It was hot enough to make a turkey pant.
Or anything else, for that matter, including me. The temperature on the truck’s dash was reading 33C and it was the third straight day of temperatures like that. I had hoped the temperature might moderate a bit as I headed toward the mountains but even here west of Longview and gaining elevation, it was still hot.
Hot enough to make the wild turkey I saw foraging in the ditch pause with its beak open and flutter its dewlap. Turkeys don’t sweat so, like other beings that lack perspiration, the only way they have to get rid of excess body heat is to use their mouths and loose skin like radiators. Blood passing through those areas gets exposed to moving air and cools as it passes. Though I have to wonder on a day like this how well that actually works.
I was on my way westward both because I was looking for cooler air in the high country and because I knew a nearly full moon would be rising just after sunset. Clear skies were in the forecast so I figured I could get a good view of the orb as it crested the horizon.
But there was also a haze of smoke in the air.
It was getting on toward 6 p.m. as I stopped beside the Highwood River and the light was already fairly warm, the cool blues of midday diminishing as the sun eased westward. But with that slight tinge of smoke, the already warm sun had an even warmer glow.
The fireweed beside the road was bright pink, even in the shadows, and the geraniums and horsemint glowed brightly as well. The greens — as they have been all summer — were surreally vivid. Over on the river itself bright flashes of bronze and gold danced on the ripples while the needle tips of the pines and spruces sparkled wherever the sunshine touched.
The waters of Etherington Creek south of Highwood House seemed amber-tinted, too, but once I got close I could see it was the colour of the rocks they were flowing over that gave it its tint. Leaning down to scoop a palmful to splash on my face I could see the water was clear.
Although, not particularly cold. Even though it was much cooler than the 28C my truck’s thermometer read — the elevation was helping — weeks of heat had warmed the water considerably. The splash was still refreshing but it wasn’t as chilling as I thought it would be.
The smoke that had given the light its warmer tint was even heavier down at Cataract Creek. The sun was a golden orb when it popped out from behind the clouds and the willow-filled flats of the valley were shrouded in a brown haze. Looking west, I could barely see the far peaks and the treed ridges looked like they had been sketched there, each summit another less distinct layer.
In contrast to the Cataract Creek valley, though, the Wilkinson Creek valley — the next drainage to the south — was pretty much smoke-free. There was smoke there, of course, but it mostly hung in the sky above and didn’t make it down to the narrow valley where the creek ran.
And the light was nice, warm-toned and soft. It was heading toward 9:30 now and the sun had already dropped behind the mountain peaks but the little wisps of cloud above the smoke layer kicked back enough light to bathe the creekside and patches of moss and flowers with its evening glow.
The smoke was mostly gone by the time I reached the Livingstone River valley and darkness was beginning to come on. By 10 p.m. the sun was gone and all that was left of the day was a soft dusting of peach on the northwestern horizon. From an open spot between the trees I stopped to look back northward up the valley into the blue dusk and listen to the sounds of night coming on.
I could hear the river, the bellows of cattle, a few birds singing their evening songs but beyond that, everything was quiet. But stopping again to take a long-exposure picture of Mean Creek where it meets the Livingstone River, I was startled by a raven that flew close and let out a squawk. I swear it did it on purpose.
Moonrise was still nearly an hour away and I wanted to be at an open spot as high up as I could reasonably get so I cut back east again and up the Twin Creek valley to the summit at Hailstone Butte. From up there I’d be able to see open sky in pretty much any direction except north so, with the moon rising to the southeast, I was sure I wouldn’t miss it.
But I wasn’t in any rush. It’s barely a 10-km drive, maybe even less, so I dawdled and took a few pictures along the way.
There’s a stretch of time between when the sun sets and full darkness called twilight or, in the parlance of the photography-oriented, blue hour. During that window there’s enough light to see what you’re doing and to take a few long-exposure photos before night falls.
But it is called blue hour for a reason. The light at this time of day is flat and nearly colourless, a uniform grey-blue that makes the world look like it drowned and no amount of cardiopulmonary resuscitation could bring it back. Dull. Boring.
So I had a little fun with it. Rather than just accept the flatness of it all, I used the headlights and tail lights of the truck to add a little punch.
Stopping beside a small beaver dam right at the side of the road, I clamped my camera to the truck window, focused, and hit the shutter for a 20-second exposure. While the camera was working, I flashed on the headlights and tapped the brakes. The result was a blue-ish background with red light on one side of the foreground and orange light on the other.
OK, not bad. So as I rolled along I stopped at various other places and tried it again. Some worked, some not so much. Finally, though, I got to the summit.
