I got way too carried away with the sublimating frost.
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But it was just so fascinating to see. I mean, those little wisps of water vapour rising and curling in the air as the frost melted in the sunshine, they were just so cool to watch. Maybe not for an entire hour, like I did, but seriously, it was an amazing thing to see.
Especially after how the day started.
Not that it was a particularly bad start. No, the temperature was pleasantly cool and the Bow River at Douglasdale here in the city was burbling along fast and ice-free. But the light was flat and formless, with nary a highlight or a shadow to be found. A pleasant morning for a walk. Not so much for photographs.
But still, there were pictures to be had. And, in truth, the flat light actually helped with some of them.
Like the frosty leaves. Without the sharp-edged shadows the winter sun produces, all the little folds and dark lines of the veins in these desiccated relics from autumn’s splendour were easy to see. And in the flat light the warm browns and tans contrasted with the bluish surroundings in colour, if not in form.
The roses, too, benefited from the light. If the leaves looked good in the dullness, the rose hips looked even better. The red of their wrinkled skins shone even more brightly against the flat grey and blues around them.
And then there was the frost. Without the brightness of the sun, I could see every detail of the frost on the rose hips and the thorny stems they hung from. The crystals were tiny but through my lens I could see their structure in a way I seldom could with bright light.
But once I started aiming the camera at the river and its environs, the dullness overwhelmed. The geese and ducks on the water all looked like amorphous dark blobs and the water itself was just a sluggish, ashy mass. Fortunately, a coyote came along and saved the scene.
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I’d noticed it stalking through the tall grass on the far side of the river but it was a long ways off and not anywhere that I could see it well. But as I fooled around with the frosty scene in front of me, I glanced up and saw it had come down to trot along the shore.
The geese barely glanced at it as it made its way along the snowy river bank but the magpies noticed and came down to check it out. Against the bluish snow, its tawny coat stood out nicely. I wish it would have come right down to the water I’m glad it showed up at all.
My plan for the day was to follow the Bow downstream from the city. Unlike the last couple years, the river has been flowing pretty much ice-free thanks to all the mild weather so I wanted to have a look at how it’s faring. Leaving the dull light at Douglasdale behind, I headed for the first river access below the city, Policeman’s Flats.
And on the way, everything changed from dull to bright.
Looking back, I could see the cloud bank I’d been under back in the city but here I was past the edge of it and the sun was blazing away. The river was blue now, reflecting the sky above, and everything glittered with frost. Surprisingly, there were fewer birds on the river here. Could be that with so much ice-free water they can spread out more.
But it was the frost I was most interested in.
Here it was a little bit thinner but it still coated everything in tiny crystals. The brightness made it harder to see their structure but with the light shining through them, those tiny structures turned into microscopic prisms and separated the sunlight into its component colours. Everywhere I looked there were little round specks of red or blue or even tiny circular rainbows.
And that’s what I was shooting when I saw the mist.
After poking along the river bank, I pulled into the parking lot by the river specifically to look for frosty subjects. They were legion but it was when I aimed my camera at a pretty little curly blade of frosty grass that my attention was drawn to what was behind it.
Backlit by the sun and standing out against the blue shadows of the snow behind it were twisting tendrils of mist.
What was happening was that the radiant heat from the sun was melting the frost on the backside of the log the curly grass leaf was leaning on and that melting frost was turning directly into water vapour. Or, sublimating. Sublimation is a process in which ice transmutes directly into water vapour, bypassing the flowing liquid stage. And, thanks to the bright sun, I could see it happening right in front of me.
The mist was caused by that water vapour hitting the -3C air and condensing into tiny water droplets small enough to stay suspended and catch the light. Essentially, it’s the same thing that happens with your exhalations on a cold day.
And once I saw it, I couldn’t look away.
By a fluke — I love flukes! — I’d stopped beside a pile of logs shoved here by the 2013 flood that just happened to be at the right angle to provide plenty of shadows to contrast the backlit mist while also having frosty sides facing the sun that was creating the sublimation. There were wisps of mist everywhere I looked.
