A year ago, Fiona, a large Atlantic hurricane turned post tropical cyclone, rolled over Epektwik / Prince Edward Island. It was recorded as the most intense and costliest of its kind to hit Canada.
From September 15th to September 27, Fiona ran roughshod over many peoples and places. It ran over Guadeloupe, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Turks and Caicos and all the other little islands in between before heading up to Bermuda and finally Eastern Canada.
Fiona had a severe impact on most of the places it hit. The southern islands received massive amounts of rain which caused severe flooding and knocked out power. Many people in Puerto Rico (about 30%) and Guadeloupe (about 40%) were without water for days. There are at least 29 human deaths directly linked to Fiona and I suspect it was indirectly responsible for the deaths of many, many others.
Fiona's early targets had little time to prepare for it. Guadeloupe only had a few hours before the storm passed over it on September 16th. Puerto Rico only had ~3 days before Fiona hit it as hurricane on September 18th. Here in Eastern Canada, we had the luxury of watching the storm slowly approach us over the course of about 9 days, giving us ample time to prepare - and worry - about the coming calamity.
According to Wikipedia, Fiona’s peak 1-minute sustained winds as a category 4 hurricane were 220 km/h. By the time it hit Nova Scotia on September 24 it had morphed into an extratropical cyclone with sustained winds of 155 km/h. According to the CBC, the wind speeds on Epektwik / Prince Edward Island ranged from 130 km/h to 150 km/h and in Summerside, where I live, the wind speeds were 140 km/h.
To me, these wind speeds give the illusion of tangibility. They feel big and bad and yet I find it very hard to wrap my head around what they mean exactly. I suspect that is, at least in part, why I am so drawn to taking photos of the things the storm did to our island — these photos remind me what those wind speeds mean.
Each of these photos is a spontaneous snapshot and in all but a couple cases, I took the photo the very first time I witnessed the scene. To me they are replete with the sadness and wonder I felt in those moments. Some include a side of dark humour that feels both inappropriate and oddly comforting to me. My subconscious attempt at trying to laugh and shake it off I guess.
My hope is that these photos will both resonate with those who lived through the storm and provide some added context to those who did not.
Here they are in chronological order.
September 24, 2022
For us, the storm began late September 23 and hit us hard overnight. I didn't sleep much. Our house is thankfully quite sturdy but the everpresent fear of the front yard tree coming through our bedroom roof kept me up. About half way through the night we heard a large crack and thud coming from the back of the house. These were the sounds of a large tree limb breaking and embedding itself into our garage roof and power line. I took these photos in the morning from my office window at the back of our house.
"Broken, Smile" — A friendly enough smile that hints at problem.
"Discordant Entanglements" — This is a small portion of the mess of entagled branches and wires that was the powerline leading to our house. The line was actually fine - we did lose power during the storm, but it wasn't because of this.
"Nofia" — One the many poles displeased with their predicaments.
"Rafale" — The French word for "gust". The movement of leaves and branches in this picture was caused by the wind in less than 1/2 a second (0.4 seconds to be exact).
October 2022
I took these photos in mid-October on my first and last trip to the woods after Fiona in 2022. The woods were beautiful despite the devastation. I wasn't sure what I would find there and if I had known, I probably wouldn't have gone. There were all manner of trees and branches hanging, leaning and crossing every which way. I didn’t go very far before deciding I that should probably leave before I got myself hurt.
"Apart" — The glorious fall colours are on full display in this photo. The moss growing on the trunk in the foreground was glowing despite the sun being well hidden by the clouds. To me, this tree looks a bit like it has come apart such that its crown may go for a stroll in the woods.
"Bent" — This scene seems so strange to me. Selected branches of these birch tree tops, bent over to right angles so high off the ground and then suspended there, for weeks (at the time of this photo). Now almost a year later, this scene remains the same as if it were frozen in time.
May 2023
I was excited for my first visit to the trail in mid-May 2023. A substantial amount of work had been done to clear the trail but it was still in bad shape. Like my previous trip in October, I only spent about 30 minutes near the entrance of the trail before deciding to go home.
"Trail Light" — The muted colour palette and background chaos balanced with the blazing sun and little hints of re-emergence capture all of my feelings about the trail at this moment.
June 2023
The time had come for the beloved tree in our neighbour's backyard. It had been heavily weakened by Dorian in 2019 but after Fiona it had to come down. The care and percision of the Branch Manager tree service who took the tree down safely and without incident, piece by piece, is something to behold. Between the two nearby garages, arbour, fence and powerlines and garden I can't imagine any part of the job was easy.
"Trauma" — The last gasp of a beloved tree.
September 2023
Almost a year on, I visited the trail again. This time I found the trail to be relatively easy to walk without much worry though there were still definitely spots in which I wouldn't want to linger. I traveled as far as I had ever gone prior to Fiona before running into a section I deemed to risky to pass.
The trail seemed to be settling into its new reality. Young trees were taking charge of their new spaces and fallen trees were beginning their paths towards reintegration. Signs of human engagement (both good and bad) were everywhere.
"Broken" — For me, this scene is mildly heartbreaking. I was instantly enamoured by this little neighbourhood of trees when I first came upon it last year before the storm. It became the subject of one of my favourite woodland photos from last year ("Bracing"). In that photo, the perfectly straight tree in the background (a mountain maple perhaps?) provides the anchor and contrast to the old collective which continues to stand gracefully despite having lost one of its trunks seemingly long ago. Now the collective is broken and the straight tree has been bent over to an awkward 45° angle.
"Snapped" — The tree in the middle of this photo once stood so proud and tall in the centre of the trail. Now it is as if a giant had snapped it like a twig, about 2m above the ground. In the background lies a similar tree who suffered a similar fate despite being seemingly more protected. The moss running along the roots of these trees reflects the below ground connections they likely share in a way that isn't usually as obvious above ground.
"Fallen Beauty" — I feel somewhat ashamed that I never really remarked this beautiful birch while it was still standing. There are a number of beautiful birch trees along the trail and I suspect I missed this one because while standing it was a “one of many”. Now that it has fallen its grace is obvious. It still catches the sun and reflects it back in the way only a birch can. I have not done it justice in this photo and I hope to better capture it in the future.