The Frozen Dobson

The park greeted you before you even turned off the engine. I was still in my car, easing my way into Fundy National Park, when four deer appeared ahead of me on the road. They walked calmly up the middle as if they owned it, unhurried, unbothered by the vehicles that were presence. They seemed to have done this before, they moved with quiet confidence, their breath faint in the cold air, before finally slipping off the road and bounding into the wilderness. Just like that, they were gone—absorbed into the trees. It felt very special to have witnessed.

The day was beautiful, only minus three degrees. Cold enough to keep winter sharp, but gentle enough to enjoy. The trail to the frozen waterfall was well packed and easy to walk, your boots crunching rhythmically in the snow. The main hill looked intimidating but proved manageable, steady and honest in its climb.

The stairs, however, were treacherous, coated in snow and glazed with ice. Each step demanded focus. You moved carefully, balancing yourself and the weight of the camera gear I had brought along, including my new tripod. It felt good to carry it all, like I had come prepared for something important.

A light breeze drifted down from the north, just enough to remind you it was winter. The sun shone brightly, casting harsh shadows that stretched long and dramatic across the white landscape. Every tree, every ridge of snow, seemed carved in sharp contrast. And then I saw it. The waterfall, frozen mid-cascade, hung like a sculpture of glass and stone. Layers of ice folded over one another in pale blues and milky whites, capturing motion in complete stillness. It was breathtaking—so much so that I forgot the cold entirely. I set up my tripod slowly, savoring the quiet.

There were no other hikers. No distant voices. Just me, the ice, and the memory of deer claiming the road as their own.

Being the only person in the park that day wasn’t lonely. It was exactly what I needed.

I love my time with my Camera!