Grief.

Even the word itself is something that gives us discomfort, let alone having to ride out the waves of overwhelming emotions that come when one is mired in it.

Grief is complicated. It is so decidedly personal and yet, it is one of those binding human experiences that everyone will go through at some point in their lives. While we often associate it with a death, it is not something black and white that begins and ends with a physical loss but is instead a complex emotional process that can be tied to any significant life changes: illnesses, the ending of relationships or friendships, moving, the effect of divorce on children or any other period of upheaval in our life. How each of us processes and navigates grief is wholly different, for better and for worse, and despite being a universal human experience, grief is something we often shy away from talking about openly.

I am by no means an expert or authority on grief. I have experienced periods of grief in my life that led to long bouts of depression and anxiety and even with all of my experience in navigating and advocating for better mental health – for myself and for others – I admit that I still struggle, as we all do, with navigating the emotional rollercoaster that comes with loss and change. And as I write this, I am deep within grieving one of the toughest losses and periods I’ve ever experienced.

On October 11th, 2024 at approximately 1130pm, my dog Kwinn passed away peacefully in my arms. Kwinn was more than just my dog. She was my best friend, my photography adventure buddy and my reason for getting up each day. Her passing was not unexpected as she had been diagnosed with cancer 37 days before and the month before that had been exhibiting visual signs of the cancer. And as she approached the grand old age of 15, I’ve understood for the past couple of years that our time was soon coming to an end. But as prepared for the loss as I thought I was, the truth is, nothing can ever really prepare us for that moment and the ensuing, aching waves of grief that at times feel like they take our breath away.

I am grateful to have family and friends and a strong support network to help me through this period. The outpouring of love I have received from those closest to me and even from strangers online who followed our adventures via social media has been a great comfort. I am also grateful for something else that has long helped me find my way through tough times: photography.

If you’ve followed my photography journey for any period of time, you’ll likely know that I talk a lot about the power of nature photography and the benefits it can have on our mental health, particularly stress, anxiety and depression. So too, can it be a powerful vehicle for working through the complexities of grief and channeling those emotions into art and/or periods of mindfulness and distraction.

And so too was it photography where I once again turned to help me navigate this loss, both before and after Kwinn passed.

I first discovered my interest in nature photography during a prolonged period of depression. While out walking my dogs in the ravine near my home, I started noticing the simple things in nature we often take for granted and began taking photos of them with my old iPhone 4. Before I knew it, I had purchased a top end DSLR and suite of lenses and soon found myself venturing further and further afield to capture the beauty of the world around me, engaging in mindful interactions with the landscape and, over time, feeling better and more grounded. If you’ve ever seen my talk, Nature Photography for Better Mental Health, you’ll have heard me say that “nature photography saved my life” and that is true…to a point.

The real truth is that it was my dogs that saved my life. It was my dogs that got me up every morning. It was my dogs that took me for walks when I needed them. It was my dogs that helped me discover photography. It was my dogs that gave me a purpose. It was my dogs that allowed me to feel loved. It was my dogs that needed me most. And it was my dogs that kept me here.

So when I lost my first pup, Kneesa, on August 5th, during the peak of the pandemic in 2020, I felt pain, loss and grief unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I had had her since she was 8 weeks old and she had seen me through some of the worst periods of my depression, joined me on my journey into photography and had been there for some of the best moments of my life. The last thing I wanted to do was feel okay in the wake of her loss but the following day, my good friend Mark Jinks insisted we go chase a storm. So I packed up gear, rounded up my other pup, Kwinn, met up with Mark and for those few hours we were out, the pain wasn’t so consuming. The grief wasn’t so heavy.

I started to understand that grief was another mental state that could be assuaged by being out with my camera.

