observed that the gate was open, prompting me to change my course and explore this area instead.
And discovered an additional swipe of pink.
At the conclusion of the brief stretch leading up to the elevated viewpoint overlooking the lake, the wind picked up significantly. However, as soon as I descended back into the forest, everything seemed muffled save for the sounds around me. The atmosphere became notably warmer near this sun-exposed region, resulting in richer vegetation. Instead of lichens and mosses, a thick layer of pine needles, ground junipers, and dried grass covered the woodland floor beneath my feet.
However, scattered amongst these were delicate orchids. Familiar to me as calypso orchids, others refer to them as pink lady’s slippers. Regardless of their name, they are charming miniature blooms. I spotted just one that had blossomed completely, though a handful more were beginning to unfold.
Similar to spotting shooting stars, they will become more easily discoverable in the upcoming weeks. In contrast to the shooting stars, no loud noises were emanating from the forest.
Looking back, I retraced my steps and made my way upwards toward Sibbald Meadows. The dark clouds above were swirling ominously, suggesting an imminent downpour. Wanting to return to the beaver ponds before the storm hit, I aimed to explore the area further.
By the time I returned, the rain seemed to glide right over me. However, I discovered a yellow-rumped warbler perched amidst the willow trees and a remarkably concealed mallard duck in a more petite pond nearby. It was almost hidden within the water’s reflection.
My favorite small waterfall remained completely iced over. There was plenty of dust blown onto the ice along with a heavy layer of pale yellow pollen from nearby trees. However, within this chilly, shadowy gorge, only the moss clinging to the rocks behind the frozen curtain seemed to be thriving.
However, that ice got me thinking that perhaps Jumpingpound Creek near the Dawson trailhead might also feature some intriguing icy formations. The location doesn't get much sunlight as well.
It surely wouldn't arrive today. Yet another batch of thunderstorms was approaching my location. The gusts emerging beneath the storm stirred up the waters of Sibbald Creek and sent the blackbirds darting about. However, their activities did not deter a couple of ring-billed ducks from mating. Interestingly, their courtship mirrored the tumultuous conditions outside.
The Jumpingpound Creek ended up being rather unremarkable. The rainfall had dulled the lighting, leaving little color to capture. Although there was an intriguing chunk of ice protruding beneath a fallen log, the gloomy light made it less photogenic. Perhaps I'll return on a sunnier day as it still held some interest.
The rain persisted, varying from a light drizzle to heavier downpours. However, being soaked through and with my foot hurting, I kept moving forward. After briefly stopping to snap some photos of a few damp crocuses, I made my way back into town.
As I walked along, my mind wandered back to the sound I had encountered near the meadow, which brought to mind a phrase from Close Encounters of the Third Kind In the film, a group of UFO fans andcrypto-creature aficionados were conversing when someone mentioned encountering Bigfoot. He claimed that the creature emitted a noise so disturbing that he hoped never to hear it again.
I'm quite different. Not just wanting to listen to that meadow’s sounds once more, but also eager to explore what created them. Naturally, this would be best done from within my parked truck with all the windows lowered, rather than sprawled out on my stomach capturing photos of a flower, obviously.
Sure, I'm looking forward to hearing it once more.
