A short travel-and-painting story from a historic village on the edge of the badlands.
Rowley, Alberta, sits just off Township Road 324 and Range Road 204, not far from Drumheller. Thanks to our prairie grid system, that pinpoints it neatly on the map.
Rowley, self-described as a historical village, is occasionally used as a movie set. Until the 1920s, it was a small but thriving community. The dustbowl of the Great Depression saw homes and businesses left to weather. Rowley became one of many derelict hamlets dotted along railway branch lines. Today, Rowley is a gentle collection of weathered buildings in an expansive landscape of grass, on the edge of the badlands.


It was an idyllic summer morning after a night of steady rain. We drove our truck and Retro trailer east on secondary highways from Water Valley through Didsbury, passing near Three Hills and beyond. Getting to Rowley included an anxious few kilometres along a slick, prairie gumbo-like grid road. You dare not stop, speed up, or slow down. It evoked early childhood memories of trips to the farm near Westbourne, Manitoba.

Free camping, by donation to the community, is encouraged in Rowley. The mown field set aside for visitors must have been several acres, but we were the only overnight guests. That pervasive calm of boundless sky, grass, and prairie memories drew me to paint a plein air study of an old home.
It was a typically haphazard arrangement: a small dwelling with numerous add-ons and outbuildings. Its once-white picket fence followed its own path to disintegration. My original intention to feature that fence was, unfortunately, lost within the constraints of an 8 × 10-inch composition.

I first learned of Rowley several years ago, when former Alberta Society of Artists member Donna Miller scouted painting spots in the Drumheller area for our plein air group. Donna is gone now, one of life’s quiet victims of cancer. I can’t say we were friends, but I remember her fondly for her energy and joy in painting outdoors.
One year we paired for a day of painting along Highway 12 near Sylvan Lake. We were frustrated by thick smoke rolling in from forest fires on the other side of the Rockies. People and place are entwined, holding space among my memories. All of it touched by the bittersweet passage of time.