When Kneesa passed, I also had a profound realization that, at 11 years old, Kwinn and I might only have a couple more years left together. She had been with me since 2011 but our bond was never quite the same as the one I shared with Kneesa and so began a transition to focusing more and more on her and the adventures we could have together. Not long after Kneesa’s passing, Kwinn and I ventured to southern Alberta to explore Pincher Creek and the surrounding areas of Waterton Lakes National Park and the Castle Provincial recreation areas and very quickly fell in love with the entire place. While we would also adventure to many of our other favourite spots in the province, we would return again and again to southern Alberta, finding comfort there amidst the loss and building an entirely new bond between us in the process. (Continued after photos)

When we were not adventuring, the pandemic-related restructuring of my businesses meant I was now working from home. I was spending almost all day, every day with Kwinn, save for an hour or two when I needed to be out and about running errands or having whatever semblance of a social life that we could at the time. We became inseparable. In four years I can count on one hand the nights she wasn’t with me.

As the next couple of years passed and Kwinn’s age finally began showing, our routines got more and more integrated around her limitations. She had a geriatric vestibular episode (essentially a doggy stroke) in April of 2023, she began to lose her hearing shortly thereafter and our walks got shorter and slower as her arthritis got worse. But none of it really slowed her desire to adventure as much as we possibly could. She loved nothing more than to hang her head out of the window as we cruised down the highway, smiling and wagging her tail the entire time, and I loved nothing more than to make it happen. She loved going to new locations, sauntering along new trails, sniffing everything and exploring with gusto. I did my best to make sure we got out when life allowed us to but as 2024 crept along, our adventures decreased as her age and need for rest became more and more apparent and I had some health issues of my own pop up. Over this past year, the weight of knowing our time was getting ever shorter began to get heavier and heavier and when the signs of her deteriorating health began to manifest physically, I shifted back to photography to help me manage the grief that began creeping in during the few months before she passed away.

At first I dove as much as I could into one of my greatest photographic passions: storm chasing. But 2024 wasn’t a good year for prairie storms and in some ways I’m glad as it kept me closer to home (and her) on the chase days she couldn’t come along. Once storm season was over I turned my focus onto a subject I could literally do in my backyard: macro insect photography. This was a genre of nature photography that I had long wanted to pursue but never found time for. Now I could spend the mornings in the backyard, searching for tiny creatures, while Kwinn snoozed away on the deck in the soft light. I would lose myself for hours those mornings. I felt like a kid again. And I felt like I did in those early days with my camera: excited and keen to learn more and more. I existed in a place where it was just me and her, surrounded by sunshine and plants and insects and birds and nothing else. During those moments, I wasn’t thinking of anything else. I was simply in the moment, appreciating it for the simplicity that was and the time with Kwinn.

Then on September 4th, after a month of medications and tests, my worst fears were realized when Kwinn was diagnosed with urinary tract and adrenal gland cancer. I was not surprised. But I was gutted. And I turned once again to photography to help me through this next stage of our time together. I decided to start a project where I would take a photo a day of her, whether with my Nikon Z8 or with my iPhone, and during this period I would spend as much time with her as I could, looking for the beautiful moments we shared together or with loved ones. I would snap away, whether she was snoozing on the floor in venetian streaked sunbeams or forcefully interrupting my deskwork when she demanded I satisfy her near hourly wont for treats. Life with an old dog truly is a gift and photographing her daily made me feel closer to her than ever. While some of these moments were often emotional and left me in tears, they gave me something to focus on during the toughest days and this photo project will be a powerful reminder to still seek beauty and connection through grief and heartbreak. Too often as photographers we get caught up in needing to take fine art photos when often it’s the snapshot that proves the most meaningful.

Kwinn managed two, last, grand adventures before she passed. The first, a day trip where we were joined by Jillian to the Cardinal Divide where Kwinn spent the entire drive there with her head out of the window and where she joyfully explored new terrain once we arrived. She balked at having so many pictures taken along the trail at the top of the divide, wanting instead to just amble along, smelling all the new smells and I relented in short order. Being out and about in places like this was her happy place. We had an amazing day and she spent much of the drive home with her head in my free hand as she often did on our adventures many years previous.

