Last year, I was a little bit late.

This year, it looked like I was a little bit early.

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I was on the hunt for tamaracks, the less-famous cousins of the alpine larches that bring thundering hordes of needle-peepers to the mountains off to the west. Like their high-altitude relatives, the tiny, soft needles of the tamaracks — you can call them larches, too, if you want — turn yellow and gold and fall to the ground once fall rolls around.

At the peak of their autumnal change, larches brighten the landscape everywhere they grow. It’s no wonder people flock to the mountains to see them.

I, though, prefer to flock in a different direction. I head to the boggy country north of Sundre and east of Caroline. That’s where the tamaracks glow.

The moon was still hanging in the

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