Forms and Forces

The lakes at the Valley of Five Lakes are truly beautiful — like jade in every color. But Jasper, reborn after the fire, fascinates me more. Burnt trees, yellow grass, new shoots everywhere. Most charred trunks stand straight up; this one is different: twisted, supple, as if it had once yielded to the fire, then burst through its scorched skin and come alive, winding upward like a dragon.

Around it stand solitary trunks, forked branches, drooping twigs — leads and ensemble both rich. I place black-and-white beside color for extension, contrast, and counterpoint. The same scene, different focus, mood, and feeling.

Two unrelated places, pieced together by lines.

At Athabasca Falls I turned my lens away and walked downstream of the falls. The torrent forces its way out of the narrow channel, sweeps around tilted shale, and plunges down. The Canadian Rockies’ distinctive rock textures braid with the restless water — abstract, yet concrete.

Back at the Valley of Five Lakes — I’ve forgotten which lake this was. Charred deadwood, a golden slope, tender new grass, gem-like water, plus smoke-veiled distant mountains, glaring white snow, and a gray-blue sky, layer upon layer. Different textures and colors, yet silky together; trunks and reflections weave these bands of color. Only the scattered stones slightly ruffle the stillness.

Lake to canyon to waterfall: from stillness to torrent.

I expected Pyramid Mountain and Pyramid Lake to be as quiet and chilly as the frame suggests; behind me it was a racket — photographing, hiking, chatting, even a wedding. Mist lifted slowly off the water, the gold on the peak burned brighter, and the deadwood by the shore stayed stubborn.

Mistaya Canyon is a busy viewpoint. I waited for a gap — between one crowd leaving and the next arriving — to capture only the sound of mountain and river. Water from above twists and turns through the canyon, chasing downward.

Only from higher up could I see the full sweep of Sunwapta Falls. No satisfying wide angle, no special weather, none of autumn’s rich colors — just a record of water’s force: around a tree-ringed islet, joining, then surging down.

Early morning at Moraine Lake: scrambling down the Rockpile to dodge the crowds. An empty shore; a single lone boat drifting slowly beneath the immense mountain shadow. Mountains and water in ink tones — the red boat lending a touch of life.

Johnston Canyon again, this time from farther back. The stream comes through the rocks, hops down stone steps, settles into pools. A hidden place, an enchanted forest — there might really be Smurfs living nearby. The green so dark, so secret — could that odd rock be Gargamel’s house?

Sunwapta Falls hides a portal of its own: currents meeting, tumbling down from the dome into a Y. I expected violent collision; instead there was none — it all flowed as one.