It was windy up there, enough so that the summit was smoke-free and as the first stars came out, I used my lights again to illuminate the wind-swept grass beside the little pond that lies in the cradle where the road passes. And looking at the picture after the long exposure was done, I saw something that my eyes hadn’t registered.
On the far side, the east side, of the summit, the sky was clear. But below that, in the Johnson Creek valley, everything was dark. On the back of the camera I could see cloud tops that were nearly level with the summit but under them was a grey mass. Could that be smoke?
Unknown to me at the time, a fire had erupted up around Jasper and while I was piddling around in the mountains and enjoying the warm tones the smoke gave to the light, flames were advancing toward the townsite. By morning, the entire area would be evacuated and shortly after that, the town would begin to burn.
That was, apparently, what I was seeing, smoke that had been pushed southward along the eastern slopes of the mountains and that was now lying in the valley below. Knowing that now, on Thursday morning as I’m typing this, I feel pretty guilty about enjoying what it was doing to the light. But at the time I was blissfully ignorant and when the moon finally did rise, I was actually grateful for the extra dimension the smoke added.
And it added a lot.
It was around 11:15 when the moon finally cleared the smoke and clouds on the southeast horizon and began its arc across the sky. It emerged as a brilliant orange ball, an almost completely round orb that backlit the smoke and brightened it like an upside-down curtain that extended into the deep-blue, star-filled sky above.
From my angle, it lined up with the ridges on the horizon and it was bright enough I could use my longest lens to shoot silhouettes of the trees as it passed. And then, once it went behind the tallest ridge and its brightness disappeared — man, it moves fast — I went back to the little pond at the summit to try another picture, this time without the truck lights. It turned into a study in amber and umber and green and blue.
It lit up the smoke down on the west side of the summit, smoke I hadn’t noticed before, but aiming my camera north toward Hailstone Butte and the grassy valley below it, a 20-second exposure turned out as bright as late afternoon daylight. It was only the presence of stars in the sky that gave away that it was shot well after midnight.
There was barely any smoke at all down along the Livingstone River and my long exposures looked as bright as daytime. Cattle on the grassy meadows stood still long enough to keep from blurring in 15-second exposures while longer exposures turned flowing water silky. Stopping on the bridge over the Oldman River — there was no traffic at 2:30 in the morning — I could hear but I couldn’t see the river below until the long exposures were done and I looked at the camera’s back. Amazing that we have that technology.
It was a gorgeous night, the sky overhead bright and the temperature hovering around a merciful 17C. The air was calm and dry, not a leaf quivering nor a blade of grass.
What was missing, though, was sound.
I could hear cattle rumbling and mumbling — and occasionally bellowing — out there in the dark and the tinkle of creeks that blended with the deeper roar of the Oldman and the Livingstone Rivers. But no coyotes yipping, no bugs buzzing, only a few night birds chirping. Beyond that, silence.
But in places, there were a few extra sounds. But they weren’t organic. They were mechanical.
Is logging done at night, do trees get cut down in the dark? That is the only reason I can think of that would explain the lights I saw moving on the hillsides and the muted roar of engines that carried through the still air.
And back at the summit I got my answer.
I’d been awake for the better part of 20 hours now so I pulled in beside the little pond, put the seat back and closed my eyes to nap until dawn began to break. Which I thought it had as a sweep of bright light woke me a few minutes later.
But it wasn’t dawn. It was a logging truck.
The first one rolled over the summit at 4 a.m. The next one came by 20 minutes later. Wide awake again now, I drove over the summit and partway down the east side to have a look. Below the layer of smoke that had settled in through the night, I saw the headlights of two more of the rattling beasts making their way toward me.
Do they harvest logs at night? Yep, apparently they do.
Not much point trying to sleep now so I headed on down the mountain and left the summit to the trucks. I passed Johnson Creek and Willow Creek and didn’t stop again until I was out of the hills and beside Stimson Creek.
Sunrise was yet to happen but I could see that, thanks to the smoke, it would rival the moonrise from the night before so I took a couple of quick pictures — surprising amount of traffic on Highway 22 at 5 a.m. — and then rolled on to Longview.
Deer were out, whitetails in the hay fields, big mulie bucks along the road, and birds were singing their morning songs. Finally, just east of Naphtha, the sun rose.
And just like with the moon, the smoke turned it into a bright orange ball.
Smiling at my photographic luck, I headed on home.
But as I did, I turned on the radio and heard the news. Jasper was burning. The smoky light that I had enjoyed was coming from that fire.
So now I sit on Thursday morning wondering whether I should have told this story at all. I still don’t know.
But ignorance is bliss, I suppose. And that is what I had then.
It is the now, though, that is important.
And I truly hope that the now, for Jasper, is steadily improving.