Our last trip together was a nine day adventure to our home away from home in Pincher Creek. It was a quiet trip, full of reflection and tears. We drove down backroads and along OHV trails, discovering new to us locations and sitting still in places that became sacred to us. I took some time for some solo-explorations and incredible moments under the northern lights, giving her time to rest and giving me time to reflect. I knew our time was short but I didn’t realize just how short it was.

Two days after we got home, we said our final goodbye, and I’ll admit, I regret taking that time for myself on our trip. Had I known what was to come, I would have spent every second I could with her. I would have stopped time and just stayed in those sacred spaces forever, far-removed from everyone and everything except for her.

If only we had such power. If only our animal companions could live as long as we could. But life doesn’t work that way. I said when Kneesa passed that “the true cost of unconditional love is inconsolable grief” and now I was faced with enduring another of the greatest losses of my life. My best friend was gone. I live alone and work from home. My photography was rooted in my adventures with Kwinn.

The emptiness was palpable.

And once again, photography helped fill the void.

The day after Kwinn passed, Comet C/2023 A3 Tsuchinshan-Atlas returned to view after its pass around the sun. Jillian and I spent the next three nights photographing this once-in-80,000-year event, road-tripping to clear sky spots, armed with Kwinn’s favourite snacks and with her back window rolled down, keeping her memory with us as we went. As we chased the comet, we also chased away our grief, if only for a short time, and while I’m not really a believer in signs or spirits, I will admit, some of the “signs” I did experience while chasing the comet were too powerful and uncanny to ignore.

On my final night chasing the comet, I drove to Pincher Creek and returned to one of the quiet spots we had discovered; a place high atop a mountain overlooking a valley and the larger, snow-capped mountains to the west. Joined by my friend Marie, we sat and visited while the sky grew darker, the rising moon illuminating the mountains as the comet came into view. It was fainter but still beautiful and I wrapped myself in Kwinn’s blanket to keep warm while we watched it set. I drove back in silence. Stopping to fill my tire with air, I turned the radio back on and as I did, a cover version of Warren Zevon’s Keep Me In Your Heart began playing on the radio.

Tears started flowing down my cheeks.

I played that song after getting home from the vet the night Kwinn and I said goodbye.

I am overwhelmed at times by the confluence of coincidence that came together the week she passed and the week that followed. Two incredible aurora shows in the days before, perhaps representative of my two pets, Dana and Kneesa that preceded her. The return of Tsuchinshan-Atlas, a naked-eye comet matched only by Neowise in recent years; coincidentally in the sky when Kneesa passed away. The songs and signs and offerings of gratitude. Whether these are just coincidence or something more ethereal is up for interpretation. What is undeniable is that the ability to photograph these events as I processed my loss made a huge difference in being able to manage my grief.

I’m not going to lie: I miss my puppy immeasurably. Every day I find myself adrift and lost without Kwinn’s presence as our daily routines were so interconnected. Photography has helped a lot but at the end of the day, it is not a cure for grief or loss; complicated beasts that overwhelm even the most steely of us with no clear path through other than time.

Photography may not be a cure but what it does bring us is an escape into the moment. A place where we can get lost, even for a short while, to immerse ourselves in simply being. Some might argue that all it is is a distraction. But we need distractions during hard times. And if, in the process of distracting ourselves, we can find periods of relief and ways to transmute our pain into art and express that grief through beauty, then by all means, let’s do that.

Great art and artists don’t come from comfortable, easy living. They come from our losses, our heartaches, our rage, and our pain and channeling it all into something else. Something beautiful and relatable. Whether it’s photography or music or painting or writing or whatever other creative pursuit you enjoy, if you find yourself struggling with a loss or heartache or mental health challenges of any kind, I encourage you to dive into the deep end of your creative pool; give yourself permission to grieve anything in your life that you feel needs to be grieved and find ways to turn it all into a beautiful distraction that soothes your heart, even if it’s only for a few moments at a time. You never know what beauty and inspiration might come as a result.