Most of it was bright white but in some of it the droplets acted just like the prismatic frost and swirling rainbows appeared. In others, the water droplets were actually big enough to see and they twisted and collided in the still air like a slow-motion sandstorm.
An hour went by in a snap as I watched. Cars pulled in and disgorged hikers and dog walkers, even a couple of other photographers. They really must have wondered what I was staring at but I was mesmerized. Until, finally, a cloud bank moved in and blocked the sun. In just a couple of sunless minutes, the phenomenon was gone.
It was cool while it lasted but there was more river to explore.
So I headed straight to Carseland.
The view coming over the ridge to the north of the weir is always kinda stunning. You look down on the river, its former flow now turned into, essentially, a slow-motion lake and then follow it upstream for a view of the steep valley it has just emerged from and the farmland and mountains beyond. I always have to pull over and have a stare every time I go there.
On this day, I could see most of the river was ice-covered, with the section directly below me a series of shapes showing the differing rates of freezing as the water flowed. The ice here was mostly a pale aqua blue while upstream where I could see it had piled up at the edge of the faster current still flowing, it was a bright ivory.
Down at the boat launch it was clear, at least along the edge of the flowing water. With the sun shining through it, it made pretty blue and gold moving shadows on the rocks below. And there were midges flying around.
These aren’t your biting midges. These ones are entirely benign and are an important source of food for all the fish and other critters that live in the Bow’s waters. You can see them all along the river wherever there is open, flowing water all year round, no matter how cold it gets.
These ones were flying around right above the water and landing on the ice along its edge so I flopped down on the incredibly uncomfortable rocks beside the water to take some pictures.
These tiny things — about the size of a fingernail clipping — were pretty hard to keep in focus as they walked along the ice but I managed to catch a few of them. Looked like they were mating, too, which was interesting to see.
A few minutes later, once again, clouds began to roll in and block the sun. So after stopping to shoot a quick picture of the ring they had caused around the brightness, I headed back out of the valley. Up top there were pheasants out in a field, one of whom, tragically, had lost all its tail feathers. Looking back down, I saw a pair of mule deer looking back up at me from among the brown grass and red willows. Geese flew by and landed out in the field beyond the pheasants.
Though the days are getting longer — the sun sets at around 5 p.m. now! — by 3:30 the day was starting to edge toward dusk so I quickly scooted upstream to Legacy Island. Here I put up the little drone for some views of the valley and aimed down at the blue, flowing water and the cottonwoods and willows around it. In other years this stretch of the river where it runs shallow over gravel bars would be solid ice. This year, it was running free. So far, anyway.
I swung the drone around and flew it back to land in my hand, poked around around the river banks a bit and then jumped in the truck to head back out of the valley. And as I turned to go, I saw an absolutely gorgeous sundog in the sky above the trees.
In case you didn’t know, sundogs are prismatic patches of brightness that form at right angle points to each other around the sun. They’re called sundogs, so I’m told, because they follow the sun across the sky like loyal pups.
This one was all by itself, a chunk of rainbow shining at the edge of a wispy cloud, the suspended water droplets in the cloud’s body acting like tiny prisms to break the sunlight apart. It was, in fact, a macro version of the micro rainbows I’d seen in the sublimating water vapour back at Policeman’s Flats. Nature is always so fascinating.
A chorus of sparrows and chickadees was singing among the willows along the tiny creek that flows into the Bow down here. A pheasant squawked and a pair of ravens flew by, chatting as they went. Further up the valley a mischief of magpies was making a racket.
Above them, walking along the ridge as if I had choreographed it, was a trio of mule deer. Backlit and sharp-edged against the swirl of clouds in the sky behind them, they wandered along nibbling at the grass and shrubs on the coulee’s rim. The only thing missing was the sundog, now below the horizon and following like a loyal friend as the sun began to set and the day headed toward its end.
As did mine. Though there was still a little light left, I headed back to town hoping to avoid most of the late-afternoon traffic rush.
But what a lovely day it had been. Frost and a coyote, midges and ice, sublimating mist and a sweet, colourful sundog.
Couldn’t ask for a better way to kick off 2024.
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