It was going to be the first big snowfall and I didn’t want to miss it.
So I headed west and dove straight in.
Kind of strange how the mind works as the seasons shift around. Like the joy at seeing the first green shoots sprout from the lawn before the dismay of knowing you’re going to have to mow it, probably several times. Or those few glorious 28 C spring days that become those stifling, never-ending 28 C days of July.
Or the first snow coming down as fall heads toward winter.
I definitely had that joyful mindset as I drove westward into the swirling flakes even though I knew this was just an early taste of our longest, darkest, coldest season. But that season was yet to arrive so with eager anticipation, I rolled toward the snow.
I didn’t have far to go to find it. Flakes were flying by the time I hit the western city limits and were starting to accumulate on the countryside as the land rose along Jumpingpound Creek. Driving wasn’t terrible yet, the residual heat still on the road surfaces melting the flakes as they fell, but it was getting sloppy.
Stopping to photograph a couple families of trumpeter swans in a pond where the big highway drops into the Jumpingpound Creek valley, I had to be careful not to slip off the pavement into the slick, wet roadside grass. Even so, my wheels spun a bit as I pulled away again.
I hadn’t expected to see much wildlife as I backroaded parallel to the highway and in that, I wasn’t disappointed. The usually ubiquitous deer were nowhere to be seen and though I passed a bunch of moose habitat, there was no sign of them either.
Birds, though, there were a few of those.
There were the swans, of course. The white adults and grey babies were pretty easy to spot as were the mallards and wigeons with them. Ravens, too, though they’re always around. I found one that felt like posing for me and the falling snow stood out again the black background of its feathers.
And I saw my first rough-legged hawk of the year.
These Arctic citizens migrate here to spend the winter hunting mice and voles away from the truly bitter cold and darkness of their regular northern home. Nice to see them again. They take up the space left by the usual redtail, ferruginous and Swainson’s hawks that have all departed for warmer climes further south.
By the time I came across the cattle, the snow was really starting to come down. They stood by a fence doing their ruminant thing as the snow built up on their bovine heads and backs. It was still melting on the grass around their hooves thanks to the heat in the ground but their insulating hair and layers of fat kept their own heat from reaching the accumulating flakes.
Things like cattails and leaves have no internal heat, though, and the snow was sticking to them. It was piling up on the willows, cattails and slough-side grasses, too. It made for a nice white counterpoint to all the soft browns and yellows.
Heading south now, back toward the Jumpingpound Creek valley again, the snow backed off a bit. The road was a bit damp but good otherwise and though a few flakes continued to fall, there wasn’t much piling up at all. The countryside looked like it would on any other damp autumn day.
That changed, of course, as the elevation rose.
There was some snow on the ground and the surrounding trees where the road up to the rifle range crosses the creek and more up near the ridge where the rifle range sits. The flakes falling here were tiny and through my long lens they looked more like mist than falling snow. Very pretty!
They were flakier over in the broad meadow where Sibbald Creek meets the Jumpingpound and they started to get heavier up by the Dawson Recreational Area parking lot. Stickier, too. The grass here was laid flat with their weight and branches drooped.
At this point I thought about turning around and heading back up past the willow-thronged beaver dams to Sibbald Meadows Pond but since it had been a long time since I’d taken this road — Powderface Trail — I decided to keep going up the Jumpingpound.
The snow was falling heavier now but still hadn’t accumulated much. Where the road came close to the creek the banks were still bare and the fallen leaves on the boulders glistened with water splashed from the rushing stream. I could hear a chickadee over the roar and there were even a few bugs flying just above the spray.
But over the next ridge, the snow started hammering down. The surrounding hills all but disappeared from view and the wet flakes began sticking to everything. Using my window clamp to hold my camera as I rolled on video, my left sleeve was quickly covered in snow. The windshield was solid with it.
But man, it all looked so pretty.
There was still plenty of fall colour around and the greens of the spruce and pines shone through. Rose hips, always a lovely splash of colour, glowed bright red. Same with the currant leaves. There were stalks of grass that were still bright green and others that were in transition.
The road, though, wasn’t looking so good. I hadn’t planned on driving the whole way over to the Elbow River valley but I had hoped to go a bit further. The buildup of snow on the road changed my mind.
Turned out I’d made the right choice by turning around. The wipers couldn’t keep up with the falling snow and by the time I got back to the Dawson parking lot, the back window was so jammed up that the wiper just gave up. Fortunately, there was no wind and the snow was falling gently but steadily.
But I can take a hint. Pulling back onto the road I started making my way back to open country. The snow was still hammering down but on the main road I would be closer to help if I needed it.
And there was every chance that I might. The snow had built up a lot in the two hours since I’d last driven here and though traction was OK on the gravel sections, the paved parts were slick with slush. I passed cattle along the road that were nearly obscured by the falling snow and yellow-leaved aspens that, I have no doubt, were about to lose branches from its weight.
I outran the worst of it by the time I hit the big highway but it was clear I wouldn’t be ahead of it for long. Stopping to take pictures of a group of mallards on a beaver pond that, for some reason, decided to walk across the snowy sedges to the next patch of open water, the snow started coming down heavily again.
So much so that I decided to retrace my steps along the gravel road I’d come out on and avoid the flying slush-fest on the main road. Glad I did. By the time I was forced to rejoin it closer to the city, the highway was a mess. Fortunately, most folks were driving sensibly for the conditions.
Most folks.
Back home, my lawn held only a few patches of white and, next morning, there wasn’t much more. By afternoon, the sun was shining and it was all gone.
And the first snow of the transition season was done.
But I had managed to get out and photograph it. And I loved every minute of being out among those billions of falling flakes. Even the clenchier ones.
Talk to me again after an equally pretty snowfall in March, though. Or April. Or May. Or even maybe June.
And I’ll tell you a completely different story.
