Chapter 3
Maggie
Idon’t move a muscle. Crouched behind a fallen log, focus trained between two ancient eastern white pines, I wait for that split second the sunset will splinter through the branches and explode into hues of gold, amber, and silver.
The Nikon D850 is heavy in my hands after hours of trailing these forest paths, hunting for flora and fauna shots for my portfolio. To find my peace. My favorite way to spend any given Sunday. Today, I’m after a particular image, and I’m not leaving without it.
A sliver of guilt slices through me.
I suck in a deep breath. Not this time. Everyone is safe. I’m home.
One minute more is not going to cost?—
My eyes burn and I run a hand over my face, keeping my breaths steady until it passes.
The guilt.
The self-diagnosed PTSD . . .
I double-check—okay, triple-check—the lens cap is off and breathe in the rare air of the Canadian Rockies. Yoho National Park is the perfect place to discover such things. It helps I grew up here and have been walking these trails for years. What betterway to debrief from my last assignment than with the nature that nurtured me.
I stifle a scoff at my ridiculously lame humor, not wanting to move a quarter inch before the light finds its last target for the day.
The wildlife all around quietens, settling down as the air turns colder, and the piney scent infiltrating the air around me from the day’s warmth gives way to a more earthy tang. Among the pines and the dense undergrowth, I stand as the shadows of the falling sunset darken.
The disappearing beams travel ever so slowly down the ancient trunks, and I readjust the camera for the umpteenth time...
Lower.
Lower . . .
Low—
I depress the button, holding my breath as shards of light pierce the pine-needled bough. Light fragments, illuminating the canopy overhead in its ethereal aura.
I take as many as I can as the light shifts, sways, and bobs downward, giving way to the twilight hues. Darkness falls much faster in the dense forest. I swing around and snatch up my backpack, sliding my camera inside before nestling it onto my back and taking off at a jog back down the trail.
It will be well and truly dark by the time I make it the kilometer and a half back to my car. But absolutely worth it, if those images turn out anything like the real thing. I go over the specs I set one more time as my footfalls thud along the soft, earthy path.
ISO, low—check.
Shutter speed, slow—check.
Angle was great—check and check.
Excitement thrums through me thinking about finally seeing the images and taking my time to peruse, edit, and upload into my portfolio.
I’m so close. This outing is for a submission for my next position. After the incident in the Ukraine, I lost my job. Too much bad press. So much for no such thing as bad press. You wouldn’t imagine how fast the industry turns on its own.
Photojournalism jobs are as rare as hen’s teeth. And I’m submitting for a part-time gig on the East Coast, but they want an updated portfolio.
Apparently, war-torn villages weren’t the aesthetic they’re going for.
This, the stunning spot where I grew up, is my way in.
I cannot miss this opportunity.
My toe snags on a tree root and I face-plant on the dirt, elbows skidding along the path.
