There’s something sacred about walking through The Forks in Winnipeg, especially when winter hasn’t quite let go. The slush underfoot, the crunch of wood beneath your boots, and the sun cutting through bare branches—it’s a place where memory seems to hold court. Beneath the surface of every footstep is thousands of years of gathering, of trade, of voices and languages carried by the Red and Assiniboine Rivers. Here, even the bridges tell stories. The mural above our heads on this one—the soft defiance in the brushstrokes, the reaching hands, the imagined dialogue between past and future—feels like it’s been waiting just for us.
We love coming here with our cameras, not just to document, but to listen. The Forks doesn’t demand attention; it offers it gently, if you’re willing to slow down. Shadows play on snowbanks. Light refracts through iced-over puddles like stained glass. A figure walks ahead, caught mid-step—maybe a stranger, maybe a reflection of ourselves in a different season. Through our lenses, we don’t just capture; we collaborate. We let the land guide the frame, let history leak into the edges. It’s photography as reverence, as remembrance.
And maybe that’s why this place pulls us back again and again. It’s not just beautiful—it’s honest. It reminds us that places can hold relationships, that even urban centres can be vessels of cultural continuity and quiet resilience. The Forks is where stories converge: old ones, new ones, those yet to be told. Our cameras are just an excuse to keep showing up, to keep noticing, to keep honoring the subtle and the spectacular alike.
