The sky was on fire.
Looked like it, anyway. The sun was rising behind me and blasting the chinook clouds to the west with a spray of orange, red and amber light that made the wispy tops of the still-forming chinook arch look like I was heading down the highway into a raging conflagration. Gotta say, not a bad way to start a day.
I was headed west toward the mountains, not sure yet where to go. The forecast for the day was warm and windy — hence that fiery chinook arch — so wherever I went to the west, it was going to be sunny and blustery. For the moment, though, all I was thinking about was getting pictures of that magnificent sky.
A sky that was fading fast. By the time I hit the edge of a barley field right on Calgary’s western limits, the colour had already begun to leach from the bottom of the arch. And within another five minutes or so, the sun had risen high enough that most of the warm light had cooled and the clouds were back to the bluish-grey they had been before the sun popped up.
Still, it was a glorious morning and if that sunrise was as good as the day got, I was already a happy boy.
The sky now calm again, I rolled on south and west, first to check for elk and autumn leaves at the Cross Conservancy just a couple kilometres west of that barley field and then on into the foothills. Of elk, there were none, and of leaves, very few. Fall might officially be here but a lot of the trees haven’t checked their email notifications.
There was a bit of fall colour at a pond just down the road, though it looked like the leaves had just started to turn. Fortunately, the water in the pond was calm and mirror-like, the wind promised by that chinook arch not having kicked up yet, and the trees reflected perfectly on its surface. Down along the shore I found a spider web that was shimmering prismatically in the bright sun. A lady and her dog walked by as I was shooting my pictures and the air was so still that, after exchanging good-mornings, I could hear all six of their feet crunching the gravel even when they were a hundred metres away.
That stillness only lasted another half hour. By the time I hit the Tongue Creek valley the wind had started to blow. The ruffed grouse I found along the road looked like it had been blown in from the west. And at Eden Valley, it was shaking the truck.
But there was some colour.
A few of the cottonwoods along the Highwood River had already turned and their lemony leaves rattled and thrashed in the gusts. The pastures around them were tawny and brown and laid flat by the wind. On the hillsides I could see patches of yellow where a few aspens had turned and there were clumps of red rose leaves all along the road.
Still, the leaves weren’t as bright as I had thought they would be. But I knew a place where I could find some colour for sure.
Just past the Kananaskis Country welcome sign there’s a turnoff that leads down to a picnic and parking area close to the river. It’s always the first place I stop whenever I come out this way for two main reasons. One, there is an immense variety of trees, shrubs and various undergrowth here. And two, it is out of the wind.
Mostly out of the wind. But on a morning like this the gusts were making it through, hissing through the leaves and nearly drowning out the sound of the river flowing close by. Those same gusts, though, were chasing the clouds around and short bursts of bright light brought the colours to life.
The fireweed was glorious. The leaves looked like leaping flames and the fluffy seed heads shone with tinges of pink. Up close I could see the silky filaments and the minuscule seeds they attached to and grabbing a leaf to hold up to my lens I could follow the veins and patches of pigment in them.
A breast feather from a grouse was snagged on a water birch branch and it spun in the gusts while over in the shade, the white berries and changing leaves on a clump of osier dogwood shone against the dark background.
Down the road at the Cataract Creek parking area there was no shelter from the wind and everything was in motion. Here, the leaves on the balsam poplars were a bit brighter but they hadn’t reached their peak yet. Across the river, though, past the piles of flood-borne logs the willows and trees were bright. There were fishermen there, too, no doubt headed up Cataract Creek to tease some trout. Tough casting on a day like this.
I was still unsure of which way to go from here, so I stopped at Highwood House to ponder a bit. I could go south and end up down at the Livingston River, but I had left my fly rod at home — dumb move — or I could keep going west and head over Highwood Pass. With the clouds now chased eastward, it would be sunny and windy whichever way I went.
But no stick meant no fishing, so Highwood Pass it was.
This is truly one of the most spectacular drives in southern Alberta. The sunlight streaming across the hills and lighting copses of yellow aspens against the tawny hills, the grey rocky peaks with their patches of snow, the sparkling river running through the valley, so gorgeous.
Still, though, I managed to find a couple places to stop and walk down to the river. There, the sound of the river overwhelmed the rumble of the traffic going by and, up close, I could hear the buzzing wings of the hoverflies and bees that were visiting the asters blooming along the banks.
The wind had died down to a breeze now and fireweed fluff drifted through the air. A flock of siskins flew by, chittering as they went, while along the shore, a dipper bounced in and out of the water looking for aquatic bugs. Probably just as well I didn’t have my fly rod with me. I might have stayed there for the rest of the day.
Though there was plenty of small colour — asters, red strawberry leaves, geraniums — the trees were still mostly green. But up high, there were big swaths of yellow.
Foolishly, it took me a minute to realize what they were. At first I thought, aspens, do aspens grow that high up? Some, maybe. But no, dummy, those are larches.
Yes, the larches have all started to turn. There were still a few that hadn’t yet but the majority of them were bright yellow. It would have been a tough hike to get to them, though. They were the last trees before the rocks took over at the summits and some of the stands were growing on nearly vertical slopes.
But judging by the dozens and dozens of vehicles I saw parked at every pullout, there were plenty of folks willing to make the hike. At the top of the pass, there had to have been at least a hundred vehicles and people were walking along both sides of the road heading to and from the trailheads.
There was next to nobody at Rock Glacier, though.
It’s just past the summit and I’ve gotta admit it isn’t the most scenic place — likely why it was so calm — but it has one thing the other pullouts don’t have.
Rock Glacier is one of the best places to see pikas.
These little relatives of rabbits live among the scattered rock slabs that cover the slope and if you sit quietly and listen you can hear their little squeaks as they scoot among the boulders. Unlike their golden-mantled and Columbia ground squirrel neighbours, pikas don’t hibernate. At this time of year they are actively gathering grass and other greenery to stash in crevices so they have something to eat once the snow covers their home.
They are hard to spot, though. Their colouring blends perfectly with the rocks and even when you do spot one, you don’t see it for long. A quick glance around and they’re back among the rocks again.
Now down in the Kananskis River valley, I turned onto Smith Dorrien Trail to have a look at Lower Kananskis Lake. The wind had picked up again down here but paddleboarders were out on its deep blue waters while picnickers sat at the more sheltered tables. At the shallow lake below the dam, the willows along the shore were scarlet and gold.
There were bighorn sheep back on the main road, a group of ewes and lambs that were trying to graze on the roadside grass as people parked and walked toward them with their phones out. I generally feel a bit guilty about photographing sheep because they are always willing subjects and just too easy to get pictures of. And these ones were, too. But I could see they weren’t exactly enjoying all the scrutiny so I got my pictures and headed out.
The day stayed sunny and windy as I made my way back down the valley toward Calgary. But up by Sibbald Meadows Pond, the wind died down again and the water on the beaver ponds was just as mirror-like as that pond I’d stopped by earlier in the morning. There were mallards there, some relaxing in the sun, others paddling and quacking. Dragonflies and damselflies flitted around. A pair of young mergansers sat on a downed and tumbled tree for a minute before getting into the water and swimming through the reflections of yellow leaves.
One of the few yellow leaf reflections I’d seen.
Yes, the leaves have started to turn and they will be in their full glory very soon. So I’ll be out again to have another look.
And maybe that day, too, will start with a fiery sunrise.
Not a bad way to start the day.
